A month had passed since I completed Jessica and Kara's relationship mission.
Things had been relatively quiet since then. I spent the time hunting down more of Tombstone's men and even eliminated another lieutenant. Tombstone was barking like a rabid dog over the steady loss of his men, completely oblivious to the fact that the man responsible was the very same "little taxi driver" blackmailed into running drugs.
Of course, I hadn't forgotten about Robert either. With Vincent's help, I targeted the low-level cops on Tombstone's payroll. I eliminated a few and made their deaths look like collateral damage from gang shootouts. As for a few others, I planted evidence—some fabricated, some genuine—to put the most troublesome away for good, including one of the detectives.
Naturally, Tombstone retaliated by tearing through several rival gangs, convinced they were targeting his men. Ironically, the campaign only drained his resources further.
But finally, something interesting was on the horizon. Reina had taken my suggestion seriously. After the Iron Serpent MC's recent losses, she decided it was finally time for the club to retire. She called a meeting to discuss the transition and, unexpectedly, invited me.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. "Looks like everyone's already here."
A standard meeting room, with a long table dominating the center and a projector screen mounted at the front. The lights had been dimmed, leaving the projector to cast a pale glow across the room. Reina sat at the head of the table. Isabella and Valeria sat to her right. To her left sat an empty chair, then Ramon and Mateo. Javier stood beside the projector screen, clearly preparing to lead the meeting.
"Sit," Reina said, glancing my way before turning her attention back to the screen.
I dapped Ramon as I walked past.
"You're late," Isabella whispered as I pulled out the chair beside Valeria.
"Nope, right on time," I replied with a cheeky smirk, flashing my phone screen as proof. Isabella furrowed her brow but remained silent as the meeting began. I gave her a quick wink and looked ahead. If she expected me to show up early just to kiss the ring like the rest of them, she was in for a rude awakening.
"Since everyone is here, we can start." Javier pressed a button on the projector remote.
A photo of a buff man wearing a sleeveless leather jacket appeared on the screen. Snake tattoos covered his muscular arms, while messy blond hair and a thick mustache completed the look.
"This is Victor Brown, also known as Iron Serpent," Javier said. His gaze swept across the room before he tilted his head slightly toward me. "As you may have guessed, the Iron Serpent MC takes its name from him."
I gave him an appreciative nod. That explanation was clearly meant for my benefit.
"Next, we have his five lieutenants, known as the Vipers," Javier said, clicking the remote again. "Each handles one of the MC's five main operations."
I immediately recognized the first man on the screen. A large red cross had been superimposed over his face. He was the first Iron Serpent lieutenant I had killed.
"This is Derek Watson, who was in charge of the weed business. After his death, that side of the operation slowed down significantly, and a temporary replacement has been put in charge for now."
The slide changed, revealing a woman whose face bore the same red cross.
"This is Amanda Watson. She handled the counterfeit-cash operation and was Derek's sister. A temporary replacement has taken over her duties as well."
The next slide showed a Black man with short hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He looked remarkably strong, with the broad, functional physique of a fighter rather than someone who just pumped weights at the gym. A strong jawline and high cheekbones gave him a naturally stern expression. A faint scar ran from the outer edge of his right eyebrow toward his temple, ending almost beneath his hairline.
"Malik Harris, ex-military," Javier said. "He runs the cocaine operation and helps the MC procure illegal military-grade weapons. He and Victor have been friends since childhood. After being dishonorably discharged for selling seized weapons through unofficial channels, he joined Victor's crew."
So that's how those fuckers got their hands on the miniguns.
Valeria shifted in her seat, her eyes narrowing at the screen. "Harris is a problem. Harris is a problem. The hardware he supplies gives the MC its edge. His personal crew operates more like a private military unit than a gang of thugs."
The others nodded in agreement.
The image changed again, this time revealing a Black woman with an athletic, muscular frame. High cheekbones accentuated her sharp features, softened only by full lips curved into a knowing smirk. Her hair was braided into neat cornrows, the lengths gathered into a ponytail.
"Sofia Grant. She oversees document forgery and transportation. No one in the MC knows the city's routes better than she does, and she personally handles most high-value deliveries with her crew."
The final lieutenant appeared on the screen, looking drastically different from the others. He was scrawny and sickly pale, with deep shadows beneath his eyes—the textbook image of a drug addict. His greasy, dark-blond hair looked like it hadn't seen shampoo in years, and an equally unkempt beard hung from his jaw.
Ramon snorted. "He looks like a twig."
"Edward Baker. He has a master's degree in organic chemistry," Javier explained. "He runs the meth operation. He spends most of his time high, once lost consciousness after taking a single punch, and, ironically, doesn't even ride a motorcycle. Despite all that, he holds the rank of lieutenant because his meth is the purest in the region—possibly even the entire state. Even the heavy hitters in NYC can't replicate his product. That makes meth the MC's most profitable operation."
Javier advanced to the next image. The man on the screen appeared to be in his late thirties, with slicked-back blond hair and a crisp dark-blue suit and tie. He looked more like an investment banker than a street-level gangster. His oval face was clean-shaven, and though he lacked the Vipers' obvious bulk, he was clearly fit.
"Edmund Finch," Javier announced. "The MC's accountant and Victor's right-hand man. He isn't a lieutenant, but Victor trusts him more than anyone. Every penny the MC earns passes through him. Finch controls their shell companies, hidden accounts, investments, payroll, and bribe funds. The rest of the club barely understands the financial structure he built, let alone how to operate it without him. The Iron Serpent MC would never have reached its current position without his help."
"If he goes down, the entire MC is paralyzed," Isabella said.
"Exactly." Javier advanced the slide. "Next is the MC's external support network."
The next image showed an older man with thinning white hair and a neatly trimmed white mustache. His face and neck were deeply lined, but his suit fit impeccably. The photograph had caught him mid-laugh, a glass of champagne in one hand.
"Nathaniel Briggs, owner of the largest construction firm in the city," Javier said. "His companies provide the MC's primary money-laundering channels, while Finch oversees the financial structure behind them. He has enough money and influence to use the MC as his personal muscle. Over the years, several of his corporate rivals have mysteriously vanished, allowing his company to absorb their contracts and expand until he became one of the wealthiest men in the state." Javier paused for emphasis, then added, "Officially, the man has never committed a single crime."
The next man was a fat cop in full uniform. He had short brown hair and a broad, square face. His uniform strained across a heavy gut. A stern expression sat on his square face.
"Nathan Banks," Javier continued. "He is captain of the precinct covering the heart of the MC's territory. He's corrupt, but he operates differently from your average dirty cop. Banks has one non-negotiable rule: the MC cannot indiscriminately target civilians in his jurisdiction. If they cause too much collateral damage, the deal is off. In return for their restraint, he keeps patrols away from their operations, redirects active investigations, and arranges for honest detectives to be transferred elsewhere."
The next slide revealed a man in his early thirties dressed in a sharply tailored black suit. He had short black hair, a clean-shaven face, and a steady gaze that radiated practiced authority.
"Councilman Richard Hale," Javier continued. "He has traded favors involving liquor licenses, zoning approvals, lucrative city contracts, and major redevelopment projects. He never accepts direct cash bribes. Instead, his political action committees receive massive, 'anonymous' donations. Our intelligence confirms that the MC is assembling a major war chest for his mayoral campaign."
"If they put a puppet in the mayor's office, every city agency becomes another weapon against us," Mateo said grimly.
"Which brings us to their last line of defense," Javier said, switching to the final image.
The final image showed a woman in her late thirties, her blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. She wore conservative corporate attire and minimal makeup, every detail of her appearance carefully controlled. Her gaze was sharp, focused, and utterly uncompromising.
"County Prosecutor Gloria Walker," Javier stated. "To the media, she is the city's fiercest crusader against organized crime. She has personally prosecuted dozens of our cartel soldiers and put them behind bars. However, she and Victor have a history. Neither is currently married, and rumors persist that they are still secretly involved. Those rumors carry weight because every major case against the Iron Serpent leadership mysteriously collapses. Warrants are found defective, chains of custody break, witnesses disappear, and crucial evidence is ruled inadmissible. None of the failures can be traced directly to her, but the result is always the same: the case collapses before the Iron Serpent leadership can be convicted."
Javier pulled out the empty chair beside Reina and sat down. Every eye in the room shifted toward her.
"For a long time, Newark's underworld has been jointly controlled by the three factions," Reina said, her expression unreadable. "But if the rumors are true and the Iron Serpent MC has Roxxon's backing—even indirectly—then that balance is already broken."
Isabella nodded grimly. "If the other members gain powers as Amanda did, we're finished."
"My people have been keeping tabs on the MC's core members," Valeria added. "None of them have exhibited superhuman abilities so far, though a lack of evidence proves nothing."
"They could be keeping it under wraps until they're ready to strike," Mateo pointed out.
"Possible," Valeria conceded.
I interjected. "Based on what I extracted from Amanda, I don't think Roxxon's technology is stable enough to enhance the entire club yet safely. If they had that capability, they'd already have an army of superhumans marching through the streets."
"What if Amanda was lying?" Isabella asked.
"Always a possibility," I admitted. "Though given the state she was in during the interrogation, I doubt she had the presence of mind to weave an elaborate cover story."
Reina cut off the debate. "Regardless of their capabilities, they are becoming a threat we can no longer ignore. Left unchecked, they will wipe us out and claim Newark for themselves."
"What are your orders, Madrina?" Ramon leaned forward, visibly eager for action.
"Since temporary replacements are still holding two Viper positions, we strike those operations before the MC can stabilize them," Reina declared. "Specifically, we destroy their weed and counterfeiting operations. However, the cartel's hand must remain hidden. They can suspect us, but we cannot give them definitive proof. I will not gamble our people's lives on a direct war while Roxxon may be standing behind them."
"Leave it to me, Madrina," Valeria offered. "They won't even see it coming." She glanced at Ramon. "Sorry, Ramon, but this requires a ghost, not a sledgehammer."
Ramon sighed, crossing his arms. "Carajo… Fine."
"You won't be able to do it alone, Valeria," Reina countered. "We can't give them time to react or send reinforcements. Both operations must be dismantled simultaneously."
Valeria frowned slightly, then nodded crisply. "Understood, Madrina. I'll have my team handle the second location."
"Why don't you let me handle the second location?" I offered, leaning back in my chair.
Valeria raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with skepticism. "You? I admit you're an expert behind the wheel, chico, but stealth and tactical infiltration are a completely different game."
I offered a dry smile. "Who says I can't do stealth?" I turned my attention away from her and met Reina's gaze directly. "What do you say, Ms. Reina?"
Reina studied me in silence for several long seconds. "Fine," she agreed. "You take the weed farm. Valeria takes the counterfeiting facility." She raised a hand, cutting off Valeria before she could object.
"Consider it done," I said with a confident grin. I pushed my chair back, stood up, and headed for the door.
—
It was late at night, and the street looked utterly deserted. A few flickering streetlights barely cut through the darkness, making the block look like the opening scene of a horror movie.
I stepped out of my black luxury sedan, parked around the corner, holding a large pizza box. I pulled my hood over a cap worn low, leaving most of my face in shadow. Balancing the box, I walked up to a door barely visible in the dim light and knocked.
Faint, cautious murmurs drifted from the other side, though the voices were too muffled to make out what they were saying. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a broad-shouldered man with a bandana tied across his forehead. I didn't need a sixth sense to know the hand he kept tucked behind his back was resting on a gun.
"Who are you?" the guy demanded, scanning me up and down. "What do you want?"
I flashed my best corporate customer-service smile. "Pizza delivery. One large pepperoni, still piping hot."
"No one ordered a pizza here," the thug growled, peering past my shoulder to check the empty street for anyone lurking in the shadows.
"Listen, man," I sighed, injecting a heavy dose of late-night exhaustion into my voice. "This is the address on the order. Maybe one of your boys inside ordered it? Why don't you ask? Just make it quick—I've got three more runs to finish before my shift ends."
The thug narrowed his eyes. Keeping one hand behind his back, he cautiously lifted the lid. The savory aroma of freshly baked pizza wafted out into the cool night air. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He glanced back over his shoulder toward a second thug standing deeper in the hallway. The second man nodded and headed farther inside to check.
The second the bandana thug looked away, I moved.
In a single, fluid motion, I pulled a handle-less throwing knife from my inventory. I sliced the bandana thug's throat in one clean swipe, then snapped my wrist and sent the blade across the threshold. The knife flew straight and true and buried itself in the back of the second thug's skull before he could take two steps.
The heavy drone of industrial ventilation fans inside completely muffled the thuds of the two bodies hitting the floor. I slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind me. I set the pizza box on a nearby table and moved silently toward a pair of double doors on my right. I eased one door open and peered through the gap.
A sea of cannabis plants filled the massive warehouse from wall to wall, their leaves shimmering beneath rows of violet-tinted LED grow lights. The ventilation units hummed relentlessly through the humid air, which reeked of damp soil and fresh cannabis. Thick metal ducts and tangled wiring crisscrossed the ceiling, while irrigation lines snaked between the rows across the concrete floor. Long, narrow aisles stretched between neatly aligned pots, giving the illicit operation the cold, methodical precision of an industrial production line.
A glance at my minimap confirmed that six hostiles remained inside. Four were moving through the aisles, inspecting rows of mature plants that looked ready for harvest. The other two were stationed farther back in the facility.
I pulled on my plain, featureless white mask and slipped into the shadows behind the leftmost guard—the red dot farthest from the group. I closed the distance without a sound, clamped one hand over his mouth, and drew my blade across his throat. He thrashed frantically in my grip for a few brief seconds before going limp. I lowered his body to the concrete floor without making a sound.
One by one, I picked off the remaining three guards. They never even heard me coming.
With the main floor cleared, I moved toward the back room where the last two targets were stationed. One was sealing dried cannabis into vacuum-packed bags, while the other sat with his feet up, completely absorbed in his phone.
I threw two knives in rapid succession. Both knives struck cleanly, killing the final two Iron Serpent guards before either could react.
I moved toward the office at the back of the warehouse, where the last two targets were stationed. A bank of security monitors displayed live feeds from across the facility, but the dead guard had been too busy scrolling to notice his crew disappearing one by one. I sat at the console, disabled the surveillance system, deleted the local recordings, and physically destroyed the storage drives.
Next, I pulled several C4 charges from my inventory—courtesy of the cartel's armory. I wasn't a professional demolition expert, so I planned to overcompensate with raw firepower. However, the moment I began preparing the demolition, my system HUD updated.
When Reina assigned the job, the system had logged it as a new mission. The listed reward was only a lump-sum cash payment, apparently mirroring whatever Reina intended to pay me. But because "Demolish Facility" was a primary objective, bright markers appeared across several support columns, showing me exactly where to place the charges.
I only needed four charges. I fixed the four charges to the marked supports, then emptied several jerrycans over the harvested cannabis, packaged stock, and cultivation equipment. I rigged a delayed igniter, retrieved the pizza box, and walked out through the front door without looking back.
I got back into my sedan, drove a few blocks away, and pulled into a dark alley. Using the dashboard controls, I activated the car's disguise system. Its gloss-black finish faded to silver-gray, and the rotating plate locked onto a new number. I returned to the main road and parked a safe distance away, keeping the warehouse in view through the windshield.
I pulled out my phone and shot off a quick text: It's done.
No immediate reply. About five minutes passed before my ringtone broke the silence.
"Yo," I answered.
Silence hung on the line for a few seconds. When Valeria finally spoke, irritation dripped from her voice. "You won."
I smirked. Valeria hadn't believed I could pull off a solo infiltration without triggering an alarm, so we'd wagered who could dismantle their target first.
"Whatever. Let's finish this," Valeria muttered.
"Countdown from three." I smiled and armed the detonator.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
BOOM!
The instant I said "one," both sets of charges detonated. Twin explosions rolled across the streets, rattling nearby windows and hurling columns of flame into the night sky.
"And don't forget our bet," I teased, watching the smoke rise. "I expect my reward."
Valeria let out a long sigh through the speaker. "I know, I know."
I laughed softly. "Good. Meet me at the rendezvous—I'm bringing pizza."
—
The weekend came and went, and before I knew it, Monday had arrived.
Technically, I was supposed to be back on campus today. However, I had only one lecture scheduled, and even that was canceled because the professor was on leave. With my schedule completely clear, I decided to stay in Newark for another day.
Naturally, Old Man Kenji viewed my free time as an invitation to treat me like his personal, unpaid errand boy. He handed me a signed cheque and sent me to the bank to withdraw the cash.
So here I was, trapped in a painfully slow line, quietly regretting every life choice as I waited for my turn at the teller counter.
I figured it would be a perfectly ordinary, painfully boring afternoon.
Then someone kicked open the front doors, and the room erupted into chaos.
"Everyone on the ground! Right fucking now!"
Well, I thought, suppressing a sigh as the screaming started. How the hell did a boring afternoon suddenly turn into an action movie?