As consciousness slipped away, Jason’s final thought was a grudging acknowledgment: Fisk, you’re one tough bastard. His head lolled to the side, and darkness claimed him.
[Ding! "Dope Warrior" mission failed!]
[Ding! "Combat Maniac" mission failed!]
Fisk let out a heavy breath, his rage finally spent. The thrill of pummeling Jason left him feeling lighter, almost euphoric, his massive frame standing tall amid the carnage. He waved toward the distant Cadillac, and one of his goons—a wiry guy in a cheap suit—hurried over, eyes wide at the scene of blood and fire.
"Boss!" The goon said, voice shaky.
"Get a medevac chopper here, now," Fisk ordered, his tone cold but calm. "Jason goes to a hospital. Keep him alive until he spills his secrets."
"Got it, boss," The goon replied, already pulling out his phone.
He hesitated, glancing at the wreckage. "What about the reporters? Send ’em packing?"
Fisk surveyed the chaos—burning cars, scattered bodies, the busted container spilling groceries. "Let them snap a few shots," He said after a moment. "Hold off on releasing them. Might come in handy later."
The goon nodded, jogging back to the car to usher out a trio of sleazy, paid-off reporters. They scrambled forward with their cameras, snapping shots of the "charity workers’" corpses, the food-filled container, and the smoldering vehicles. Their lenses captured every gruesome detail, ready to twist the narrative when the time was right.
A distant roar cut through the night—rotor blades. Fisk looked up, frowning. ’Medevac already? That was fast.’ But as the chopper drew closer, he saw the truth: not a hospital bird, but a DEA gunship, its sleek black hull marked with bold white letters: ’DEA’.
A loudspeaker crackled, Stanfield’s voice booming. "This is the New York DEA! Everyone below, hands on your heads, get on the fucking ground!"
The reporters, spineless as ever, dropped their cameras and hit the dirt, trembling. Fisk stood defiant, hands behind his back, his massive frame unyielding. ’Me, kneel?’ He was Kingpin, the ruler of New York’s underworld. Others bowed to him. The DEA could go fuck themselves.
"Last warning, fat man! Hands up, down on the ground!" Stanfield’s voice was sharp, followed by the ominous whirr of the chopper’s 23mm rotary cannon spinning up. Fisk’s bulletproof suit could stop small arms fire, but a goddamn autocannon would shred him like paper.
’Fuck it.’ With a scowl, Fisk raised his hands and dropped to his knees, his pride burning hotter than the wreckage around him.
The chopper touched down, kicking up dust and gravel. Stanfield leaped out, flanked by four heavily armed goons—his loyal crew of dirty cops. He scanned the scene: Fisk, the reporters, Jason’s broken body, the groceries spilling from the container. It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. ’That bastard Fisk played us.’
His face darkened as he knelt beside Jason, checking his pulse. Still alive—barely. He signaled his men. Two slung their rifles and carefully lifted Jason onto the chopper, while the others confiscated the reporters’ memory cards, ensuring no evidence would leak.
Stanfield crouched in front of Fisk, his eyes cold and venomous. "You think you can set me up, you piece of shit? You’d better pray Jason pulls through, or I’ll make sure you regret it."
Fisk met his gaze, unfazed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I thought Jason was just a snitch, trading Gao’s factory for a safehouse and a new ID. But this?" He chuckled darkly. "You two are tighter than I thought. Almost like you work for him. What’s he got on you, Stanfield?"
Stanfield spat in Fisk’s face, the glob landing square on his cheek. Without another word, he turned and boarded the chopper, which roared back into the sky, racing toward the nearest hospital.
Fisk stood slowly, wiping the spit away with a grimace. His phone buzzed—an unknown number. He answered, his voice low. "Who is this?"
"Fisk, it’s bad," A panicked voice said. "NYPD’s launching a citywide sweep tonight. You need to hide your shit, now, or you’re fucked."
Fisk’s jaw tightened. "You wait until now to tell me this?"
"They confiscated everyone’s phones at the precinct. I had to sneak out, claiming a family emergency. Just move your product, fast."
"Don’t worry," Fisk said, his tone icy. "It’s already hidden. By the way, Jason showed up."
"What?! Where is he?"
"The DEA took him."
"Those fucking DEA pricks!" The voice spat. "If they’ve got him, we can’t touch him."
"Are you dense?" Fisk growled. "That’s a prize too big for the DEA to handle alone. Tell your boss. They’ll know what to do."
"Fine, I’ll pass it up the chain. But you didn’t tell me this out of the kindness of your heart. What’s your angle?"
"Jason’s hiding something big," Fisk said. "Find it for me."
---
Stanfield sat in the chopper, his face grim as he dialed Franklin. "How’s it going? Is the boss okay?"
"He’s alive," Stanfield said. "But it’s bad."
"Fuck!" Franklin’s voice cracked with guilt.
"Don’t beat yourself up," Stanfield said. "We all fucked up tonight. If you hadn’t tipped me off, Fisk would’ve taken him."
"God, I hope he makes it," Franklin muttered.
"Get to the safehouse. I’ll handle things here."
The chopper landed on the hospital’s rooftop, where a team of medics was already waiting with a stretcher and equipment. They swarmed Jason, slapping on bandages, injecting saline, and hooking him to a ventilator—every emergency measure in the book. The hospital had cleared the hallways, and four doctors sprinted, pushing the stretcher toward the OR. Stanfield had made it clear: this patient was priority one.
As the OR’s red light flicked on, Stanfield sank onto a bench in the hallway, his head in his hands. His heart pounded with guilt. ’This is on me. I was too cocky, too rushed.’ If he’d been more careful, Jason might not be half-dead.
Ten minutes later, a doctor emerged, pulling off his mask. Stanfield shot to his feet. "How is he?"
The doctor shook his head. "Multiple traumas, severe blood loss, fractured arm and ribs, ruptured spleen and kidneys causing internal bleeding... His chances are slim."
Stanfield’s eyes blazed red, his fists grabbing the doctor’s collar. "I don’t give a fuck about your excuses! That man in there is critical. Use every drug, every trick—save him, or I’ll have your head!"
The doctor stammered, startled. "We’re doing everything we can. I’ll call in specialists from other hospitals for a consultation, stat."
Stanfield released him, his voice softening but desperate. "Please. Save him."
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