Six hours later, the sleek Boeing business jet touched down smoothly at Newark Airport, its wheels kissing the tarmac with a soft screech. Through the cabin windows, the New York skyline loomed under a darkening sky, the city's electric pulse already humming in the twilight. The three-hour time difference between Los Angeles and New York meant it was past six in the evening, and the Big Apple was slipping into its nocturnal rhythm, alive with ambition and danger.
The security team swung open the hatch, and the group—laden with bags stuffed to bursting—strode down the airstair with the swagger of conquerors. Waiting just off the tarmac were three unassuming family sedans, their plain exteriors a deliberate contrast to the chaos their passengers embodied. Franklin, flanked by two of his trusted men, stood nearby, his face splitting into a wide grin as he spotted Jason descending the steps.
"Boss!" Franklin bellowed, his voice thick with relief and excitement. He surged forward, wrapping Jason in a bear hug that was all muscle and loyalty. "Welcome home, man!"
Jason, caught off guard by the bro hug, stiffened briefly before easing out of it with a wry smirk. He clapped Franklin's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "You and John held it down out here. Good work. I know it's been a grind."
Franklin waved off the praise, his grin unwavering. "Grind? Nah, boss, it's just boring as hell cooped up at the ranch. Next time you're out causing trouble, you better bring me along for the ride."
Jason chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, like a predator sizing up its next move. "Deal. Now let me introduce you to the new blood." He turned, gesturing to the crew behind him—Harley's mischievous grin, Christine's icy poise, David's stoic intensity, Avril, and the stone-cold menace of Gin and Rum. Pleasantries were exchanged, but the air crackled with unspoken tension. This wasn't a family reunion; it was a gathering of wolves.
The seven piled into the three cars, their convoy cutting through the evening traffic toward the Manhattan Valley ranch. The city's neon glow painted their faces as they sped along, each lost in their own thoughts about the empire they were about to build.
---
On the quiet suburban roads leading to the ranch, Franklin's excitement hadn't dimmed one bit. Behind the wheel, he was a chatterbox, his voice filling the car as he stole glances at Jason, who lounged in the passenger seat, eyes closed, looking every bit the calm before the storm.
"Boss, I saw the news," Franklin said, his tone brimming with awe. "That shit you pulled in LA? Those powers? Man, you were straight-up untouchable. Like something out of a goddamn comic book!"
Jason cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "Cool your jets, Franklin. Stick with me, play your cards right, and you'll get a taste of that power yourself."
Franklin's eyes widened, his hands tightening on the wheel. "For real? A regular dude like me? You're not fucking with me, right?"
Jason's smirk deepened. "What, you think I was born with this shit? I was just like you once. Keep up, and you'll see what's possible."
Franklin's jaw dropped, his mind racing with visions of godlike abilities. He shook his head, trying to focus. "Alright, alright. But, uh, about the ranch… things are getting messy. You've been gone, and me and John? We ain't exactly management material. The crew's getting restless."
Jason's eyes opened fully now, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "Spill it."
Franklin's grin faded, his voice dropping to a serious rumble. "Those prisoners we sprung from Long Island? They're not your average grunts. These are top-tier players—hackers, hitmen, masterminds. They're too damn proud to take orders forever. Some of 'em are itching to break off, go solo, or form their own little gangs. If it wasn't for John's trigger finger keeping 'em in line, half the ranch would've bolted by now."
Jason let out a cold, derisive snort. "Ungrateful bastards. They think they can just walk away? Their wings ain't even sprouted, and they're already dreaming of flying." He shifted in his seat, reclining further, his eyes drifting shut again. "Let 'em try. They'll learn."
Franklin stole another glance at his boss, a chill running down his spine. He'd been with Jason long enough to know that look—the calm before a bloodbath. When the boss got quiet like this, heads were about to roll. He shut his mouth and focused on the road, the weight of Jason's unspoken plans hanging heavy in the air.
---
The Manhattan Valley ranch loomed ahead, its centerpiece a sprawling, opulent villa that had undergone a radical transformation. What was once a minimalist Nordic fortress under Kingpin's reign had been reborn as Jason's personal palace of excess. The villa's footprint had doubled, its interiors now dripping with ostentatious luxury—gold-trimmed walls, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors that screamed money and power. Every corner of the place was a testament to Jason's unapologetic greed, a middle finger to restraint.
In the heart of the villa, a massive oval dining table dominated the grand dining room, crafted from rich mahogany and built to seat over twenty. Overhead, handcrafted lamps cast a kaleidoscope of light, their glow dancing across plates of gourmet dishes and gold-rimmed cutlery. The spread was a feast fit for royalty—roasted meats, decadent desserts, and bottles of vintage wine that cost more than most people's rent.
Robert and his wife, the ranch's reluctant caretakers, had spent three sleepless days preparing this lavish banquet to welcome Jason back. The couple was terrified of him, their every move calculated to avoid his wrath. They bustled in the kitchen, putting the final touches on the meal, while John—ever the enigma—hovered nearby, helping with odd tasks despite their protests.
"John, you don't need to do this," Mrs. Robert said, her voice soft but firm as she took a stack of clean plates from him.
John, wiping his hands on a pristine white towel, gave her a curt nod. "It's fine." His tone was polite but distant, the mark of a man who'd killed more people than he could count yet still carried himself with an odd, quiet dignity.
"John, get your ass out here!" A booming voice roared from outside, shattering the moment.
John's brow furrowed, his hand pausing mid-motion. Mrs. Robert shot him a sympathetic look, taking the plates. "Go. We've got this."
He nodded again, his expression unreadable. "Sorry." Slipping on his bulletproof suit jacket, he pulled two Glock pistols from his waistband, the metallic *click* of chambers loading echoing in the quiet kitchen. He checked both guns with practiced ease, slid them into his tactical belt, and strode out to face whatever shitstorm was brewing.
Outside, a few meters from the villa, a crowd of Long Island's liberated prisoners stood in a loose semicircle. Their faces were a gallery of defiance—some smirked, others glared, a few radiated outright contempt. These were the ones itching to break free, to spit in the face of Jason's authority and carve their own paths. Further back, a larger group of onlookers gathered, their expressions neutral. They weren't here to fight—just to watch the drama unfold, popcorn metaphorically in hand.
John sighed, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "What now?"
A hulking white guy, two meters tall with a skull tattoo snaking up his neck, stepped forward, jabbing a meaty finger at John. "You said Jason would be back in two days, Wick. It's day three, and your precious boss is still a no-show. Where the hell is he?"
John's eyes narrowed, his voice steady but edged with steel. "First, you don't call him Jason. It's 'Boss' or 'Mr. Walter.' Show some respect."
The giant and his posse erupted in mocking laughter, their grins dripping with disdain. The skull-tattooed leader leaned in, his voice taunting. "Respect? I'll call him whatever the fuck I want. Hell, I could call him my little puppy dog if I feel like it."
John's jaw tightened, a flicker of rage sparking in his eyes, but he kept his cool, his voice low and even. "The boss landed at Newark. He's an hour out, max."
The giant scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, right. Same old bullshit, three times now. I'm done waiting. Whether he shows up or not, me and my boys are leaving this dump today."
John's response was the same as always, delivered with the patience of a man who'd had this conversation too many times. "You want out? You wait for the boss's approval. That's the rule."
The giant smirked, stepping closer. "Rules? My legs work just fine, and no one's telling me where I can go."
In a flash, John's Glock was out, its barrel aimed square at the giant's forehead. "I said, you leave when the boss says you can."
The air grew thick, the tension snapping like a taut wire. The giant didn't flinch, his eyes burning with defiance. Behind him, his crew drew their own weapons—stolen prison gear, from knives to pistols—each one trained on John's head. Their laughter was low, menacing, a chorus of predators ready to pounce.
John stood his ground, his grip steady, his gaze unyielding. The standoff was a powder keg, and the spark was coming.
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