Unfortunately, when Jack led the team into the monastery, he didn't encounter any gun-toting,high-heeled warrior nuns. Instead, he found a group of elderly women, most over 40 or 50, dressed in thick, black nun habits and wearing leather gloves and 3M face masks.
In a storeroom, these women were busy grinding blocks of high-purity fentanyl into fine powder. They then mixed it with other additives and repackaged it, preparing it for street-level distribution.
Once this potent batch reached the streets, it would fetch a steep price—far beyond the reach of most addicts. Dealers would then dilute it with a veterinary sedative called xylazine, a cheap additive that increased the duration of the drug's "high."
However, this additive, infamously nicknamed "zombie drug," caused devastating side effects. It led to severe ulcers at injection sites, uncontrolled bleeding, and permanent nerve damage, leaving users in a state of near-unconsciousness for hours.
On Philadelphia's infamous Kensington Avenue, hordes of these xylazine-addicted homeless people roamed like the living dead. Many were covered in festering wounds, crawling with flies and fleas. Some had missing limbs and wandered aimlessly through the streets—a grotesque scene straight out of a zombie apocalypse.
In Jack's previous life, this area had become a macabre tourist attraction for social media influencers. They would drive along the avenue, filming these tragic figures for shock content, racking up clicks and views on various platforms.
However, this attention was rarely driven by empathy or concern. Instead, it was fueled by a morbid curiosity and a desire to exploit suffering for entertainment.
Jack wasn't sure whether the nuns and abbess were forced into this drug operation, but the head of the monastery was undoubtedly complicit. Yet, calling this situation ironic seemed unnecessary—it wasn't without precedent.
Just as certain temples and nunneries in ancient China became dens of corruption, some European monasteries were once notorious as "noblewomen's retreats," places of hidden vice.
Peering through the warehouse window, Jack observed the scene and sighed in disappointment—not because there were no alluring nuns, but because the people inside were largely unarmed.
No weapons meant no resistance. No resistance meant no thrilling combat—just a routine arrest. Suppressing his disappointment, Jack signaled to the others.
Everyone pulled down their night-vision goggles and donned gas masks. These drug warehouses were death traps due to the extreme toxicity of the substances inside.
Take fentanyl, for example: just two milligrams could be fatal. Despite how movies and TV shows often depicted law enforcement barging into such scenes without any protection, the reality was far more dangerous.
Behind Jack, his teammates, U.S. Marshals, and SWAT officers all carried multiple doses of naloxone, an emergency opioid antidote, just in case.
Reports from other teams came through Jack's earpiece, confirming that all units were in position. He took one last look at the scene inside: Maldonado was deep in conversation with a 60-year-old abbess, while the fake priest Luis stood nearby in his clerical attire.
"Targets confirmed. Request permission to engage," Jack said through his comms.
"Go!" Jubal's voice came through loud and clear.
A SWAT officer raised a battering ram and smashed it against the lock. With a deafening crash, the warehouse door—ironically labeled "Ladies' Restroom"—swung open.
"FBI! Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"
"Don't move!"
"U.S. Marshals! Get on the ground!"
Jack and Clay led the charge, both opening fire without hesitation. Two elderly abbesses who had reached under a table for concealed submachine guns were promptly riddled with bullets.
"Ahhh! Help!"
Screams erupted as most of the nuns dropped to the floor, trembling in fear. Luis, the fake priest, quickly tossed his Uzi and raised his hands in surrender.
"Fuck you, you goddamned feds!"
Maldonado, however, was not so compliant. Feigning shock, he subtly took a step forward and grabbed the nearest abbess by the neck, pressing a pistol to her head.
"Drop your weapons! Don't be stupid! You still have a chance to walk out of here alive," shouted veteran Marshal Samuels as he slowly circled to the right, positioning himself to block the only exit.
Clay moved silently to the left, his rifle aimed squarely at Maldonado's head.
"I'm not going with you!" Maldonado's face was twisted in despair and rage. His bloodshot eyes darted wildly as he tightened his grip on the struggling abbess, using her as a human shield.
The abbess's golden crucifix swayed violently across her chest, the engraved face of Christ seeming to watch the scene with silent sorrow.
"You're cornered, Maldonado. Let her go. It's your only chance to survive," Jack said, his voice calm but firm. He advanced steadily with his MDX-508 carbine aimed at Maldonado's head, stopping just seven or eight meters away.
"Stay back! I'll kill her!" Maldonado shrieked, shaking his head in manic denial. His hastily dyed brown hair clung messily to his scalp, making him look almost comical.
Would you stop moving already? Jack thought in frustration. Just stand still and let me blow your head off.
His exhaustion from the earlier firefight was catching up to him. The adrenaline high had warped his perception—he even found some of the older nuns oddly attractive in their austere uniforms.
"Okay, okay! You win. Just don't hurt her," Jack said, raising his hands slowly. "You were raised by women like her, weren't you? Let's talk this out. There's always a solution."
Jack placed his MDX-508 on a nearby table, letting his hands hang loosely by his sides. His fingers brushed the fast-draw holster strapped to his right thigh.
"Let's go outside and talk there—"
"Bang!"
A single gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Maldonado's eyes widened in shock as a clean bullet hole appeared on his forehead. The 7.5mm round pierced through his skull and embedded itself in the wall behind him.
Jack calmly lowered his still-smoking pistol.
American Iai Technique: Instant Draw Strike—success.
(End of Chapter)
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