The taxi driver had absolutely zero goodwill toward the police.
He spent the entire wait cursing them for being incompetent, unable to catch actual criminals, yet perfectly capable of making life difficult for ordinary people.
The checkpoint moved painfully slowly.
The taxi sat there for a full ten minutes before two officers finally approached with flashlights in hand.
The driver immediately stopped complaining.
One officer tapped on the window.
“Sir, identification, please.”
Jason and the driver both handed over their prepared licenses.
The officers entered the license numbers into a handheld device connected to the police database, then shone their flashlights over both men’s faces to make sure they matched the photos.
Beep.
Beep.
The device suddenly sounded.
The officer checking Jason’s license frowned and placed a hand on the holster at his waist.
“Sir, raise your hands and step out of the vehicle for inspection.”
Jason looked confused.
“Officer, is there a problem with my ID?”
The officer tightened his grip on his pistol.
“Sir. Hands up!”
“All right, Officer. Easy.” Jason did as he was told.
He got out of the taxi with both hands raised, lay facedown on the ground, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
One officer searched him while the other thoroughly inspected the passenger compartment and trunk.
After a careful search, they found nothing suspicious or illegal.
The officer relaxed and handed Jason’s license back.
“Your vehicle has a few outstanding traffic violations. Make sure you take care of them.”
“Thank you, Officer.” Jason smiled as he took the license.
“Clear!”
The taxi pulled away again.
The moment they were moving, the driver started complaining about the police all over again.
Jason chatted with him casually, smiling the entire time.
Meanwhile, beneath the seat, both of Jason’s hands were pulling upward with steady force.
A narrow gap opened between the seat cushion and its base.
Inside it, a black Glock 20 lay quietly hidden.
Once they were out of Manhattan, the rest of the trip went smoothly.
Jason got out at a shopping mall in Queens, walked several hundred meters, and hailed another taxi.
This time, the driver was a Black man in his twenties.
“Hey, sir. Where you headed?”
“**** Club on XX Street.”
The young driver looked startled.
“Sir, that place is in the projects. Neighborhood’s rough as hell, homeless people all over the streets. If you’re looking for somewhere to have fun, I can recommend a better place.”
“Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend.”
The driver shook his head helplessly.
If Jason was meeting someone there, there wasn’t much he could say.
8:50 p.m.
Ten minutes before the agreed meeting time, Jason arrived at his destination.
The **** Club was old and run-down.
Half the neon sign on the roof had burned out, and there was still a sticky puddle of vomit near the entrance.
The sour stench made Jason frown.
Compared to the clubs he used to frequent, this place was downright pathetic.
But in a poor neighborhood like this, dirt-cheap clubs were one of the few forms of entertainment people could afford.
A tall, heavily built Black security guard stood by the entrance.
The moment he saw Jason, he stepped forward.
“Hey, man. Wanna see some strippers? Ten bucks.”
Jason nodded, pulled out some cash, and handed it over.
The guard opened the door and gestured for him to enter.
The building looked terrible from the outside, but the interior was surprisingly large, six or seven hundred square meters at least.
Booths and a bar lined the outer walls, while an oval dance floor occupied the center.
Several average looking strippers twisted around poles beneath flashing colored lights, moving to the pounding music and showing off their bodies.
Small round stools surrounded the stage.
Men crowded onto them, waving dollar bills in the air in hopes of catching a dancer’s attention.
Business was booming.
The place was packed everywhere Jason looked, and the music was so loud that anyone trying to talk had to shout.
Jason couldn’t spot Franklin.
So he logged into Facebook and sent him a private message.
“I’m at the club. Where are you?”
Franklin replied, “Booth straight across from the entrance.”
Jason headed deeper inside.
Sure enough, in a quiet corner, he found Franklin drinking alone.
Green hoodie.
Gray shorts.
White sneakers.
Combined with his old-fashioned haircut, the outfit was so distinctive that Franklin still stood out even in a packed club.
Jason walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
Franklin looked up blankly.
His expression clearly said, ‘Who the hell are you?’
A few seconds later, realization struck.
“Bullshit! Man, you really were fucking with me. You ain’t Jason!”
Jason didn’t argue.
He simply leaned forward, pulled open his collar, and revealed a hideous scar near his chest.
It was a gunshot wound.
And it sat dangerously close to his heart.
It was also the only scar Jason had ever publicly shown on Facebook.
Franklin had even reposted the picture once, calling it ‘a real man’s tattoo.’
The moment Franklin saw the scar with his own eyes, his expression shifted. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Confusion.
Thought.
Shock.
Then pure excitement.
“You really Jason? Then why the hell you look like—”
Jason released his collar and raised a finger to his lips.
“If you had thirteen million dollars on your head, you’d change your face too.”
Franklin understood instantly.
He shot to his feet, so excited that his words started tumbling over one another.
“Oh my God!”
“Man, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you!”
“I… Can I get a picture with you? Oh, shit, right—you can’t do that right now.”
“You know, I been a fan of yours since middle school. Everybody in my class liked those big-ass Hollywood action stars, but I knew those dudes were all soft.”
“Guys like you? Coming up from nothing, killing people, having people try to kill you, fighting your way through a mountain of bodies just to make it to the top? That’s a real man.”
…
Franklin got more and more excited until he completely lost track of what he was even talking about.
“Damn! What the hell am I saying?” He stopped himself, then finally blurted out the real question.
“I just wanna know… can I roll with you? Be one of your guys?”
The smile disappeared from Jason’s face.
He looked Franklin directly in the eyes.
“Right now, I’ve got nothing. No money. No guns. No crew. Kingpin wants me dead, and the government put a bounty on me. You sure you still want in?”
Franklin didn’t hesitate for even a second.
He thumped a fist against his chest.
“Working for you, fighting beside you, that’s been my dream for years. Even if it costs me my life, I’m in.”
Jason studied the determination in his eyes and nodded in satisfaction.
“All right. Starting today, you’re with me.”
“YES!” Franklin pumped his fist excitedly.
He nearly punched a stripper walking past.
“Oh!”
“Shit, sorry! Sorry!” He hurriedly apologized.
The stripper waved it off like it was nothing, then immediately slipped back into her usual sales pitch.
“Well, handsome, since you’ve got all that energy… how about a private dance? Only five hundred dollars.” The woman had dark skin and a killer figure.
Exactly Franklin’s type.
Unfortunately, Franklin didn’t have a job.
His only real source of income was stealing.
Five hundred dollars for a single dance might as well have been five thousand.
Jason noticed the struggle on Franklin’s face.
Smiling, he pulled a thick stack of cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.
“One girl’s boring.” He leaned back in his seat.
“Go get your friends. Take good care of my boy.”