Albany, at the city exit. The police have set up a checkpoint here, stopping and inspecting every vehicle to confirm its clearance.
The process is painfully slow, causing heavy congestion, with cars backed up in long lines stretching down the road, while drivers lean out their windows, blasting their horns and loudly cursing the government for trampling on human rights and privacy.
When Hobbs flew overhead, the scene below was pure chaos—even the roar of the helicopter blades couldn't drown out the relentless symphony of honking horns.
Seeing there was nowhere to land, he grabbed his walkie-talkie and contacted the officers on the ground handling inspections. The update came back quickly: no garbage trucks had left the city, and all fourteen were still somewhere inside. The police were scrambling to pull surveillance footage to track them down.
But this wasn't exactly a surveillance-heavy era. Cameras existed, sure—but they weren't widespread, and government-run monitoring systems were limited at best. Most cameras belonged to private owners.
On top of that, public backlash had been fierce—citizens protesting federal attempts to install cameras in public spaces, even going as far as smashing equipment. Freedom and privacy were sacred lines no one wanted crossed. To make matters worse, the police simply didn't have enough personnel dedicated to reviewing hours of footage.
"Hobbs, the salvage team confirmed it," one of his men reported. "They dove into the wrecked cargo ship and searched everything—just scrap metal. No gold. The gold's still on land."
Hobbs gave a calm grunt of acknowledgment, his eyes sweeping across the gridlocked roads below. A textbook 'gambit' to draw the lion out of its den—but now that the lion's onto them, where exactly do the foxes think they can run?
Meanwhile, one of those foxes had already reached a gas station on the outskirts of Newburgh. Only a single tanker truck remained; the rest had scattered in different directions. At this point, moving everything together was impossible. The only viable strategy was to spread the risk—split the cargo into multiple routes. Lose one, and the others might still survive.
Conveniently, this had been Simon's idea all along, and it aligned perfectly with Luca's intentions.
Simon stood outside the truck, phone pressed to his ear as he checked on the other transport vehicles and the intensity of the federal manhunt. The more he heard, the heavier his expression became. With the current level of scrutiny, leaving the United States was borderline impossible. Escaping alone? Easy. Escaping with mountains of gold while under nationwide surveillance? That was a fantasy.
After hanging up, Simon walked over to Luca.
"Dove, what's your plan now?" he asked. "The federal government's sealed the borders. We only slipped past Albany because of the chaos—but your tankers aren't crossing out of the U.S."
"I never planned to," Luca replied, shaking his head. "The land routes are locked down. Remember where you originally planned to move the gold?"
"The sea route?"
"Our family owns garbage transport ships. We move it as waste. We've been running that route for years—nobody bothers checking us out at sea."
"Sounds good," Simon said with a dry chuckle. "Guess I should've prepared more ships back then. If one got blown up, I'd still have backups."
Still, Simon mentally crossed that option off. Moving that much gold by sea would be like sealing himself inside a glass jar—once the Federation caught on, there'd be nowhere to run. His original plan had been far more ruthless: sacrifice pieces on the board to buy time. The shipwreck and the New York bombing had been deliberate distractions, drawing federal attention toward the ocean and away from the real operation.
It worked—but only halfway.
On top of that, the team sent after John McClane had gone completely silent. Safe to assume McClane handled them. Back then, even with a full squad of mercenaries, Simon's brother couldn't take McClane down. That thought alone made his mood sink even further.
"Where's your bomb?" Luca suddenly asked. "Something like the one at the school—we could use it to keep the Federation busy."
"The school bomb was fake," Simon replied, glancing at him. "I'm a soldier, not a monster… even if I sometimes work for a lot of them."
"Soldier…" Luca's eyes flickered.
Even the lowest-ranking Mafia members used that word. Back when the Commission established the family structure, Lucky Luciano envisioned an organization built like a military—strict hierarchy, absolute obedience. They borrowed the system wholesale and applied it to the underworld. The fact that the Mafia became the most powerful criminal network in America proved just how effective it was.
"So, what's next?" Simon asked.
"The oil refinery," Luca said. "We melt the gold down, then figure out how to move it."
Right as he finished speaking, his phone rang. Several transport trucks had deviated from their assigned routes—they weren't heading where Luca had instructed.
His eyes narrowed as he turned to Simon.
"Your people didn't follow my plan."
"I told them to split," Simon replied calmly. "If everything stays together, we all get caught. This way, some of it gets out."
"At a time like this, you're still freelancing?" Luca's voice dropped a notch. "Let me be clear—if you ignore my instructions and get caught, that's your loss. I'm still taking my cut. And I'm not sharing anything extra."
"I didn't touch your share," Simon said. "Just part of it."
Luca studied him for a moment, then smirked slightly. "Sounds like you've got more going on than you told me."
Simon's exposure hadn't been part of his original plan. Yet somehow, he still had alternative escape routes ready.
"I like having backups," Simon said with a shrug. "You can't guarantee your plan's foolproof either, can you?"
Luca laughed. The guy had the guts to rob the Federal Reserve—unheard of—and yet he was cautious to a fault.
---
New York.
Arms dealer Yuri Orlov quietly slipped out of his house again, feeding his wife and kids some excuse about a "big deal." On the drive to the port, he turned on the radio—bombings, the Federal Reserve, gold.
"That lunatic actually did it…" Yuri muttered, his hands slick with sweat on the steering wheel. "Jesus."
He had thought it was just some half-baked joke. Turns out, it was very real.
"Shit… where'd he even get the bomb?"
Yuri knew exactly what he had sold—guns, ammo, maybe a few dozen grenades. Nowhere near enough to crack open the Federal Reserve vault.
But that didn't matter anymore.
What mattered was this: Simon would need his network to move the gold out of the country. Yuri had planes, ships, paperwork—all perfectly legitimate on paper. He was, after all, a "law-abiding" private arms dealer.
Sure, he bent the rules—like selling Russian attack helicopters as "medical evacuation aircraft" to African warlords. Strip the weapons first, sell them separately, then sell the aircraft. Individually legal. Together? Not so much.
A loophole was still a loophole.
After more than a decade in the business, Yuri had transported everything—guns, diamonds, drugs. Some clients paid in whatever they had, which often meant diamonds or narcotics. Last year, a drug crackdown in New York drove prices up, and Yuri actually turned an extra profit.
Gold, though? That was new. Federal Reserve gold? That was something else entirely.
The closest thing he'd handled was a gold-plated AK—more art piece than weapon.
"Let's get the goods first…" Yuri muttered, rubbing his forehead.
Simon had promised him a cut, but Interpol was already watching him closely. They were practically at his doorstep. Smuggling this shipment wouldn't be easy.
The simplest method would be to mix the gold with weapons shipments and use official documentation. But with New York under heavy federal scrutiny and Interpol breathing down his neck, nothing about this would be simple.
---
Later that night, 22:00 PM
Police and FBI agents had cordoned off an auto repair shop in Albany.
"The good news," Denham said to Hobbs, who had just arrived, "is that we found the trucks. The bad news? The gold's gone. Simon moved it again."
Hobbs frowned and walked up to inspect one of the trucks.
"Any other leads?" he asked. "That much gold doesn't just vanish. If it's not trucks, what else could move it on land?"
Rail.
That was the only other option—and Hobbs had already accounted for it. The entire New York State rail system was under surveillance.
They exchanged all available intel—repair shop details, checkpoint reports—but came up empty. They'd checked everything: trucks, cars, anything on wheels. Nothing.
---
Not long after, Denham's phone rang.
Luca Greco.
"There's good news and bad news," Luca said.
Denham blinked. "Funny, I just said the same thing to Hobbs."
"The good news is—Simon's right next to me."
"…What?"
Denham froze, then practically shouted, "Holy crap! Dove, you found him?! Where?!"
"He came to me," Luca said casually. "Wants to work together—get his gold out of the U.S."
He added with a chuckle, "Denham, he's offering me half. Seven hundred Million. Not gonna lie—that's tempting."
"Are you insane?!" Denham snapped. "You can't touch that gold! It's not just American—half the world stores reserves there! Italy, France, United Kingdom, Japan—you name it. You take that gold, you're making enemies of entire governments!"
Luca paused. "Wait… other country too?"
"…Yes."
Luca sighed. "Yeah, okay—that's why this is good news. I'm helping you get it back."
Denham exhaled in relief. "Dove, I knew I could trust you."
"Don't celebrate yet," Luca said, munching on an Oreo. "Bad news—Simon scattered the gold. I only know where part of it is. But he wants to work with me, so I'll stay close and feed you intel. Give me time. And I'll need your cooperation to earn his trust."
Denham didn't question it. If Luca was calling and sharing this much, it meant he was on their side.
He immediately relayed everything to Hobbs.
The heavily built agent—body fat under fifteen percent—raised an eyebrow in surprise.
A Mafia guy… cooperating with the police?
Interesting.
After a brief pause, Hobbs took the phone.
"Luca," he said, "appreciate the help. What do you need from us?"
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