"Fuck!" The pilot roared, yanking the stick hard. The chopper lurched right, the RPG streaking past, its fiery tail grazing the fuselage by inches. Stan’s heart pounded, his face drained of color, sweat beading on his brow. He’d faced death before—every DEA agent had—but that was the closest he’d ever come to eating a missile. His fear boiled into rage, his voice a snarl. "Light those motherfuckers up! Now!"
"You got it!" The pilot growled, his own anger matching Stan’s. He slammed the firing button, and the chopper’s side-mounted 23mm autocannons spun up with a mechanical whine. A storm of bullets erupted, tearing into the ground below like a fucking apocalypse.
The first cartel goons hit were obliterated, their bodies bursting into chunks of meat and bone, blood spraying like popped water balloons. Worker clothes or not, they might as well have been naked against the cannons—Kevlar wouldn’t have saved them from this carnage. With the chopper’s thermal imaging locking onto their heat signatures, there was nowhere to hide. The autocannons swept the warehouse yard, leaving a trail of mangled corpses and screams, the ground slick with gore.
The cartel scattered, panic consuming them, every man for himself. Fisk’s face twisted, veins bulging on his forehead, his rage a barely contained inferno. ’Those fucking idiots!’ First, they accused him of being a snitch, then one of their brain-dead goons fired an RPG at a DEA chopper. Did they forget the Kiki Camarena case? That shit was legend—and a warning.
Kiki Camarena was a DEA badass in the ’80s, sent to Mexico to choke off the drug pipeline. He went deep undercover with a cartel kingpin, risking his neck for over four years, gathering evidence that torched thousands of acres of drug fields—billions in profits up in smoke. The cartel put a bounty on the leaker, and corrupt Mexican cops sold Kiki out. What followed was a nightmare: ribs broken, legs flayed, skull and jaw crushed, trachea collapsed, his head drilled open with a fucking power tool. They pumped him full of chemicals to keep him conscious through the torture. Thirty hours of hell before he finally died.
The U.S. went apeshit. The DEA got carte blanche, launching "Operation Legend," the biggest manhunt in history. They tracked the killers, pressured Mexico to arrest them, but prisons there were like fucking resorts for cartel bosses—bribes bought luxury. So, the DEA played dirty, offering $5 million to mercs to "escort" the suspects to the U.S. Ignoring Mexico’s protests, they tortured and tried the bastards, slapping them with 40-year sentences. The message was clear: fuck with the DEA, and you’re done.
If that RPG had hit, every soul in that warehouse—Fisk included—would be America’s most wanted, hunted to the ends of the earth. "Those fucking morons!" Fisk bellowed, his voice shaking with fury. "Their brains are stuffed with their own product!"
He waved his men to the cars, adrenaline spiking. "Move!" Engines roared, and twenty-plus Cadillacs smashed through the warehouse’s chain-link fence, tires screeching as they peeled onto the highway, rain hammering their roofs.
Fisk glanced back, his heart slowing. The cartel’s dumbass move had drawn the chopper’s fire, giving him a window to escape. ’Thank fuck for their stupidity.’ But his relief was short-lived. Ahead, a chorus of sirens wailed, and a wall of flashing police lights cut through the storm—dozens of cop cars barreling toward them.
Trapped. Cop cars ahead, chopper behind. Fisk’s face went ashen, his mind racing. ’How the fuck did they know?’ His operation was airtight—unless someone ratted.
One of his Cadillacs pulled alongside, the window rolling down. A loyal follower leaned out, shouting over the rain. "Boss, we’ll hold off the cops! Get out of here!"
Fisk hesitated, his jaw tight. Going head-to-head with the DEA was suicide; he preferred backroom deals, bribes, and shadows. But with no other way out, he had no choice. His man read his doubt, flashing a grim smile. "Don’t worry, boss. They won’t take us alive."
The window rolled up, and the man’s car surged forward, joined by the rest of the convoy. They charged the police line like kamikazes, engines screaming.
The cops froze, stunned. Unlike the cartel’s diehards, these were clock-punchers, not warriors. They chased dealers for a paycheck, not glory, and only fought battles they could win. Risk their lives for DEA wages? Fuck that. As the Cadillacs closed in, the police cars swerved, parting like the Red Sea to let them through.
But Fisk’s men weren’t playing tag. They cranked their wheels, slamming into the cop cars with bone-crunching force. BOOM! Metal crumpled, glass shattered, and one unlucky cop’s face smashed into the A-pillar, his skull exploding like a melon, blood and brains splattering the dashboard. At 140 km/h, airbags were useless—cars folded like tinfoil, debris flying in a chaotic storm of steel.
The pileup was catastrophic, a chain reaction of collisions as trailing cop cars plowed into the wreckage. Fisk’s lead car threaded through the gap, untouched, while four of his trailing Cadillacs screeched to a halt, blocking all four lanes of the highway in a deliberate barricade.
"Stop them!" A surviving cop shouted, but Fisk’s car was already a fading speck in the rain-soaked night, his men’s sacrifice buying him precious seconds.
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