Chapter 18: Team Seeds
The corner bar was a dive of faded glory, its worn leather booths reeking of old vinyl and cheap whiskey, the air thick with the musk of spilled drinks and regret. A single bare bulb cast a harsh yellow glow over the oak table where Alex sat, swirling the ice in his club soda, the clink a small ritual to steady his nerves. Across from him was Jax Reed, an ex-Navy SEAL whose presence was a wall of quiet menace, his gray eyes scanning the sparse room every few seconds, a paranoid twitch etched into his posture. His faded jacket couldn't hide the corded strength of his shoulders, and his curt speech was as sharp as the knife Alex sensed was hidden on him, its faint metallic tang of gun oil lingering in his 16x senses. This guy's a fortress. Perfect. The distant clack-clack of a freight train seeped through the walls, mingling with the bartender's rhythmic wiping of a perpetually dirty counter.
"You're late," Jax stated, his voice a low, gravelly clip, not a question but a fact, his eyes locking onto Alex like a laser.
Alex checked his wrist, his grin easy. "Only by two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Traffic's a myth. Anyway, punctuality's for people who clock in, Jax. I'm offering something better than a timecard."
He set a manila envelope on the table, its $50,000 in crisp bills adding a sharp, clean scent to the bar's musk. Jax's eyes flicked to it, unyielding, his gaze a drill bit boring into Alex. He's sizing me up. Let's see how he handles candor.
"Underworld contacts said you're looking for 'heavy lifting and clean exits,'" Jax said, quoting Alex's query, his voice steady but wary. "They said you pay well, but you're weird. Talk."
Alex pushed the envelope closer, the paper rustling. "Here's the deal, Jax. I need a partner who can get me out of places I shouldn't be and make people forget I was there. I've got resources—unlimited—and foresight. I know things that'll save your life. What I don't have is your decade of tactical paranoia and the ability to fend off a small army without turning into a comic book hero."
Jax's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his stoic face. Nobody expects honesty this raw. "Comic book hero?" he scoffed, crossing his arms, his jacket creaking. "I'm not following your script, kid."
"Good," Alex said, sipping his soda, the ice clinking. "I don't have a script. I'm building an organization that cleans up the city's criminal element by taking their money and product off the street—permanently. I need the best. You're the best. I'll pay you more than anyone you've ever worked for, and the bonus? You'll be fighting the dirtiest thugs, not your own government."
Jax leaned forward, his forearms on the table, the faint scent of gun oil stronger now. He's intrigued. "My discharge was… complicated," Jax said, his voice a near-whisper. "I got enemies in places you don't talk about in a bar. Loyalty's expensive."
"Loyalty's built on shared risk, not just cash," Alex countered, matching his tone. "I'm giving you more straight talk right now than most guys in your old unit ever did. And I'm about to prove it." He pulled a small, encrypted tablet from his bag, its screen glowing with a satellite image of a warehouse district. "Tonight. Small-time cartel stash. Minimal security. We hit it, you show me what a SEAL can do, I show you what unlimited funding looks like. If you walk away with a scratch, your medical bill's covered.
If you walk away clean, the $50k's yours, and we talk permanent employment. I'm Alex Thorne. I don't betray my allies."
Jax picked up the envelope, his movements fluid, running a thumb over the bills without counting. "You're a lunatic," he said, a corner of his mouth twitching, almost a smile. "The warehouse. Details. I need to get my gear ready."
Alex's smile was slight, relieved. Team's forming. The system flashed, invisible to Jax.
[SYSTEM: Ability Unlock: Infiltration intuition granted.]
"Good. You won't regret this," Alex said, pulling the tablet closer. "Location's eight miles west. Air smells like dust and burnt rubber out there. You drive, I narrate." Jax slid out of the booth, his movements swift, and Alex followed, the transition a shift to action.
The service alley behind the target warehouse was cloaked in midnight shadows, the air thick with stale oil and damp concrete, a desert chill raising goosebumps under Alex's tactical jacket. The soft crunch of gravel under Jax's boots was barely audible, his stealth training a silent art. Alex's 16x senses caught every detail—the faint hum of a distant generator, the acrid tang of cheap cleaner inside. Jax pressed a finger to his earpiece, his voice a clipped whisper. "Perimeter clear. Single entry, east wall, older lock. One guard inside, probably asleep or distracted. I'll take him out."
"Copy that," Alex whispered, his 16x strength humming like a coiled snake. I'm the battering ram; he's the scalpel.
Jax moved like a shadow, his lock picks glinting briefly as he worked the door, a soft click signaling entry. A muffled thud followed—the guard hitting the floor. "Clear," Jax's voice crackled. "Inside. Crate stack, back left corner."
Alex entered, the warehouse's interior sharp with the scent of chemicals and blood, the fallen guard's shallow breathing a faint rhythm. Three crates labeled 'Auto Parts' sat secured with industrial padlocks. Jackpot. "Looks like thirty-grand's worth in each," Alex murmured.
Jax shook his head. "Street value's sixty, maybe seventy. High-purity, cheap security. You using C4?"
"C4's messy," Alex said, flexing his hands. "Look away for twenty seconds."
Jax's eyes narrowed, his stoic skepticism palpable. "If you set off a flashbang, I'm shooting you."
"It's a secret technique, Jax," Alex said, gripping the first padlock, its steel cold and unyielding. He focused his 16x strength, his forearm bulging impossibly, and crushed it with a loud CRACK, the metal clattering to the floor. Jax spun back, his eyes widening for a split second—a massive reaction for him. Two more padlocks followed, their ruins littering the concrete.
"It's the new protein shake," Alex said, dusting his hands, his wry smile masking his thrill. "Don't ask where I get my ingredients."
The crates held cash, firearms, and half a kilo of product. Alex processed them through his interface, the system chiming.
[SYSTEM: Sell to System: +$30k (Cartel Cash). +$12k (Firearms). +$60k (Product). Total: +$102k. Team's a beast.]
"Extraction complete. $102k profit," Alex said, closing the crates. "See? Noble demolition's way more profitable than the dirty kind."
Jax nodded, his awe guarded as he zip-tied the guard. "Security camera's looping. Forty seconds to clear the alley."
They retreated into the desert night, the op showcasing their synergy—Alex's power, Jax's precision. At a diner, the neon glow and bacon scent warm, Alex watched Jax dissect his burger meticulously. "We need food," Alex said, rubbing his hands. "You look like you haven't eaten decent in days."
"I eat field rations," Jax replied, his jaw less tense.
"Tonight, it's diner burgers. My treat. Team synergy," Alex said, his mind on escalating cartel ops.
Alex's phone buzzed, his burner line for Jesse. He typed a quick message to steer Jesse clear of a cartel meetup: Stay away from the junkyard on 4th street for a few days. Bad rats are meeting.
Jax glanced up. "Coded messages to a target?"
"Not a target. A friend," Alex said, pocketing the phone. "He's about to walk into a nasty situation with some border importers."
"Why not call the cops?" Jax asked, his SEAL pragmatism clashing with Alex's ambiguity.
"Cops are messy. I'm keeping collateral damage—namely, my friend—low," Alex said, dipping a fry in ketchup, holding it like a trophy. "Consider it my premium service, Jesse's VIP protection."
Jax grunted, returning to his burger, shelving Alex's oddity for later. Bond strengthened, team growing. Alex looked out the diner window, the city dark and indifferent. "One more thing, Jax. Scout an old smuggling route near the border. Just info. Something's coming."
"The Mexican border? That's not local cleanup," Jax said, pausing.
"It's preparation," Alex said, his eyes strategic. "We're going bigger."
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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