Chapter 6: Shadows on the Horizon 2
The freight yard was a desolate sprawl of industrial decay, its rusted shipping containers looming like the husks of forgotten giants. The air was thick with the metallic tang of rust and dry dust, kicked up by a hot breeze that rattled the peeling paint.
Alex stood between two faded red containers, their surfaces gritty under his fingertips, his 2x senses catching every creak and groan of the metal in the heat. He was here for a small deal, part of his strategy to stay low-key, but his nerves were taut, expecting trouble.
No dealer yet. That's a bad sign. His hand rested on the cool steel, grounding him as he scanned the shadows, his pulse steady but his instincts screaming.
A figure emerged from the narrow gap between containers—the same hoodie-clad hitman from the night before, his heavy-bladed utility knife glinting faintly in the dim light. Round two. This guy's persistent. The hitman's stance was professional, his movements deliberate, and Alex's system flashed a warning, cold and urgent.
[SYSTEM: Status Warning: Minor injury, healing fast. Engage lethal countermeasures or escape.]
"Took you long enough, kid,"
the hitman growled, his voice gravelly, blending with the yard's desolation. He lunged, the knife aiming for Alex's abdomen, no preamble, just raw intent.
Alex's 2x reflexes snapped into action, his body shifting into a violent sidestep. The blade missed his torso but sliced a shallow furrow across his left forearm, the sting sharp but fleeting, blood beading briefly before his 2x healing kicked in. Not today, pal. He ignored the system's lethal suggestion, focusing on survival.
The hitman, surprised Alex didn't crumple, swept low with his leg, trying to unbalance him. Alex countered with a shove, his 2x strength turning the motion into an explosive force. His open hand slammed into the hitman's chest, sending him crashing into a container with a sickening clang that echoed through the yard. The knife skittered across the gravel, lost in the dust.
The hitman groaned, winded, his eyes wide with confusion as he slumped against the metal. Alex stood over him, his breathing even, the cut on his arm already closing, the pain fading to a dull ache.
"You really came back for this?"
he said, shaking his head, his sarcasm sharp even in combat.
"You're trying to mug a bank vault, pal. Bad investment. And here's a tip: you're not even good at it."
Words hit harder than fists sometimes.
The hitman's glassy stare showed pure disorientation, Alex's words landing like a second blow. He's done. Time to go. Alex tossed the knife into a heap of scrap metal, the clatter a final note in the fight.
"I'm not the cops,"
he said, his voice low and deliberate.
"But your boss is gonna be pissed. And for the record, the cut on my arm? Already gone. You wasted a good knife. Stay down and think about a desk job."
He jogged away, his 2x speed making the escape effortless, the system logging his victory.
[SYSTEM: Challenge Evaluation: Minor Ambush Survival, B-Rank. Funds at $160k. The cartels are watching, hero.]
Half a mile away, Alex sat on a concrete barrier, checking the faint pink line where the cut had been. Healed in minutes. I'm a damn comic book character. The fight had been messy but affirming—his 2x stats were enough for low-level threats, but the cartel's eyes were on him. He needed a break, a dose of normalcy. Time to mess with Jesse. Gotta keep the vibes high.
He parked a block from Jesse's house, the neighborhood quiet, the sky painted in fiery oranges and violets. The air in his car was warm and stuffy, the faint bark of a dog breaking the silence. Alex pulled out his burner phone, a mischievous grin spreading as he typed a cryptic message, then called. Jesse answered, wary. "Yo?"
"Pinkman,"
Alex said, adopting a clipped, formal tone,
"This is Detective Miller, APD Organized Crime Division. We have a confirmed search warrant for your residence, and we have a perimeter established. Exit with your hands visible."
Silence, then a frantic whisper—clattering sounds as Jesse fumbled, likely hiding a stash.
"Oh my God, you gotta be kidding me!"
His voice was high-pitched, panicked.
"Yo, I'm clean! I haven't cooked in like, days! Wait, how—how did you get this number?"
Alex smirked, savoring the chaos. This is too good. He waited a beat, then dropped the act.
"It's a good thing you haven't cooked, Jesse. I'm giving you a courtesy call."
Another silence.
"A courtesy—wait. That's your voice, you asshole! Thorne?"
Alex laughed, loud and genuine, the tension from the fight dissolving. "You should hear yourself, man! 'I'm clean, I'm clean!' Priceless." He leaned back, the car seat creaking, his fanboy heart swelling but kept in check. Don't gush. Keep it light.
Jesse's anger deflated into a frustrated sigh, a chuckle bubbling up. "You son of a bitch. I literally just dumped a perfectly good ounce down the sink! You think that's funny, man? That's, like, thirty bucks down the drain!"
"Thirty dollars for a lifetime of stories? Bargain," Alex shot back, still laughing. "Consider it a lesson: never trust a burner phone with a cop voice. I needed to hear you say 'I'm clean' one time, though. You passed the vibe check."
Jesse's amusement was clear, a rare moment of lightness. "I swear, next time I see you, I'm lighting your eyebrows on fire. You're the weirdest dude I know, man. But… thanks. Mr. White's being a colossal dick about the Tuco deal, and I was losing it."
"Go do something normal, Jesse," Alex said, his tone softening, a touch of sincerity breaking through.
"Order a pizza, watch a bad movie. No cops, no chemists, no crazy-ass friends pranking you. I'll catch you later for a big buy. I'm dealing with my own 'unsolicited social calls,' as Saul would say."
He hung up, the warmth of their bond grounding him as he drove toward the upscale diner where Walter waited, his ego primed for a collision.
The diner was a stark contrast to the freight yard, its red vinyl booths gleaming under soft lighting, the air thick with burnt sugar and frying oil. Walter sat alone, his posture stiff, an untouched coffee cup before him, the steam curling lazily. His windbreaker rustled as he shifted, his irritation palpable. Alex slid into the booth, his jacket creaking, and met Walter's cold stare. Here we go. Ego versus reality. Round one.
"Another thirty ounces," Walter said, his voice low and measured, but laced with venom. "You bought thirty ounces of our product this week. From different drop-offs. In cash. You are draining our supply chain, Mr. Thorne, and you refuse to tell me what you are doing with it. Are you selling it in another state? Rerouting it to a rival?"
Alex leaned forward, his voice calm but firm.
"Okay, Walt, look. The product's gone. Not to a rival, not cut, completely off the street. Which should make you happy—it increases scarcity, raises the value of your next batch."
Keep the system under wraps. Stroke his ego just enough. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table, the cool liquid grounding him as he navigated Walter's suspicion.
Walter's nostrils flared, his ego bristling.
"Don't lecture me on supply and demand, I taught high school chemistry for twenty years! The question is your intentions! Your secrecy is insulting! Are you trying to control my production? Do you think I'm so easily manipulated?"
Alex leaned back, his grin sharp.
"You want clarity, Walt? Fine. Your ego trip is a bigger threat to your business than any rival dealer. You're asking me for loyalty, but you're only focused on who gets credit for the purity. I don't care about the purity. I care about results. And the result is, you're making money, your family's safe, and I'm keeping the product out of psychos like Tuco's hands, which, by the way, is a massive bullet you just dodged because someone gave Jesse a timely warning."
Walter's jaw clenched, the mention of Tuco—a name he barely knew—hitting like a slap.
"This conversation is over,"
he hissed, pushing the coffee cup away, the liquid sloshing.
"If you contact Jesse again for product, you will be cut off. Find another source, Mr. Thorne. I'm tired of your games."
He slid out of the booth, leaving a crumpled twenty on the table, and stormed out.
Alex picked up the bill, twirling it between his fingers, a small victory. Split's done. Walter's off to the cartels, just like the show. I'm free to go independent. His funds were at $160,000, his legal front with Saul was in motion, and he'd survived two hitman encounters. The next step was clear: scale up, stay sharp, and build a noble empire. He slipped the twenty into his pocket, a mundane ritual, and headed out, the city's hum fueling his resolve. Cartels are watching, but I'm watching back. Let's play.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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