Chapter 273: Fundraising Dinner
Toretto, O'Connor, and Tej all wore identical smirks and took a synchronized step backward.
"Let me set the record straight—it was you who wanted to throw down with him, not us."
"What a moron! After all this time, you still haven't learned not to mess with someone who looks like they eat nails for breakfast?" Everyone turned to see Ron approaching across the rooftop.
"For your boss's sake, I'll let you slide today," Roman threw out a parting shot at just the right moment, then quickly ducked behind O'Connor before Arthur could retaliate.
Arthur clenched his fists but managed to restrain himself from pounding Roman into the pavement.
Ron ignored the theatrics, dropped down from the fire escape, bumped fists with Toretto, and scanned everyone's faces.
"I've got a plan to turn Chicago upside down, and I need some world-class drivers. I guarantee that no matter what chaos we unleash today, nobody's coming after you. Hell, I can even make some of your outstanding warrants disappear as a bonus. Best part? There's serious money on the table."
Ron dangled the financial carrot, though of course he wouldn't be footing the bill personally.
To maximize his chances of success, Congressman Francis had specifically authorized Ron's unit to retain all tax collections this fiscal year, officially categorized as "operational expenses."
Of course, that was bureaucratic double-speak. In reality, as long as Andy could balance the books, Ron essentially had carte blanche with the funds. And just how much was that?
The Wall Street alone owed an estimated $100 million in back taxes! Not to mention the cash cow that was Uncle Sam's various revenue streams—Ron calculated that his IRS Special Operations Unit's collections alone could fund the Pentagon's Middle East operations for a solid week.
Naturally, Francis had made those promises, but Ron, knowing politicians well, couldn't actually burn through everything without consequences. Still, paying these wheelman thieves a generous salary? That wouldn't even register as a rounding error.
"Sounds profitable. Who are we up against this time?"
"CIA," Ron replied casually.
"CIA!" Roman's voice shot up several octaves as he shook his head frantically. "Have you lost your damn mind? A bunch of car thieves versus the Central Intelligence Agency? Do you have any idea what their budget looks like? I don't even own a gun!"
"Hardware's covered," Ron waved dismissively. The garbage truck parked curbside suddenly rumbled to life, its hydraulic lift raising the cargo bed. The trash on top spilled out, revealing a small arsenal underneath.
"As for manpower, that's even easier. We just need to create some chaos first." Ron cast a meaningful glance at the housing projects flanking the street—that's exactly why he'd chosen this meeting spot.
"Hey, you! Yeah, you—get out here!" Ron drew his pistol and aimed it at a scrawny young black man eavesdropping from a nearby window.
The kid came tumbling out, sobbing and pleading. Ron noticed the track marks on his arms and any trace of sympathy evaporated instantly.
In America's inner cities, the vast majority are connected to the drug trade—either as users or dealers. You can score anything you want in any project in any major city.
Ron had zero sympathy for junkies.
"Let me ask you something—have any of your boys been killed by cops recently?"
"Yeah! My cousin got beaten to death just last week by some white cop for dealing..." The young man, noticing Ron's complexion, quickly adjusted his story. "I mean, he was murdered in cold blood by a racist police officer."
"You think that's justice?" Ron asked patiently.
"Hell no... I mean, yeah, it's fair!" The guy flip-flopped, clearly terrified.
"No, it's not fair," Ron shook his head, holstered his weapon, walked over to a dumpster, and climbed on top. "Why should you be treated like animals just because you're black? What's your crime? You like to get high and maybe boost a few things to survive. But I know you're all good people at heart, yet those racist cops target you because of your skin color."
Ron, channeling some of history's most infamous demagogues, began his rally cry: "Now's the time to show those white supremacist pigs who look down on us the true power of black America! We'll use marches and protests to demonstrate our strength!"
As Ron spoke, more and more residents emerged from the projects. Toretto and the crew were stunned by Ron's performance. Who exactly are you calling white supremacists? Aren't you white too?
But Ron didn't miss a beat. He jumped down from the dumpster, grabbed an AR-15, and tossed it to the young man he'd dragged from his apartment. Then he began chanting, "Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter!"
As if the shouting wasn't enough, he fired a burst into the air, screaming and pulling the bewildered young man into the street.
Something incredible happened.
In the short three-block walk from the garbage truck to the main intersection, Ron's group mushroomed from two people to three, then four... then hundreds!
Some carried weapons from the truck, others brought their own heat, and some even tore bedsheets from their apartments to create makeshift banners with Ron's slogans.
From a distance, they looked like a legitimate army, and their numbers kept swelling. The patrol cars that responded to the gunfire didn't even slow down—they hit the gas and got the hell out of Dodge.
The young man at the front of the march had lost his look of confusion and fear. Instead, a kind of mob hysteria was spreading through the crowd like wildfire.
Ron had already slipped away and rejoined Toretto's crew.
"Boss, what the hell are you doing?" Tej asked nervously.
"Creating a diversion to tie up the CIA, obviously. Why are you still standing around? Grab your gear and let's move!"
"You flew us all the way from Los Angeles just to march in a protest?" Toretto, after following the procession for several blocks, finally lost his patience.
Ron hadn't revealed anything except that their target was the CIA.
"Of course not," Ron said, glancing back to see the demonstration had grown substantially with more spectators joining from the sidelines. He stopped, picked up a brick, and hurled it through the Apple Store window.
"Brand new iPhones! Come and get them!"
Ron's announcement was completely unnecessary, because the moment the glass shattered, dozens of figures expertly slipped through the opening. Not satisfied with just looting phones, they proceeded to demolish the entire store with crowbars and baseball bats.
Tej was shocked by this scene of urban warfare.
"My real target is the Vice President's fundraising gala. Now, gentlemen, shall we crash a party?"
(End of chapter)
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