Chapter 19: Stansfield's Raid
As it turns out, no matter how talented you are, skill means nothing in certain situations.
Take, for example, Léon's close-quarters combat training. Even though Jake, with his enhanced cognition, carefully calculated the trajectory and force of Léon's strikes, and meticulously planned how to evade them, it was all useless.
His body couldn't keep up; all his calculations were wasted, leaving him helplessly watching the powerful punch connect with his left cheekbone without any chance to counter.
"You don't pull punches, do you?" Jake complained, rubbing his face as he got up from the floor, eyes watering—an involuntary physical response.
"Shouldn't we ease into this?"
Léon's answer was always straightforward: "This is what the work requires," he said, gesturing for Jake to continue.
"Can't we just focus on marksmanship? I can hit center mass from a hundred yards." Although Jake possessed an extraordinary ability, it was precisely this advantage that led him to subconsciously seek easier paths.
If he couldn't master something in this world, couldn't he just learn it in another?
Training was the same; he could simply visit some action movie world and train there instead.
"I can close the distance before you get a shot off." Léon raised his fist. Who would have thought that the unassuming middle-aged professional was actually built like an athlete under his clothes?
"Okay, point taken." Jake raised his hand to concede the argument. "Let's continue."
Seeing Léon about to strike again, Jake quickly shouted, "Not the face!"
Every morning at 6 AM was Jake's running time.
According to Léon, Jake possessed natural aptitude—perfect hand-eye coordination and an instinct for firearms.
However, his conditioning was poor; he lacked bone density and muscle mass. While his weight was normal, he had no real strength. Léon explained that sustained weapons use would exhaust him quickly.
Give him a shotgun, and the recoil would knock him off balance. Many civilians might struggle with high-caliber firearms, but for a professional, this was clearly unacceptable.
An hour later, after running laps around the industrial area and eating breakfast at 8 AM, the two went to a basement facility for private hand-to-hand training sessions.
Because Jake had rapidly absorbed theoretical knowledge while using NZT-48, Léon focused on practical application through continuous sparring, though Jake privately considered it "getting his ass kicked."
Who would have thought the seemingly reserved Jean Reno could be so ruthless?
In the afternoons, Léon usually worked his cover job, sometimes taking Jake along, but more often leaving him behind.
Whenever this happened, Jake would visit The Princess Diaries world to see Mia. The two were deep in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, though they hadn't made it official yet, their behavior was unmistakably couple-like.
However, Jake always had to explain away his bruises and injuries.
After more than a week, Jake looked noticeably more fit, with visible muscle definition when shirtless.
That afternoon, as usual, Jake removed his shirt and began handstand training in Léon's apartment. This was only his third day attempting this exercise.
He leaned against the wall, his body not perfectly vertical, his arms supporting his trembling frame.
Yet he persisted.
One benefit of training with Léon was that this experienced professional guided through demonstration rather than lecture. Although he didn't offer motivational speeches, his actions always influenced you.
Just as Léon had his own code—never harm women or children—Jake was developing his own principles.
In this situation, perseverance was becoming part of his code.
Just as he was about to collapse against the wall, a gunshot rang out, startling him so badly that his arms gave out and he fell.
That was gunfire; Jake recognized it immediately, and it wasn't far—maybe thirty feet away!
Realizing this, Jake sprang to his feet, grabbing two pistols from the table.
The guns were Beretta 92Fs, comfortable in his grip.
He checked both weapons, chambering rounds with two clicks.
Barefoot, he slowly approached the door, listening intently to sounds outside. Frenzied shouting entered Jake's ears through the door.
"You hear that? That's Beethoven!" a manic voice cried out. "I love this symphony, don't you?"
"Yeah, yeah..." another voice sounded nervous. "But Stansfield, we're here for the package."
"So I opened this door with firepower!" the man called Stansfield roared, then seemed to catch himself and lowered his voice. "So grab your weapons and sweep the place!"
Hearing this, Jake was certain this was Stansfield and his crew from the original film—corrupt DEA agents. Mathilda's father had skimmed drugs from evidence, which Stansfield's team had discovered, so they'd come to eliminate the family.
Honestly, Mathilda's family weren't good people. Every day when Jake went running, he'd see the young girl sitting alone on the stairwell like a lost puppy, nursing her wounds and quietly crying.
It wasn't just neglect; her father was a criminal, her stepmother was dysfunctional, and her stepsister was, in Mathilda's own words, "a total airhead."
Therefore, Jake wasn't particularly troubled by their fate. But there was one person—Mathilda herself—whom he'd genuinely liked when watching the film.
Now, because of Jake's presence, events had shifted; Stansfield's crew had arrived early, but Léon hadn't returned from work yet. Who would help Mathilda?
Looking down at the two guns in his hands, Jake made his decision in that moment.
Letting a character he cared about die right in front of him was unacceptable, especially now that he had the power to change this tragic outcome.
Through the peephole, Jake saw Mathilda outside, frozen with shock. She wasn't carrying anything—another deviation from the movie.
He couldn't rely too heavily on the plot; this was the hasty conclusion Jake drew.
The large man near the door had begun eyeing Mathilda suspiciously, even slowly raising his weapon.
Another shot rang out from inside the apartment. From the sound, it seemed Mathilda's stepmother had been killed.
Taking a deep breath, Jake, still shirtless, simply opened the door and stepped out, both pistols held ready behind his back.