ALL CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN MODIFIED BY DELETING ALL REPEATED WORDS , DIALOGUES AND SOME DESREPENCIES
Chapter 9: Gun Game Begins
The industrial lot was a desolate scar carved into Albuquerque's edge, its cracked asphalt shimmering under a dying sun that bled fiery orange across the mesa. The air was heavy with diesel fumes and the sharp bite of ozone, a metallic tang that clung to Alex Thorne's throat as he leaned against his black SUV, its hood cool and smooth under his palm. His grey utility jacket was deliberately plain, a nod to his "private security" cover, but his 4x senses were on high alert, catching every crunch of gravel, every distant hum of traffic, and the faint rustle of a plastic bag skittering across the lot. This feels dirtier than meth, but the system loves a good gun deal. His backpack, heavy with $25,000 in crisp bills, sat on the passenger seat, ready to become $50,000 in system profit. One step closer to untouchable.
A battered pickup truck rolled in, its engine coughing like a smoker's lungs as it lurched to a stop. The dealer, Rick, stepped out—a stocky man with a face like weathered clay, his eyes darting like a cornered animal's under a sweat-stained ball cap. His flannel shirt was patched with grease, his posture wary but driven by the promise of profit. He's no cartel boss, but he's not stupid either. Alex adjusted his jacket, the fabric catching on his thumb—a small tic to steady his nerves—as he scanned Rick for any sign of a double-cross.
"You're late," Alex said, his voice even, pushing off the SUV with a casual stride that belied the tension in his shoulders. Keep it cool, keep it real.
Rick grunted, his hand lingering on the truck's door, his rasp matching the static hiss of the radio leaking from the cab. "Traffic. You look too clean for this, kid. Where's your muscle?" Skepticism dripped from his tone, his eyes flicking to the empty lot behind Alex.
Alex's smirk was subtle, his words sharp and deliberate. Here we go. "I am the muscle, Rick. My buyers aren't into gym memberships—they want security for their assets. Albuquerque's crawling with big players, bigger than you know, and I'd rather have my own arsenal than trust a guy who thinks a high school diploma makes him Heisenberg." The jab was calculated, a spark to throw Rick off balance without escalating to a fight.
Rick's eyes narrowed, the blunt honesty catching him off guard. Words are my ammo, and they're hitting. "Assets? What, you guarding a politician's side piece?" he muttered, unlatching the truck's canopy with a creak. The smell of oil and canvas hit Alex like a wave, grounding him in the moment.
"Call it planning for the future," Alex said, stepping closer, his tone sharp but playful. "Things are heating up, and I'm not betting on promises from guys with bad holsters." He nodded at Rick's worn pistol strap, the leather frayed and sagging, a small detail that screamed amateur.
Rick hesitated, his hand hovering near the canopy, then lifted it to reveal crates of Glock 19s, SIG carbines, and ammo stacked neatly inside. "$25k, non-sequential, briefcase. No tricks."
Alex tossed the backpack, the cash bundles thudding softly against the truck bed. "Clean money, from a legit business. Unlike your toys." He winked, the challenge clear but light, keeping the deal from souring. As Rick counted the bills, his fingers moving with practiced speed, the system flashed in Alex's mind, its blue text sharp and triumphant:
[SYSTEM: Sell to System: Firearms +$50k profit. Armed and noble.]
The crates vanished, converted to digital wealth in the blink of an eye. Rick, oblivious, handed back the empty backpack, his eyes still wary. "You're bait, kid, hauling this solo. Big mistake."
Alex slung the backpack over his shoulder, the canvas rough against his palm, a ritual to mask the thrill of the profit. "You worry about your audits, Rick. I'll handle what's next." He turned, his sneakers crunching on the gravel as he walked to his SUV, leaving Rick cursing in the dust. I'm a target now. Gotta move faster. The dealer's suspicion was a warning, a sign that eyes were already on his trail, but the profit pushed his funds closer to his goal. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather creaking, and drove off, the lot fading into the rearview mirror as the city's pulse swallowed him whole.
In a Denny's parking lot, the air thick with the greasy scent of bacon and the bitter edge of burnt coffee, Alex sat in his SUV, the engine off, the burner phone's glow casting shadows across his face. He scrolled through an encrypted news feed, his mood shifting from strategic caution to a protective tension. A report confirmed Tuco's crew was planning a roadside meet with Walter, a Breaking Bad moment that could end in blood if it went as scripted. Not today, Heisenberg. He sipped a black coffee, its bitterness grounding him, and stirred a bowl of cold oatmeal, the spoon's clink a small anchor in the chaos. The waitress's tired shuffle outside the window reminded him of the world he was trying to shield, a world where people like Jesse were more than pawns in a cartel game.
He typed a text, careful and vague: The Junction meet's hot. Your guy's a rat. Move it, next 48 hours are trouble.Saving Walter from himself. What a life. He sent it, then crushed the phone against the dashboard, the plastic snapping under his 4x strength, shards scattering like confetti. No traces, no timeline breaks. The waitress, her apron stained with ketchup, approached the window, her voice flat with exhaustion. "You okay, hon?"
"Perfect," Alex said, flashing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just breaking up with an old friend." He tucked the phone shards into a napkin, the mundane act cloaking his covert move. The tip kept Walter alive, preserving the timeline while nudging him clear of Tuco's trap. Noble, but exhausting. He left a generous tip, a crumpled twenty folded neatly under the bowl, his apology to the world for the chaos he was stirring. He drove off, the city's lights blurring into his ambition, the weight of his role settling heavier with every move.
Back at his safehouse, a sleek apartment with new carpet and the faint scent of cleaning fluid, Alex sat at a granite countertop, a cold soda hissing open in his hand. The system interface glowed, his funds at $250,000, bolstered by the gun deal. Not enough for 4x, but getting there. He reviewed the profit, his mind calculating. Guns are riskier, but the margins are insane. Cleaner than meth, dirtier in intent. The system's blue text flickered again:
[SYSTEM: System Hint: Arms trade opens new paths. Risky, but rich.]
Alex grinned, the soda's chill biting his palm. Risky, but rich. My kind of tagline. "They say you can't build an empire on black-market firepower," he quipped to the empty room, his sarcasm sharp as he popped a handful of pretzels from a nearby bag, the crunch loud in the quiet. "Noble firepower, though? That's my brand."
He planned three more gun deals, targeting $1 million for the 4x upgrade. More profit, more power. Then I can face a cartel squad and still have juice to keep Jesse breathing. His fingers tapped the counter, a restless habit as ambition surged. The risks were higher—dealers like Rick were already wary, and the cartel's eyes were tightening their focus—but the payoff was worth it. I'm not just surviving. I'm building. He closed the laptop, the room falling silent, and stood, his shadow stretching long against the wall. Tomorrow, he'd face Walter and Jesse, their split looming like a storm. Time to go independent. Noble firepower's just the start.
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