Chapter 12: Double Down (Part 3 of 3)
The overpass was a concrete graveyard, its pillars scarred with looping graffiti, the air stagnant with dust and the faint hum of distant traffic. Alex approached the meet, his 4x agility sharpening every sound—the crunch of gravel underfoot, the faint creak of a car door in the shadows. The mood was intense, survival-driven, his senses screaming ambush before he saw the beat-up sedan, its windows too dark, parked too perfectly under the overpass's shadow. Not Marco. Trouble. His pulse steadied, his 4x strength a coiled spring ready to snap, his jacket catching on his thumb as he scanned the scene.
Two hitmen emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes sharp against the fading sun. Hitman #1, thick-necked with a scowl etched into his weathered face, drew a pistol, its barrel glinting faintly. Hitman #2, younger, cockier, gripped a rusty pipe, his smirk oozing bravado. Local Dealer #1's cleanup crew. Sloppy. "Thorne, right?" Hitman #1 growled, his voice rough as the gravel underfoot. "Boss says you're cutting into his game."
Alex dropped his duffel, the canvas thudding softly, his movements fluid with 4x reflexes. "Your boss needs better help." The pistol rose, and Alex moved, kicking a loose cinderblock with force that shattered it, shrapnel spraying into Hitman #1's legs. The thug yelled, his gun firing wildly, the crack echoing as a bullet grazed Alex's bicep, a sharp burn cutting through his jacket.
[SYSTEM: Status Warning: Heal rate active, minor wounds.]
The wound stung, but the 4x healing kicked in, the pain dulling as the bleeding slowed. Barely a scratch. Hitman #2 swung the pipe, a wild arc aimed at Alex's head. Alex sidestepped, the air whooshing past, and drove a 4x-powered fist into the thug's stomach. The impact was brutal, sending Hitman #2 flying ten feet into a pillar, his body crumpling with a gurgling cry. One down.
Hitman #1, limping, raised the gun again. Alex closed the gap in two steps, grabbing the wrist, the metal cold against his palm. A quick twist snapped bone, the crack sharp over the sedan's idling engine. The thug screamed, and Alex's jab to his ribs dropped him, breathless, to the asphalt. Outclassed, idiots. He couldn't resist a parting shot, his words sharp. "You're out of your league. I'm only using a quarter of my potential. Tell your boss to hire better."
The hitman panted, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. They never get the honesty bit. Alex stepped back, his bicep's burn fading to a dull ache, the wound already scabbing. The fight was over in seconds, his 4x edge turning a deadly ambush into a quick brawl. He grabbed the duffel, the canvas catching on his fingers, and noted the sedan's plate. Saul's problem now. The discarded pistol glinted in the dust, a sign of low-level retribution, not cartel precision. But the cartel's watching. This is just the start.
He drove off, the city's lights blurring, the rush of survival fading into a need to protect his anchor. Jesse's next. Gotta keep him out of the cartel's crosshairs.
Alex pulled over on a quiet highway shoulder, the SUV's engine ticking as it cooled, the night air sharp with sagebrush and asphalt. His bicep ached faintly, the scab a testament to his 4x healing. He was sweaty, the adrenaline of the ambush lingering like a bad aftertaste. The mood was protective, discreet, his care for Jesse driving his next move. He pulled out a burner phone, its plastic cool and slick, and typed a cryptic text: Keep your distance from anyone claiming family ties. Especially out of state. Their loyalty's garbage.
Saving Jesse from the Salamanca meat grinder, one text at a time. His fingers paused, the phone's glow illuminating his smirk. I'm sitting here, healing a bullet graze like it's a papercut, just to keep Pinkman breathing. Noble's my brand, even if it's free. He sent the message, then crushed the phone, the plastic splintering under his 4x strength, shards scattering on the passenger seat. The act was a ritual, a barrier between him and the timeline's chaos. Jesse's safe for now. Bond's stronger every tip.
He didn't wait for a reply—Jesse wouldn't send one. The act was about security, not chatter. Timeline's holding, but the cartel's sniffing closer. He started the engine, the hum grounding him, and headed for his safehouse. I'm a one-man army, but armies need soldiers.
The safehouse was a sleek haven, its new carpet soft under Alex's sneakers, the air cool with the faint scent of cleaning fluid. He changed his shirt, the fabric sliding over the nearly-healed scab on his bicep, a marvel of 4x recovery. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, the can's hiss a small comfort as he sank onto a stool at the granite counter. The mood was reflective, a determined calm settling over him. Survived an ambush, saved Jesse. Now what?
He opened the system interface, its glow casting shadows across the counter.
[SYSTEM: Challenge Evaluation: Ambush survival, A-Rank.]
A-Rank? Should've totaled their car for an S. He took a long sip, the beer's chill biting his throat, and reviewed the fight. Two thugs, basic weapons, sent by a local dealer pissed at his solo deals. Small fry, but a warning. His 4x strength and healing were a lifeline, but logistics, scouting, backup—he needed more. I'm a tank, not a general.
He pulled up a digital folder, names of ex-military contacts and street operatives flickering on the screen. Skilled, disgruntled, loyal to cash or a cause. "I need eyes, skills, people who won't lose it when I drop the facts," he muttered, his sarcasm a shield for his resolve. "Ambush survival's cute, but I'm not here to survive. I'm here to dominate. Noble punching won't build a national empire."
The decision was clear: recruitment. His funds, now over $200,000, were enough to start. He picked one file—an ex-military operative named Elena, disciplined but insubordinate, perfect for his needs. He typed an encrypted message: I have a job. High risk. No betrayal. Interested? The send button clicked, a quiet promise of the next phase. One-man gang's getting a crew. Cartel's about to meet noble firepower.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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