The semi truck carrying fifty two high-end motorcycles sped down a road on the outskirts of the city at sixty miles per hour.
Far behind it, a Honda S2,000 followed at a distance.
━━━━━ QUEST ━━━━━
[Biker Heist]
A true villain never lets easy profit slip through his fingers.
Take out the Biker Gang and steal the motorcycles they worked so hard to steal.
🎁 Reward: 1,000 Villain Points
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Franklin kept one hand on the steering wheel.
“Boss, when do we make our move?”
Jason pulled an M4A1 carbine from the back seat.
“Right now. There aren’t many cars out here. Once we hit the highway, there’ll be too many witnesses and things will get messy.”
He raised himself slightly out of his seat and rested the rifle against the top of the windshield.
This was where having a convertible came in handy.
“Keep the car steady.”
Franklin gripped the wheel with both hands and did his best to minimize the shaking.
Jason narrowed his eyes and aimed at the semi’s rear tires.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
A tight three round burst tore through one of the rear tires.
The tire blew instantly, and the massive truck began swerving violently.
Screeeeech!
A piercing squeal of brakes echoed across the road.
Smoke poured from the tires as the driver fought the truck over to the shoulder and brought it to a stop.
Jason lowered the rifle.
“Slow down. Ease us closer.”
Franklin lightly tapped the brakes, gradually reducing their speed.
Inside the truck’s cab, two members of the Biker Gang grabbed shotguns and climbed out to inspect the damage.
“Shit! We blew a tire.”
The driver cursed and said, “We’ve got a jack and a spare in the truck. Get them out and let’s change it. We can’t afford to lose any time.”
Everyone in the Biker Gang knew their way around vehicles.
Working together, the two men replaced the tire in just five minutes.
By then, Franklin was slowly driving toward them.
Jason leaned his head out of the car.
“Hey, guys. Need a hand?”
“Fuck off! Mind your own business.” One of the bikers tightened his grip on his shotgun threateningly.
Jason gave him an awkward grin and ducked back into the car.
The instant the two men turned away, Jason opened the glove compartment and pulled out a Glock 20.
Before either biker could react, he rapidly squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The bullets shattered the bones around their elbows and buried themselves in muscle.
Their arms went limp.
The shotguns clattered onto the pavement.
“Fuck!” One of the bikers cursed and turned to run.
Jason casually raised the pistol and fired once.
The bullet struck the back of the man’s head dead center.
[Killed one member of the Biker Gang. +100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1,915/4,000.]
Jason’s marksmanship immediately killed any thoughts the driver had of running away.
The man dropped to his knees and began pleading.
“Please! Please don’t kill me!”
Jason climbed out of the car and looked at Franklin.
“Franklin, you’ve never gotten your hands bloody before, have you?”
By “bloody,” he meant killing someone.
Franklin shook his head.
“If you’re going to be a gangster, you’ll never grow until you’ve crossed that line. This one’s yours.”
Jason wanted Franklin to do it partly to toughen him up.
But he also wanted to test something.
Franklin gave him a strange look.
Jason smirked mockingly.
“Scared?”
Franklin spread his hands, looking wronged.
“Boss, you could at least give me a gun.”
Jason pulled a military knife from his pocket and tossed it to him.
“Killing someone with a gun isn’t half as intense as using this. Go on.”
Franklin drew the knife.
Moonlight reflected from its razor-sharp edge, giving the blade an icy gleam.
He silently psyched himself up, then kicked the driver onto the ground.
Franklin drove the knife through the man’s back and into his heart.
“Aaaaagh!”
The driver didn’t die immediately.
He began thrashing violently.
Franklin dropped onto his back, yanked the knife free, and stabbed it into the back of his neck.
Again.
And again.
Seven stabs in total.
By the end, the man’s head was almost severed from his body, and blood bubbled from the mangled wound at the back of his neck.
The driver struggled for another few moments before finally going still.
His blood spread across the asphalt, staining the road crimson.
[Accomplice “Franklin Clinton” killed one member of the Biker Gang. +100 Villain Points. Current progress: 2,015/4,000.]
Jason had guessed correctly.
Any Villain Points earned by his Accomplices were credited to his account in full.
By the same logic, any Notoriety they earned should also count toward his own.
Franklin stood up.
Blood was splattered across his face, and his breathing had grown rapid.
Jason, standing beside him, calmly critiqued his performance.
“Too sloppy. You looked like some street punk hacking away in an alley. Remember to practice more.”
He delivered the horrifying assessment as casually as if he were commenting on Franklin’s driving.
There was no time to let Franklin collect himself.
They dragged the bodies into the grass beside the road and got moving again.
Franklin drove the semi truck in front, while Jason followed in the Honda S2,000, keeping roughly half a mile between them.
Jason raised the convertible roof and called Mr.
Moran while driving.
“Well, well! Mr. Fifteen Million Dollar Man. How’ve you been lately?”
“Can’t complain. What about you?”
Mr.
Moran chuckled.
“Thanks to you, New York’s entire underworld is scared shitless. Every gang in the city, big or small, has started stockpiling supplies because they’re terrified a walking disaster like you might show up on their doorstep.”
“Handguns, rifles, heavy machine guns, grenades, land mines, body armor… sales of every weapon and piece of protective gear have skyrocketed. My business has nearly tripled lately.”
“Congratulations. I’ve got another deal for you.”
“What kind of deal?”
“A batch of high-end motorcycles.”
“Oh my God! Don’t tell me you stole the Biker Gang’s shipment.”
Aside from dealing weapons, Mr.
Moran also traded in information.
He immediately connected the dots with a piece of intel he’d heard recently.
Jason was impressed.
“That’s a black-market dealer for you. You really do hear about everything.”
“Jason, are you seriously planning to wipe out every gang in New York?”
“I don’t care about New York’s gangs. I care about money. Whoever has something valuable becomes my target.” Jason paused.
“That includes you, by the way.”
“Oh my God! You really are insane.”
Without Kingpin’s chain around his neck, Jason had become a lion unleashed from its cage.
Hungry.
Wounded.
Savage.
And willing to devour anything unlucky enough to cross his path.
The winds over New York might truly be changing.
Mr.
Moran felt a headache coming on.
He was getting old.
He didn’t have the energy for this kind of chaos anymore.
All he wanted was to quietly conduct his business and make money.
“Well? Say something. Do you want the shipment or not? If you don’t, I’ll call someone else.”
“I want it! Of course I want it! Like you said, you can afford to make enemies with people, but never with money.”
“Good. Fifty two high-end motorcycles, estimated value five million dollars. Make me an offer.”
Jason shamelessly inflated the price without so much as blinking.
“Heh heh heh…”
There was a sly edge to Mr.
Moran’s laughter.
“Jason, you’re really trying to hustle me? According to my information, the entire shipment isn’t worth a cent over four million.”
Jason feigned surprise.
“Really? Guess my appraiser isn’t very good. Fine, let’s call it four million. We’ve known each other for years, after all.”
Mr.
Moran didn’t bother arguing over it.
That was business.
The seller named an outrageous price, the buyer countered with an equally outrageous one.
“One million.”
“What the fuck?!” Jason felt his temper flare.
“Hot vehicles go for half their market value. That’s the rule of the business! You old bastard, do you think I’m some rookie who started doing this yesterday? Or do you think Jason Walter’s fallen so far that you can kick me while I’m down?”
Mr.
Moran remained perfectly calm.
“Half price is the usual rule, yes. But these belong to the Biker Gang.”
“If I buy this shipment, I’m effectively making myself their enemy. And if someone manages to trace even the slightest clue back to me, I’ll have a hell of a mess on my hands.”