The dozen or so crew bosses in the room fell silent, their mouths clamped shut after Wesley’s outburst. They were pissed, but they weren’t stupid. Wesley was new blood, a pencil-pusher who hadn’t earned their respect, and they’d push back on him any chance they got. But defying Kingpin? That was a death sentence. These were hardened veterans of the underworld, men who’d seen what happened to those who crossed Fisk. His temper was very well known, his methods brutal—cross him, and you’d end up in pieces, scattered across the Hudson.
Still, they despised Wesley. ’Spineless prick, hiding behind Fisk’s name like a fucking coward,’ they thought, their silent curses simmering as they glared at him. In their minds, he was nothing compared to Jason, the real boss who’d run the show with an iron fist and a sharp mind.
Wesley’s face was a mask of cold authority as he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "Let me make this crystal fucking clear. One: by tonight, every last gram of product from every hub gets shipped out. Two: during this crackdown, nobody so much as sneezes without permission. You step out of line, you’re done. Understood?"
The bosses nodded grudgingly, their faces dark with resentment. They filed out of the room, heads low, muttering like they’d just buried their own fathers. Outside in the open air, their grumbling turned into a full-blown bitch session. "Wesley’s a fucking asshole," One spat. "No loyalty, no balls. Back when Jason was in charge, we’d be out there making bank during a crackdown, not hiding like scared bitches."
They walked off, their voices echoing with nostalgia for the days when Jason ran the game, turning police sweeps into opportunities to dominate the market. The bearded crew boss trailed behind, keeping his distance. He handled the gang’s transport operations, a loner who never meshed well with the others. When no one was looking, he slipped into a shadowed alley, pulled out his burner phone, and fired off a quick text.
---
At the DEA’s New York headquarters, Norman Stanfield lounged in his office, sprawled across a leather sofa chair like a king on his throne. His polished shoes were propped up on the desk, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 blasting from a sleek speaker, its dramatic notes filling the room. His eyes were half-closed, a smug grin tugging at his lips as he tapped his fingers to the rhythm, basking in his newfound glory. The Hell’s Kitchen raid had made him a national hero, the DEA’s golden boy. Word was, the New York governor was prepping a shiny medal for him, and whispers from D.C. hinted at a promotion to a cushy desk at headquarters. Life was fucking sweet.
Beep, beep.
His phone chimed, cutting through the music. Stanfield grabbed it, his grin widening as he read the message from one of his undercover operatives: "Tonight, the crew’s moving all their shit to a warehouse in Baltimore. Tons of dope included."
’Hot damn,’ He thought, his heart racing. ’Just took down one drug empire, and now another pile of product lands in my lap? This is my fucking year.’
But the message was vague—no mention of which gang. Stanfield sat up, logging into the DEA’s secure intranet to pull up the operative’s file. It wasn’t that he was sloppy; the DEA had so many damn undercovers buried in the underworld, it was impossible to keep track without checking the database. The agency’s overreliance on informants had led to some big fuck-ups. The most infamous? Two veteran undercovers, one posing as a dealer, the other as a buyer, set up a sting to bust each other. They’d both called in their teams, and when the deal went down, it turned into a bloodbath—cops shooting cops, brains splattered across the pavement. It wasn’t until SWAT rolled in and ID’d the bodies that the truth came out. The media had a field day, and the DEA’s reputation took a hit it never fully recovered from.
Stanfield’s screen lit up with the operative’s details. "Holy shit," He muttered. "This guy’s embedded with Fisk."
His mind raced, connecting the dots. Fisk and Jason had a history—bad blood that ran deep. This wasn’t just a bust; it was a golden opportunity for Jason to settle an old score. Forget a standard raid. This was personal.
Stanfield grabbed his coat and bolted out of the office, jumping into his car and speeding toward Jason’s apartment. He took the stairs two at a time, pounding on the fifth-floor door until it swung open.
Jason was inside, still nursing old wounds from the Hell’s Kitchen job. He’d been killing time teaching Franklin the basics of firearms—how to strip a Glock, sight alignment, trigger discipline. When he saw Stanfield’s flushed, excited face, he smirked. "What’s got you so fucking happy? Find a stack of cash on the sidewalk?"
Stanfield was practically panting. "DEA intel just came in. Fisk’s moving his entire stash tonight—headed to a warehouse in Baltimore."
Jason’s smirk vanished, his face hardening. Stanfield pressed on. "He’s ordered his crew to ship out all their illegal shit—drugs, weapons, the works."
Jason stood frozen, his mind racing. After a moment, he nodded. "Smart move. This crackdown’s different. The NYPD’s coming down hard, and they won’t stop until they’ve got a big fish to parade in front of the cameras."
"You’re dead-on," Stanfield said. "Just got word from a source—NYPD brass had an emergency meeting. The crackdown’s happening, and it’s kicking off in the next day or two."
As a high-ranking DEA official, Stanfield had his ear to the ground on police business. Jason leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Did your guy get a list of what Fisk’s moving?"
Stanfield shook his head. "No specifics, but he says there’s at least a ton of dope."
Franklin’s jaw dropped. "A ton? Jesus Christ, at a hundred thirty bucks a gram on the street, that’s one point three billion dollars, not counting the rest of the haul!" His eyes burned with greed as he looked at Jason. "Boss, we gotta hit this. This is a once-in-a-lifetime score."
Jason raised a hand, signaling him to cool off. He sank back onto the couch, his brow furrowed as he weighed the risks. The payout was massive, but so were the dangers.
[Ding! New mission triggered: "Dope Warrior." Reward: 3000 villain points!]
[Mission Brief: Fisk is transporting a multi-billion-dollar shipment to Baltimore. Steal it and send a message to your former boss!]
The system’s prompt was like a shot of adrenaline. The haul was already tempting, but with 3000 villain points on the table, Jason’s restraint crumbled. He shot to his feet, his voice firm. "We’re doing this."
Franklin and Stanfield grinned like kids on Christmas morning.
The three huddled around a laptop, pulling up Google Maps as Jason laid out the plan. "Here, here, and here," He said, pointing to a dozen red arrows marking Fisk’s key strongholds. "These are his hubs. Hell’s Kitchen is their main base—Fisk’s throne room."
He zoomed out, pinpointing a derelict industrial zone in Baltimore. "This is the warehouse where they’re sending the goods. They’ll have heavy muscles at both ends—Hell’s Kitchen and Baltimore—so we hit them in transit."
His finger traced a route, stopping at a desolate stretch of highway. "This spot’s two hundred klicks from New York, a hundred twenty from Baltimore. It’s our best shot."
Franklin frowned. "What’s the catch? Fisk’s no idiot—he’ll have an ambush waiting somewhere."
Jason nodded, pointing to the map. "Exactly. But this stretch is perfect. It’s a lonely road flanked by low hills—no buildings, no cover. Nowhere for his goons to hide."
He turned to Stanfield. "Your job is weapons. I need two remote-controlled anti-tank mines and ten C4 charges. Before we move, send a chopper with infrared to sweep the area. Make sure Fisk doesn’t have any surprises waiting."
Stanfield nodded. "I’ve got you covered. Consider it done."
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