Two days after his capture, Jason’s condition stabilized enough for him to hold a conversation, though his body was still a roadmap of bruises and bandages. The joint task force—DEA, FBI, and NYPD—convened and decided to transfer him to Long Island Prison, a maximum-security fortress for the worst of the worst. They mapped out a secure transport route, and the mayor of New York went on TV, declaring a citywide curfew from midnight to 2 a.m. No vehicles, no pedestrians—complete lockdown during the transfer.
For freedom-loving Americans, a two-hour curfew was a bitter pill. But the thought of locking away a monster like Jason Walter kept the protests to a murmur. The public wanted him caged, and they’d tolerate a little inconvenience to see it done.
At midnight, New York became a ghost town. Thousands of cops, hundreds of patrol cars, and dozens of armored vehicles swarmed the streets, setting up barricades and tire spikes along the route. By 12:30, the transfer began.
The three agency heads—Stanfield, the NYPD Commissioner, and the FBI Director—marched into Jason’s hospital room, flanked by a SWAT team. They strapped him to a stretcher, his wrists and ankles cuffed to the metal frame like he was Hannibal Lecter. The convoy, led by an armored transport built to withstand an RPG, roared out of the hospital with sirens screaming, speeding toward Long Island Prison.
The prison sat in Suffolk County, its eastern edge kissing the Atlantic, with Brooklyn and Queens to the west. Built in the ’80s, it looked like a medieval fortress—imposing, impenetrable, with guard towers, a yard, and two main buildings. The smaller one housed the admin offices for the prison’s brass. The larger was the cellblock, a concrete monolith with 500 solitary cells for the most heinous criminals. Murderers with a body count in the single digits? They didn’t even qualify for this hellhole.
The convoy rolled up to the prison without incident—no ambushes, no jailbreak attempts, much to the task force’s relief. After ID checks, the iron gates groaned open, and the transport pulled into the compound. Waiting at the cellblock entrance was Warden Daniel, a grizzled black man puffing on a fat cigar, his sparse hair barely clinging to his scalp.
The three directors approached, shaking his hand. "Daniel, we’re counting on you," The NYPD Commissioner said.
Daniel plucked the cigar from his mouth, his voice like gravel. "No trouble at all. Been a while since we had fresh meat. I could use the entertainment."
The SWAT team hauled Jason’s stretcher into the cellblock, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them. Long Island’s inmates were a different breed—untamed, vicious, every one a predator. To keep them from tearing each other apart, each was locked in a 10-square-meter cell, with minimal contact even during yard time. The arrival of a new prisoner sent a ripple of excitement through the block. Hands gripped bars, shaking them violently as inmates caught sight of Jason.
"Who’s this fucker? What’d he do?" One growled.
"Pretty boy, huh? Just my type," Another leered, licking his lips.
"Hey, pigs! When’s shower time?" A third shouted, cackling.
The escort ignored them, heading for the elevator. The prisoners’ eyes widened as it ascended. "No fucking way!" One roared. "I killed thirty-two people in Vegas, and I’m stuck on the first floor. This kid’s going up?"
"That’s Jason!" Another voice cut through, sharp with recognition. "Jason fucking Walter!"
"Fisk’s old lapdog? He’s here?"
"That bastard! God’s finally doing his job. I’m gonna gut you, Jason!"
Jason’s name carried weight in the underworld, and Long Island was packed with men who’d love to carve their grudges into his flesh. But as the elevator hit the fifth floor—the highest security level—the atmosphere shifted. Up here, the cells were fewer, the air quieter, almost suffocatingly still, like a library for the damned. Most inmates barely glanced at Jason, lost in their own twisted minds.
One, however, locked eyes with him. A hulking figure, all muscle and menace, pressed against his cell door, staring with a predator’s grin.
Warden Daniel smirked, puffing his cigar. "Meet Buffalo Bill, our resident chemist. Loves his side hustle—torture. Beating, skinning, dosing folks with his special brews. Had over a hundred victims before we nabbed him." He chuckled darkly. "Looks like he’s taken a shine to you, Jason. You’ll be neighbors. Maybe you’ll bond over... hobbies."
A guard moved to open the cell next to Bill’s, but the NYPD Commissioner stepped in. "Hold off. We’re interrogating him now."
The guard glanced at Daniel, who exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded. "Fine."
They hauled Jason into the fifth-floor interrogation room, chaining him to a reinforced steel chair, his wrists, ankles, and neck locked tight. The four big shots—Stanfield, the FBI Director, NYPD Commissioner, and Warden Daniel—sat across from him, their faces hard.
"Stan, you were so eager last time," The FBI Director said, smirking. "Go ahead, take the first crack."
Stanfield leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Jason, spill everything you know. Now."
Jason met his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips, saying nothing.
Stanfield pressed harder. "You’ve seen this place—walls like a vault, guards everywhere. No escape. This is your life now."
Jason tilted his head, his voice calm but mocking. "If I’m stuck here, why the fuck would I tell you anything?"
Stanfield glanced at Daniel before continuing. "Cooperate, and I’ll talk to the warden. An extra hour in the yard, a private shower. You heard those animals downstairs. You’ve got enemies here. Without protection, you’re dead—or picking up soap in the communal showers."
Before he could finish, Jason threw his head back and laughed, a wild, unhinged sound that echoed off the concrete walls. "You fucking clowns. Want intel? Get on your knees and lick my boots first."
The four men’s faces darkened, their patience fraying. The FBI Director stood, shaking his head, and walked out. ’No point wasting time on this prick.’
Daniel slammed his fist on the table, his cigar glowing red. "Keep running your mouth, and I’ll introduce you to some of my favorite toys. Let’s see how tough you are then."
"Bring it, asshole," Jason shot back, grinning. "My bones are itching for a fight."
Daniel’s face twisted with rage. He grabbed a pair of iron pliers from the table, ready to rip out Jason’s fingernails. As warden, he was God here, with free rein to break any inmate. No one defied him—not the serial killers, not the cartel bosses. Jason wouldn’t be the exception.
"Daniel, cool it!" Stanfield snapped. "He’s still injured. You kill him, we’re all screwed."
Daniel froze, pliers in hand, then tossed them down with a grunt. Stanfield followed the FBI Director out, leaving the room heavy with tension.
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