Twenty black-clad gangsters spilled out of the four Cadillacs, automatic rifles in hand, their faces twisted with suicidal resolve. "Die, you fucking pigs!" They roared, unloading a storm of bullets on the police line. The barrage shredded engines, blew out tires, and pinned the cops down, forcing them to cower behind their cars or crawl under chassis, praying not to catch a stray round. These weren’t men fighting to win; they were dead men walking, hell-bent on stalling the cops long enough for Fisk to slip away.
High above, Stan watched the chaos through his binoculars, his jaw tight as he tracked Fisk’s lead car vanishing into the rain-soaked night. He grabbed the satellite phone, his voice urgent. "Jason, your intel was dead-on. Fisk and the Mexican cartel showed up. I fucked up most of the cartel’s goons, but Fisk broke through, heading down the Hudson River highway."
Jason’s voice crackled back, calm and smug. "Knew you’d botch it, Stan. The DEA can’t catch that slippery bastard. Don’t sweat it—I’m already en route. If luck’s on my side, I’ll cut him off."
Stan frowned, his mind racing. New York was crawling with cops, roadblocks on every corner, hunting Jason’s crew after the prison break. "How the fuck are you moving so fast? No cop stops?"
Jason laughed, a low, mocking sound. "Every damn street’s got a checkpoint. Never seen so many pigs in my life. But we’re rolling in Long Island’s cop cars, sirens blaring. Those dumbasses think we’re responding to some crisis—they wave us through without a word."
Stan nodded, impressed despite himself. "Smart. Alright, I’m leaving Fisk to you. I’ve got a shit-ton of illegal cargo to seize here."
’Seize?’ Jason smirked, keeping the thought to himself. ’More like pocket a third of it.’ "Go make your fortune, Stan. I won’t keep you."
Stan hung up, directing the chopper toward the battlefield below. The cops on the ground were getting their asses handed to them, huddled like cowards behind cover. "Fucking useless," Stan muttered, sliding open the chopper’s door and manning the mounted heavy machine gun.
Rat-tat-tat!
The gun roared, spitting lead that tore through the gangsters like a buzzsaw. Bodies dropped, some cut in half, blood and guts painting the asphalt.
With air support, the pinned-down cops found their spines, popping up to return fire with their pistols. Minutes later, the gangsters were done—either dead or dying. Those still breathing pulled their sidearms, eating bullets rather than face capture. Not a single one surrendered. The scene was a slaughterhouse: shell casings, blood, and mangled corpses everywhere, the stench so thick it made rookie cops puke.
Stan’s lieutenant surveyed the carnage, shaking his head. "These guys fought like they had nothing to lose. Not small-time—Fisk’s inner circle, no doubt."
Another agent whistled. "Fisk’s lost his stash and his loyal dogs. He’s fucked now. Time for a new king in New York."
"You think the boss’s boss has a shot?" The first asked, glancing at Stan.
Stan stared into the distance, where Fisk’s car had vanished. "Jason? Maybe. But he’s not just fighting Fisk—he’s taking on the whole damn country."
---
Jason’s convoy tore down the highway, rain hammering the stolen cop cars, sirens screaming. Ten minutes later, they spotted Fisk’s Cadillac fleet speeding toward them. "Franklin, block ’em!" Jason barked.
"You got it!" Franklin grinned, veering into the opposite lane, driving head-on toward Fisk’s cars. The other seven cop cars followed, forming a wall across the four-lane highway, cutting off any escape.
Fisk’s lead car slowed, but the four trailing Cadillacs gunned their engines, aiming to ram through like they had with the cops. Franklin’s eyes narrowed. "Boss, they’re speeding up. We hit head-on, we’re looking at heaven’s gate."
Jason’s voice was ice-cold. "You won’t be. Wick, it’s showtime."
John nodded from the back seat. "Franklin, ease off." He rolled down the window, half his body leaning out into the storm. The wind roared, nearly blinding him, but as Franklin dropped to 60 km/h, the resistance lessened. John raised his pistol, his movements fluid, almost inhuman, and squeezed off three shots.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The bullets punched through a Cadillac’s front tire with surgical precision.
Boom!
The tire exploded, the car swerving wildly, skidding into the vehicle beside it. Both smashed through the guardrail, tumbling into a muddy ditch in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
"Fuck yeah!" Franklin whooped, adrenaline pumping. "That’s some next-level shit!"
John didn’t flinch, firing again.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two more Cadillacs lost their tires, their drivers fighting to keep control. This time, they’d slowed enough to avoid crashing, but it cost them momentum—they couldn’t punch through the blockade now.
The gangsters slammed on their brakes, tires screeching, ready to fight their way out. They had five cars to Jason’s eight, but they figured the cops were soft, easy pickings. Big mistake. These weren’t cops—they were hardened killers, fresh from a prison break.
Both sides stopped twenty meters apart, doors flying open as men poured out, using their vehicles as cover. Gunfire erupted, a deafening storm of bullets. The gangsters who’d crashed in the ditch scrambled back, joining the fray with their own rifles.
John crouched behind the car’s trunk, glancing at Jason. "Last time, I won. Rematch?"
Jason snorted, ducking a bullet that sparked off the hood. "Compete with you? That’s just asking for a beating. But I’ll catch up soon enough."
John’s lips twitched, a rare smirk. "I believe you." Whether he meant it or not, Jason couldn’t tell.
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