Chapter 274: Black Lives Matter and Livestreaming
In a luxurious ballroom at Chicago's Palmer House Hilton, Vice President Robert Stanton stood at the entrance as tonight's guest of honor, beaming as he greeted each distinguished donor.
He exchanged pleasantries with every guest, whether he knew them or not, guided by his chief of staff's whispered prompts. As Vice President, he didn't need to memorize everyone's name or portfolio—that's what staffers were for. He had bigger fish to fry.
Like, for instance, positioning himself for when the aging president inevitably stepped down or—heaven forbid—something happened during the term. Then he could become only the second person since LBJ to ascend to the Oval Office through succession.
However, the urgent update his aide whispered in his ear hit him like a cold slap, though he maintained his practiced politician's smile, politely excused himself, and retreated to a private alcove.
The CIA security chief was already waiting there, looking grim.
"What the hell is going on out there?!" Robert hissed.
"We've got a major situation brewing in the South Side. Large groups of protesters suddenly mobilized over that drug dealer who got shot by CPD last month. Then someone started smashing storefronts as the march passed the commercial district.
Now the protests have devolved into full-scale looting and arson. Every business from State Street to Michigan Avenue is getting hit."
"What are we paying those Chicago cops for if they can't handle some urban unrest? Why haven't they shut down those damn rioters yet?" Robert's racist mask slipped completely when he thought nobody important was listening.
Discrimination was his personal belief; racial equality was just politics. No contradiction there.
The CIA chief grimaced but chose to ignore the slur. "Because they're heavily armed—military-grade automatic weapons that rival police firepower. CPD's been afraid to engage directly.
If we have a bloodbath during your fundraiser, it'll be a PR nightmare for everyone involved. I've been pushing Chicago PD to bring in reinforcements from Cook County.
Sir, I strongly recommend we postpone tonight's event."
"Absolutely not! We need every dollar from these Wall Street donors if we're going to win!" Robert shot back.
"But what about the riots? They're spreading. This could dominate tomorrow's news cycle."
"Most of the media are in our pocket. They know how to spin it. As long as the cops don't massacre anyone on camera, we can manage the narrative. Even if some right-wing outlets try to make hay, it won't stick."
Robert extended his hand toward the Chicago skyline visible through the windows. "Everything's still under control. This country will stay on track under Democratic leadership."
"Tonight's about schmoozing Chicago's elite. Security shouldn't be an issue here. Redeploy some of your people to help with crowd control downtown. Try to avoid lethal force if possible. Once I'm wheels-up back to D.C., you can handle it however you want."
Robert reluctantly transferred some of his CIA security detail to assist Chicago PD. While privately he couldn't care less about those lives, election optics demanded stability. These rioters couldn't be allowed to derail his political ambitions.
On the rooftop parking garage of a nearby shopping center, Ron couldn't help but grin as he watched another patrol unit leave the hotel perimeter.
"Alright, showtime. Everyone ready?"
Ron turned around. Behind him stood Toretto and Tej, each leading a squad of masked operatives in Avengers costumes, awaiting orders.
If not for the serious atmosphere, anyone stumbling upon the scene might've mistaken it for the world's most elaborate Comic-Con meetup.
"Locked and loaded, boss!" Brian replied confidently. "With their reduced numbers, we could take them head-on if necessary."
"No, no, no—you're missing the point. Our objective isn't mass casualties; that's what terrorists do," Ron said, doing a final weapons check. "As federal law enforcement, we represent justice. Our mission is simply to expose these corrupt politicians for what they really are. Did you secure our package?"
Ron looked at Toretto. Thirty minutes ago, Ron had spotted another team tailing them. Turned out to be Dunning, the arms dealer they'd interrogated at Eagle Fort.
Even more interesting—he was coordinating with the CIA security chief. Something smelled fishy, so Ron had Toretto retrieve him.
"Right here," Toretto dropped a large duffel bag from the trunk onto the concrete. A muffled groan came from inside as it hit the ground.
"Delighted to see you again, Mr. Dunning. I trust you're still regretting our interrupted conversation last time? Ready for round two?"
Marvin helpfully produced a toolbox. "The soldering iron's getting old school. You probably won't appreciate that, but I heard about a new technique. Ever try steel wool?"
Ron extracted a Brillo pad from the kit. "Supposedly invented by some sadistic socialite. I don't know the exact method, but I get the general concept..."
Ron's gaze drifted toward Dunning's crotch. The arms dealer struggled more violently. Ron nodded, so Marvin removed the gag.
"Let me go! I mean you no harm! I want to cooperate! Please, just give me a chance!"
The moment the rag was pulled free, Dunning started babbling desperately.
Ron's expression hardened. "Mr. Dunning, you're my prisoner. What makes you think you're qualified to negotiate with me? Or my principals?"
Ron didn't fully understand Washington politics, but combat had taught him one truth: if you want to survive, prove your value, or your superiors will use you as expendable cannon fodder.
"I have all the evidence of Robert's crimes! I have the classified orders authorizing the Guatemala massacre! I even have video of him at Epstein's island!"
Dunning unleashed a torrent of information. Ron's smile turned predatory as he crouched down, getting face-to-face with the terrified arms dealer.
"So, dear Mr. Dunning, am I to understand that he's your puppet? And who's pulling your strings?"
Ron had long suspected Robert's story was more complex, but he'd never imagined the puppet master was a mid-tier arms dealer.
"Lockheed Martin. All my inventory comes from them, including the recent Pentagon contracts Robert helped broker."
Dunning's terror of the steel wool in Ron's hand overcame his survival instincts. To protect his anatomy from serious damage, he spilled everything.
Ron nodded approvingly. "Arthur, you getting all this?"
Arthur stepped out from behind Tej, operating a professional camera rig. He'd been filming since Dunning's interrogation began at Ron's direction.
Dunning went pale seeing the camera. "What...what are you doing?"
"Broadcasting live to America via YouTube, naturally. We've got about 40,000 viewers right now. Don't worry—nobody at your little dinner party can see our stream. I've jammed all cellular and WiFi in a six-block radius. Want to say hello to your audience?"
Ron waved cheerfully at the camera, but Dunning's world collapsed. It was over. Everything was over.
He'd thought confession might save his life, but now realized that while Ron might spare him, Lockheed Martin certainly wouldn't. One of the nation's premier defense contractors had assets everywhere—government, military, private sector. He'd be hunted for the rest of his very short life.
"Ladies and gentlemen of America, good evening! I know you might have questions about Mr. Dunning's revelations, but don't worry—we're about to introduce our other guest star: your beloved Vice President!
We are the Avengers, and justice will be served. Stay tuned—we'll be right back."
Ron moved to the parking garage's edge and, along with Arthur, Brian, Giselle, and Hobbs, raised their zipline launchers.
With a sharp crack, the steel cables shot across the street, shattering the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows and embedding in the hotel's facade.
Before the CIA agents could process what was happening, they felt sharp pricks in their necks and collapsed unconscious. Behind them stood a group of elderly men in hotel staff uniforms.
Frank's team had infiltrated the venue hours earlier, posing as catering and maintenance workers, systematically neutralizing the security detail.
"Avengers, assemble!" Ron shouted, leading the charge down the zipline as the others followed.
The footage, captured by synchronized drone cameras, was streaming live to YouTube in real-time. To casual viewers, it looked like an incredibly elaborate Marvel movie production.
Viewership climbed steadily, approaching 60,000. Even in a modest Pasadena apartment, four brilliant but socially awkward scientists sat transfixed by their computer screen.
"Leonard, are you certain this isn't some kind of Marvel Studios viral marketing campaign?"
"Uh..." Leonard frowned. "I honestly can't tell. If it's official Avengers promotion, why don't any of these superheroes have actual powers? That's pretty lame."
"Exactly," Raj chimed in while munching Cheetos. "I just watched 'Thor' swing on a cable. Where's Mjolnir? Why isn't he flying?"
"Maybe it's from the Ultimate universe? I remember a storyline where all the heroes lost their powers and had to operate more tactically."
"Absolutely impossible," Sheldon declared with finality. "In no universe would the Hulk be a masked, muscular African-American! And that Captain America didn't even have his shield!"
"But he's got the physique for it—almost as jacked as Dwayne Johnson. Honestly, he'd make a better Cap than Chris Evans."
If Ron could hear Sheldon's commentary, he'd definitely shout back: "Damn right I would! I'm way more convincing than Chris Evans!"
"Guys! Guys! Look!" Howard excitedly jabbed the screen. "They're engaging! Holy crap! I've never seen such intense tactical footage! Whether this is the new Avengers movie or not, if this is marketing, I'm definitely seeing it opening night!"
In Chicago, Ron's team rappelled into the ballroom and immediately began systematically eliminating CIA agents floor by floor. Meanwhile, after Ron launched his assault, Toretto's crew raced down from the parking garage in their vehicles. Only Tej remained on the roof with his sniper rifle, and Ramsey stayed to monitor the three surveillance drones and guard Dunning.
The CIA commander wasn't stupid. He quickly realized something was wrong—his upstairs teams hadn't reported in over four minutes.
Standard protocol required status updates every two minutes to ensure operational security.
"Code Red! Code Red! We have hostile infiltration upstairs!" the commander barked into his radio. "Teams Four and Five, move to the fifth floor and check on Team Two's status!"
Before he finished speaking—"CRASH!"—an armored truck smashed through the ballroom's main entrance. Before the agents could react, the rear doors burst open and two operators with HK416 assault rifles emerged, laying down suppressing fire.
"Brrrrap! Brrrrap!"
The sustained automatic fire kept the CIA team pinned down. The commander found cover behind a marble pillar, signaling to his lieutenant—a former Delta Force operator.
The lieutenant nodded, gestured to three nearby agents, and they formed up. The moment the intruders paused to reload, they rushed their position.
(End of chapter)
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