Chapter 20: Ambush Alley (Part 1 of 5)
The Arizona sun was a merciless furnace, its heat pressing down on Scottsdale's stucco sprawl like a physical weight, the air thick with the scent of dust and sizzling asphalt. Alex Thorne pulled his rental SUV into a side-street warehouse lot, the vehicle's tires crunching gravel that glittered like broken glass in the afternoon glare. His light jacket clung to his shoulders, slightly damp from sweat despite the AC's feeble hiss, and he adjusted the cheap plastic watch on his wrist—a mundane tick that grounded his buzzing 16x senses. The warehouse loomed ahead, its corrugated walls faded to a dull silver, the faint hum of a generator pulsing like a distant heartbeat. First national deal. Big step, bigger risks. His 16x strength and stamina thrummed under his skin, a quiet assurance as he scanned the lot, his high intelligence catching every detail—the flicker of a security camera, the faint oil stain marking a recent truck. Vince better not flake. I need this supply to go national. He tugged his jacket's zipper, a nervous habit, and stepped out, the heat hitting like a slap.
Inside, the warehouse office was a claustrophobic box, its air stale with the scent of old coffee and dusty cardboard. Vince, the out-of-state dealer, sat behind a scratched metal desk, his gruff frame slouched in a creaky chair, his darting eyes betraying a nervous edge beneath his weathered tan. His denim shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a faded tattoo of a scorpion, and his fingers tapped a pen with a restless rhythm. He's cartel-connected. Gotta play this smart. Alex set a briefcase on the desk, the $45,000 inside adding a crisp, inky scent to the room. His voice was steady, his candor a calculated blade.
"Forty-five thousand, cash, as agreed," Alex said, meeting Vince's gaze. "I'm looking for quality supply, Vince. No games, no local politics. I run a clean operation, and you're the only one willing to move weight without asking for my life story."
Vince squinted, his pen pausing mid-tap, his suspicion a tangible weight. "You're too straightforward, kid. Gives me the creeps. Most guys in this game lie through their teeth."
Alex leaned forward, his grin sharp. "Straight talk's free, Vince. Loyalty costs. You want my cash, I want your product. Simple math."
Vince grunted, counting the bills with practiced speed, but his eyes kept flicking to the door, a subtle twitch that screamed trouble to Alex's 16x senses. He's stalling. Cartel's in his ear. The deal closed fast—$45,000 for a meth batch Alex knew would double to $90,000 through the system. He processed it in his mind, the drugs vanishing in a silent shimmer as the system chimed, its tone neutral but edged with a challenge.
[SYSTEM: Sell to System: +$90k. Going national, hotshot?]
Hotshot? Try kingpin with a side of caution. Alex's pulse quickened, not from the profit but from the growing sense of being watched, the hairs on his neck prickling. He stood, brushing his jacket, the fabric catching on his thumb. "Need the washroom," he said, already moving toward the back door, his casual tone masking his alertness.
"Outside, around back," Vince replied, his voice too eager, his eyes darting again. He's setting me up.
A faint click—the front door locking—echoed in Alex's enhanced hearing, followed by the rapid thump-thump of boots circling outside. Ambush. Here we go. His sarcasm flared, a shield for the adrenaline flooding him. "Looks like 'expanding nobly' just got a cartel-sized complication."
He kicked the rear fire door with a burst of 16x strength, the metal shrieking as it flew off its hinges, clanging into the alley with a sound like a car crash. Three cartel hitmen rounded the corner, their guns glinting in the sun, their faces hard with intent. The alley reeked of refuse and burning fuel, the glare blinding, but Alex's senses cut through it all—their heavy breaths, the click of a safety, the faint sweat-stink of fear beneath their bravado.
The lead hitman, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, raised his pistol. "You're dead meat, hombre!"
Alex didn't hesitate, his 16x agility a blur as he charged. He sidestepped a wild shot, the crack deafening in the narrow space, and slammed a hammer-fist into the hitman's jaw. The impact was a wet, bone-crunching smack, sending the man flying three meters into a stack of pallets, the wood splintering with a sharp crack. Like swatting a wasp. The second hitman froze, his guard dropping, and Alex spun, wrenching his pistol away with a twist that snapped the man's wrist. An elbow strike followed, collapsing his windpipe with a sickening crunch. Two down, one to go.
The third hitman, smarter, dropped his gun and lunged with a knife, the blade flashing. Alex was a fraction too slow, the steel slicing deep into his flank, a searing pain that made him gasp. Blood soaked his jacket, warm and slick, but his 16x stamina kept him upright, the pain dulling fast. The hitman pressed forward, confident. "Too slow, gringo!"
Alex winced, forcing a sardonic grin. "You know what's a bad career choice? Taking a cheap contract to fight a guy who can punch through concrete. You're underpaid, pal."
The blunt candor, absurd in its honesty, made the hitman hesitate, his brow furrowing. Gotcha. Alex yanked a flash-bang from his belt, tossing it with a flick of his wrist. A blinding CRUMP filled the alley, the light searing his own eyes despite his preparation. He turned, scrambling over a dumpster, his 16x strength powering a leap over a chain-link fence, landing hard on the other side, his flank screaming. The system's voice cut through, dark and warning.
[SYSTEM: Status Debuff: Knife wound, heal in days.]
Days, not weeks. Thank you, superhuman genes. Alex stumbled to his rental car, the pain a persistent ache as he drove to an abandoned lot five miles out, the desert heat pressing through the cracked windows. He tore his shirt, pressing it to the wound, the fabric soaking red but already slowing as his healing kicked in. Time for a diversion. He grabbed a satellite phone from the first hitman's pocket, its plastic scratched and warm, and dialed a cartel manager's number, his voice distorted to mimic panic.
"You need to know something," Alex rasped, his breath ragged but controlled. "The guy who hit Vince's deal? He didn't work alone. He was yelling about a bigger player—a professor running blue product. Said he's already taken half the money from a score near the border. He's heading south!"
The manager's voice snarled, "Where did this 'professor' go?"
"South, some drop point in Arizona. Abandoned spot, said he's meeting a guy with a bad cough." Sorry, Walt, you're my decoy today. Alex smashed the phone under his boot, the crunch satisfying. Lying with candor. My new favorite trick. The ploy sent the cartel chasing a ghost—Walter White, the "professor" with a cough, perfectly timed with his canon shift to the Mexican cartels. Timeline's safe, and I'm clear. He slumped against the seat, the wound's ache fading, his sarcasm a lifeline. "Guess that's one way to send the cartel on a wild chase."
He drove back to Albuquerque, the desert blurring past, his mind on recovery and the next move. Jax needs to know. This is war now.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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