Boom!
The black car shot forward, smashing through the industrial park's gate fence and skidding hard onto the main road. Simon clung to the handrail, his body swaying so violently his vision blurred; if it weren't for a soldier's conditioning, he probably would've thrown up right there in the car.
He glanced back—police cars were still glued to their tail, sirens screaming, which made his chest tighten. Forcing himself to stay calm, he said in a low voice, "Dove, where are your people? Where's Baba Yaga? Where's Leon? Call them in. The two of us aren't shaking these cops alone!"
Neither Baba Yaga nor Leon were exactly known for subtle acting.
Luca, gripping the wheel with rough precision, let out a cold snort. "Shut the hell up. I've got this. If you want to live, keep your mouth shut."
Da-da-da-da-da!
Bullets rained down like a summer hailstorm, hammering the car. The sharp impacts made Simon's brow twitch; one thing he didn't want to admit was that his life now depended entirely on Luca. If Luca stopped, he was dead.
But Luca didn't stop.
Through the storm of gunfire, Simon stole a glance at him. There was no panic on Luca's face—only razor-sharp focus. The violent drift snapped Simon's attention forward again, and he realized they had reached a bridge.
Below it flowed the Hudson River, cutting through Albany, passing Newburgh and West Point, and eventually spilling into the sea beside the Statue of Liberty. The river itself looked calm, almost peaceful—but the bridge was anything but.
Police cars had sealed off both ends. Hobbs's pursuit team closed in from behind, while officers blocked the front. Tigers ahead, wolves behind—no escape.
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Luca suddenly jerked the wheel. The car spun sideways, blocking the road.
Then Luca kicked open the door.
"Move. Follow me."
Simon stared at him, stunned, but instinct took over and he jumped out, chasing after Luca. The moment he saw Luca vault toward the railing, his face went pale.
"This is your escape plan?!"
"You can swim back to New York from here!"
"Swim—? Are you kidding me?!"
"Relax," Luca shot back. "No sharks down there."
And with that, he leaped.
Luca's body cut through the air and plunged straight into the river.
Behind him, the police were already closing in. Simon gritted his teeth, climbed onto the guardrail, and prepared to jump—
Bang!
A shot rang out from a police car behind him. The bullet struck Simon clean in the thigh, throwing off his balance. His body twisted awkwardly, and he dropped into the river like someone who'd just tried dynamite fishing and regretted it instantly.
John McClane jumped out of his car, gun still in hand, and sprinted toward the bridge. From there, he saw a speedboat racing in from the distance, scooping Luca and Simon out of the water before tearing off again—right under the noses of the police.
Hobbs watched the boat disappear into the distance, narrowing his eyes. "They came prepared. So what's the plan if Luca actually runs off with Simon—and the rest of the gold?"
"Not happening," McClane said immediately. "Dove's roots are in New York. A guy like him isn't ditching everything to become a wanted criminal. You don't know him, Hobbs—he's not the type to sell his principles for money."
"That's hundreds of billions in gold."
"He already handed over a ton of intel and even volunteered to act as our informant."
McClane was about to argue further, but when he turned and saw Hobbs's faint, knowing smile, it clicked.
"…We're really committing to this act, huh? You're playing along pretty well, big guy."
"I trust the NYPD and the FBI more than I trust Luca," Hobbs replied, turning away. "The stage is set. No outsiders to interfere. Now we wait for the performance. If Luca still can't earn Simon's trust and locate the remaining gold… then we bring Simon in for interrogation."
That, however, was not Hobbs's preferred outcome. Once Simon sat at the bargaining table, he could use the gold as leverage to make outrageous demands. Hobbs wanted this resolved fast.
McClane shrugged. "I've never seen anyone better at making friends than Dove. He'll pull it off."
---
Leon was at the wheel of the speedboat.
After picking Luca and Simon up, they sped away from Newburgh, made a brief stop along the way, and eventually reached a safe house in a small town outside New York.
Simon had taken a bullet to the thigh and spent time in the river; by the time they arrived, he looked pale and weak. Still, he insisted on removing the bullet without anesthesia.
Luca grabbed a pair of tweezers from the sofa and smirked. "Afraid you'll fall asleep and never wake up?"
Only the two of them remained in the room. Simon's face was as pale as a corpse pulled from water, but he still managed a faint, self-deprecating smile.
"Honestly, I'm so exhausted I could pass out even without anesthesia. But now's not the time. I need a clear head. Pain reminds me I'm still alive. Go ahead."
Over the years, Luca had dug more bullets out of bodies than he could count—his own included. For someone in his line of work, getting shot was practically part of the job. The extraction itself was quick; the real pain came from disinfecting the wound afterward.
Even so, Simon didn't scream.
When Luca finished bandaging the wound and looked up, Simon's face was drenched in sweat, yet he still forced a weak grin.
"Not bad. You're faster than my medics. Ever consider switching careers?"
"Guess pain really does sharpen the mind," Luca said dryly.
"I'm serious," Simon replied, then let out a short laugh. "The Federation already traced your refinery. You're in trouble. They won't let you walk."
He paused, then added, "But we're not out yet. We still have enough gold to buy a country. If we get it out of the U.S., we could go to Africa—arm a nation, build something new."
"That's your goal?" Luca raised an eyebrow. "You robbed the Federal Reserve just to go play landlord in Africa?"
"Let me correct that," Simon said, his gaze sharpening. "I didn't steal Western gold to create another Western puppet."
He looked straight at Luca.
"You think I'm just some greedy criminal hiding behind a uniform? No. I'm a soldier of the German Democratic Republic. I was then, and I still am."
Luca's eyelid twitched.
The Berlin Wall had already fallen—and this guy was still fighting that war?
He suddenly remembered: Simon had been an East German officer who went underground after reunification, later becoming a mercenary leader. East Germany had been socialist; West Germany had not. When the Wall fell, East Germany was absorbed, and the country was unified.
Simon smirked faintly. "You wouldn't get it, Dove. I'm a soldier. You might call yourself one, but what do you fight for? The Mafia only believes in family. No country. No ideals."
Luca let out a quiet laugh. "I don't pretend to be noble. What you see is what you get. But you? You talk about ideals, yet you abandoned your post and ran west. Sounds like betrayal to me."
"That doesn't apply to me!" Simon snapped. "At least when your people were selling bulldozers to West Germany, I was still guarding the east side of the Berlin Wall!"
"And you still lost," Luca said flatly. "Your 'faith' was just a bad bet at the table. You're fighting for memories. Me? I deal in reality. If you want that gold, you'd better learn to shake hands with the devil first."
Simon laughed. "Typical Mafia logic. Everything has a price."
"You don't even know who I am, and you're inviting me to Africa?"
"If there's a price, we can talk," Simon said. "Right now, you're more reliable than my own brother. If Hans and I ran together, he'd throw me to the wolves without hesitation—use me as a shield, then walk away. Hell, he wouldn't even pull the bullet out—he'd probably aim the gun himself."
He chuckled bitterly. "Guess that's what happens when two brothers grow up on opposite sides of the Berlin Wall."
Hans Gruber—Simon's brother—had been thrown off a building by McClane years ago in Los Angeles.
Maybe it was the blood loss, but Simon's guard dropped. He started talking about Hans, about the Wall, about how it didn't just divide countries—it split families, loyalties, entire lives.
Luca listened, genuinely surprised. There was more depth here than he expected.
"You know why I'm listening?" Luca said, sitting across from him and popping an Oreo into his mouth. "Because I've heard stories like yours before. I get it."
As Luca spoke, recounting fragments of similar stories from memory, Simon's expression slowly changed—confusion, nostalgia, even a trace of empathy.
"…You're Italian-American, right?" Simon asked. "The Mafia doesn't take outsiders."
"I just like learning about different cultures," Luca shrugged. "There aren't many countries with stories like yours. Hard not to know them."
Simon let out a short laugh. "Never thought I'd hear that from a Mafia guy."
"Don't generalize."
"Fair enough."
Luca leaned back slightly. "If what you're saying is true… then I respect you. You're a fighter. Like dragging the corpse of a Siberian bear across frozen ground—you're still moving forward, still swinging. Hell, you actually gave Uncle Sam a black eye. That's a stunt most people only dream about but never have the stones to pull off
---
For a brief moment, Luca fell silent.
Simon, meanwhile, swallowed an aspirin and spoke again. "I used to have comrades… now they're tightening bolts in a Mercedes factory. I didn't even know until I read it in a Frankfurt newspaper—former officers, reduced to assembly-line workers."
He let out a bitter breath.
"The West said East Germany was garbage, something that should've disappeared long ago. Even our currency wasn't worth circulating. We used to think freedom meant grabbing whatever we wanted off supermarket shelves. Now? We don't even have the right to be remembered."
"My friend Targo—you met him—he wants to dump all this gold into the ocean. Reset the world. That's insane. I don't want World War III. I just want a path forward for people who lost everything when East Germany disappeared."
Luca smirked. "Sounds like a Hollywood script. You'd be the hero, and the Federation would be the villain."
"Hollywood couldn't write this in a million years," Simon muttered, popping another aspirin. "Dove… I'm sorry about earlier. You're a decent guy. You saved my life. I won't forget that. I don't expect us to be on the same side—but help me one more time. Help me get the gold out of America."
'You can't take it,' Luca thought, meeting his gaze. 'No matter what you say, I won't let that gold leave.'
He smiled faintly. "Honestly, I don't even want to be involved anymore. I've got enough problems as it is."
Then he added, almost casually, "But it wasn't just the Berlin Wall that came down—you knocked down something in me too. Stories like yours… they stick."
Simon looked at him. "So you'll help?"
"I'm not interested in your African ambitions," Luca said. "I just like your story. Think of it as me paying for it. Maybe one day you'll write a memoir—I'd read it."
He stood up.
"Get some rest. You're safe here for now. I'll figure out how to deal with the gold."
"…Thank you," Simon said quietly.
Luca paused at the door, then waved a hand without turning around. "Save the rest of the Berlin Wall story for later."
[Bond: Friends]
The bond indicator glowed brighter, but Luca's expression grew deeper, harder to read. Stepping outside, he pulled out his phone and called Jimmy.
"Where's Yuri right now?"
Yuri was the kind of man with no principles whatsoever—a guy who could buy weapons at one border and sell them to the next war zone without blinking.
Luca was about to meet the so-called Lord of War.
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As usual, each 100 Stones = 2 Bonus Chapters