Chapter 13: Gun Network Growth
The industrial park sprawled like a forgotten battlefield, its rusted warehouses hulking under a bruised orange sunset that bled across the Albuquerque sky. The air was thick with the acrid tang of oil-soaked dust and oxidized metal, a sharp bite that clawed at Alex Thorne's throat as he leaned against his sedan. The car's paint, dulled by weeks of desert grit, was warm under his palm, a grounding touch against the rising tension humming through his 8x-enhanced body. His dark hoodie hugged his frame, its hem catching on his thumb as he tugged it—a nervous tic to steady his racing mind. His 8x senses caught every detail: the distant rumble of a freight train, the faint skitter of a plastic bag across the lot, the metallic groan of a warehouse settling into the dusk. Victor's cartel ties are a screaming red flag. This deal's a tightrope, and I'm walking it with a $60,000 prize waiting. The bullet-pocked steel of the nearest warehouse glinted, its jagged holes catching the fading light like battle scars. His fingers tapped a hollow rhythm on the hood, each beat syncing with his pulse, a metronome of cautious confidence. One-man gang needs firepower, not just noble dreams. Let's make this count.
The warehouse door screeched open, a jagged wail that sliced through the twilight's hush. Victor, the arms dealer, emerged, his thick neck scarred from old street fights, his eyes darting beneath a low-brimmed cap like a predator sizing up prey. His gum snapped with aggressive rhythm, a sharp tick that matched his coiled posture, his boots crunching deliberately on the cracked asphalt. His calloused hands hovered near his belt, a subtle threat that screamed cartel muscle. He's not just a dealer. He's a pawn, and he smells fresh blood. Alex's 8x senses caught the faint tang of sweat on Victor, the kind that screamed paranoia, not heat, a warning sharper than the oil in the air.
"You're late, kid," Victor grunted, his voice a gravelly monotone, spitting his gum onto the pavement with a wet smack that echoed in the stillness. "Time's money, and my time's worth more than yours."
Alex pushed off the car, his 8x agility making his movements fluid, almost too smooth for the gritty lot. He flashed a slight smirk, his sarcasm a well-worn shield. He's testing me. Wants me rattled. Let's play his game, my way. "I'm always on time for a solid deal, Victor," he said, his tone light but edged with steel. "Unlike some, I don't hide my prices until the bags are open."
Victor's eyes narrowed, his gum-chewing hitching for a split second, a flicker of unease crossing his weathered face. Gotcha. Nobody expects candor in this game. "The price is the price," Victor snapped, his voice tighter, his fingers twitching toward his belt. "You wanna see the goods or keep yapping? This ain't a swap meet."
Alex tilted his head, letting the silence stretch, his gaze locking onto Victor's twitchy hands. Cartel vibes, loud and clear. He's not just selling guns—he's selling me out if I slip. The duffel bag of $30,000 in his hand felt heavy, its canvas rough against his palm, but the $60,000 system profit it'd yield was his real prize. This is for the empire, not just survival. He stepped closer, his voice dropping, each word a calculated risk. "Look, Victor, let's cut the posturing. I'm buying a serious cache because I need protection. People are noticing my cash flow, and I'm not naive enough to think everyone plays fair. I need to arm myself and some… associates. For stability, long-term, but right now, it's about staying alive."
The bluntness hit like a sucker punch. Victor's jaw clenched, his gum snapping once, hard, his eyes searching Alex for a lie that wasn't there. Nobody's this direct. He's rattled, and he doesn't know why. "Protection," Victor repeated, his voice low, calculating, like he was testing the word for hidden traps. "You talk big for a kid who hasn't seen the inventory." He jerked a thumb toward the warehouse, his posture loosening just enough to signal grudging trust. "Inside. Try anything, and you'll find stability in a shallow grave."
Inside, the warehouse was a cavern of cold steel and gunpowder, the air thick with the sour tang of stale cigarettes and the faint metallic hum of dead machinery. A single caged bulb buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows over a battered table laden with military-grade rifles, tactical shotguns, and high-capacity pistols. The weapons gleamed, pristine against the grimy walls, their polished surfaces catching the light like promises of power. Alex's pulse quickened, a thrill of raw potential surging through his 8x-enhanced body. This is it. The foundation of my one-man gang. He ran a finger along a rifle's barrel, its cool surface grounding his excitement, his mind already calculating system profits. Sixty grand in the bank, and a step closer to untouchable. He inspected the cache, his 8x reflexes catching every detail—the weight of a shotgun's stock, the click of a pistol's slide—his senses alive with the weight of his growing empire.
He counted out the $30,000, the crisp bills rustling like dry leaves as Victor snatched the duffel, his greed outpacing his suspicion. The dealer's fingers moved fast, flipping through the stacks, his eyes glinting with avarice. The system chimed in Alex's mind, a sharp jolt of victory that vibrated through his skull.
[SYSTEM: Sell to System: Firearms +$60k. Building an arsenal?]
Hell yeah, I am. Alex's lips curled into a dry smile as he loaded the weapons into his trunk, their weight a solid promise of strength, the metal clanking softly as he secured them. He glanced at Victor, still counting bills, and couldn't resist a parting shot, his voice laced with dark humor. "Don't worry, Victor. You're helping me arm for peace. Just, you know, peace achieved through superior firepower."
Victor didn't look up, his focus locked on the cash, his gum snapping faintly. "Just get out of here."
Deal's done, but he's memorizing my plates. Alex slid into his sedan, the leather seat cool against his back, and drove off slowly, his mirrors scanning for tails. Victor's darting glances during the deal screamed cartel, and his paranoia was a ticking bomb ready to draw unwanted attention. Time to throw him off the scent with a little chaos. His fingers tightened on the wheel, a small gesture to steel himself for the next play. One-man gang's about to get creative.
The street corner was a chaotic pulse of Albuquerque's underbelly, its outdated streetlamp flickering a sickly yellow glow over cracked sidewalks littered with cigarette butts and faded flyers. The air thrummed with the abrasive rush of traffic, punctuated by the occasional blare of a horn, sharp and unnecessary in the evening haze. Alex perched on a crumbling concrete wall, its surface rough under his thighs, his burner phone's sticky plastic casing slick in his hand from the desert heat. Victor's spooked. Let's make him chase shadows. The mood was electric, a mischievous spark lighting his 8x reflexes as he planned his diversion. Chaos as currency—my kind of math. His hoodie's drawstring dangled, and he tugged it absentmindedly, a ritual to focus his scheming mind.
He'd overheard Victor muttering about a rival, Ghost, a small-time dealer stirring trouble on the southern routes. Perfect bait for a paranoid mind. Alex punched in Victor's contact line, a voice modulator warping his voice into a frantic street rat's rasp, high-pitched and panicked. "Victor! Man, you gotta pull out! Ghost's crew just hit your lockup downtown! They're looking for you, talking about 'settling scores' and 'stolen merchandise.' Get clear, now!"
The voicemail was a spark in dry grass, designed to ignite Victor's paranoia and send him scrambling. Alex crushed the phone under his heel, plastic shards scattering into the gutter with a faint crunch, the sound swallowed by the city's hum. Let's see how fast you run, Victor. A security guard from a nearby mini-mart ambled over, his flashlight's harsh beam stabbing Alex's eyes, his voice flat with routine irritation.
"Hey! You gonna buy something, or just loitering and breaking city property?"
Alex squinted, tugging his hood lower, his grin disarming. "Just admiring the city's impeccable commitment to public sanitation, officer. I'm gone." He hopped off the wall with a fluid 8x leap, his sneakers silent on the pavement, vanishing into the crowd before the guard could muster a response. Small fries, small problems. Let's check the fallout.
At a café parking lot, Alex leaned against a lamppost, its metal warm from the day's heat, and checked his phone. A news blurb confirmed an "unconfirmed disturbance" near Victor's downtown stash, the chaos already rippling through the underworld. Bingo. He's chasing Ghost now. The prank wasn't just mischief—it was strategy, buying him weeks of breathing room by turning Victor's fear into a shield. Chaos is my shield, and I'm spending it like a king. His dark humor bubbled, a callback to his earlier quips about "noble punching." One-man gang's getting crafty, and it feels damn good. He sipped a lukewarm coffee from a paper cup, the bitter tang grounding him as he planned his next move, his 8x senses scanning the lot for any sign of trouble.
The liquor store's neon sign cast a dull pink haze over the street, its buzz a faint counterpoint to a distant dog's lonely bark, sharp and mournful in the night air. Alex sat in his idling SUV, the steering wheel cool under his fingers, its leather worn from his constant tapping—a nervous habit that kept his 8x senses sharp. His eyes locked on a rundown house three blocks away, its sagging porch lit by a single bulb. Jesse's about to walk into a trap, per usual. His Breaking Bad knowledge pinpointed this moment—a low-level buy with a Mexican dealer that'd spiral into cartel trouble, a small but dangerous snag in the Season 2 timeline. Not if I can help it. The mood was quiet, almost tender, his care for Jesse driving every move. Saving Pinkman, one text at a time.
He pulled out a fresh burner phone, its plastic slick with his sweat, the cheap casing creaking in his grip. He typed a cryptic message, careful to keep it vague to avoid derailing the timeline: Route 51 North is hot. New face. Bad news. Lay low for 24. Find another spot, yo. - The Broker.
The "yo" was deliberate, a nod to Jesse's slang to mask his identity while lending the tip a bizarre legitimacy. Invisible guardian, keeping the timeline clean. He sent the text, stashed the phone in a metal glovebox, its clang a small ritual of secrecy, and waited, his breath steady despite the stakes. Minutes later, Jesse's battered Toyota Tercel screeched past, his silhouette tense as he checked his phone, his cap pulled low. He peeled out, veering away from the deal. A black pickup—cartel muscle—cruised by, pausing where Jesse would've been, its headlights cutting through the dark before it rolled on.
Another save. Alex exhaled, his shoulders easing, a quiet grin breaking through the tension. "Guess I'm Jesse's guardian for life." The system stayed silent—no points for nobility, as expected. Typical. All guts, no glory. His funds hit $260,000, his empire growing, but Jesse's safety was the real victory, a quiet warmth in his chest. He dialed Saul, the line crackling with static, his voice firm but laced with his signature sarcasm.
"Saul? Yeah, it's Alex. I need a new project. Something big. And I need a lot of legal spin. The bigger the lie, the easier it is to sell, right?"
Time to build a fortress, because the cartel's watching.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
Love [ Breaking Bad : Noble System ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Breaking Bad : Noble System ] with exclusive access to 35+(up tp 60) chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [Grimm, Teen Wolf ,blacklist,Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!