The taxi driver's opinion of the NYPD was as low as Wilson Fisk's regard for masked vigilantes.
He cursed the police for their incompetence, claiming they couldn't catch real criminals and only made life harder for regular people.
The checkpoint was moving at a crawl. Ten minutes passed before two officers, one in standard blue and another in tactical gear, approached with flashlights.
The cab driver immediately fell silent.
The older officer knocked on the window. "License and registration."
Jason and the driver handed over their documents.
The officer scanned them with a portable database device, then shined his flashlight on Jason's face, comparing it to the ID.
A sharp beep-beep cut through the night air.
The officer's hand instinctively dropped to his holster. "Step out of the vehicle. Hands where I can see them."
Jason played the part of the confused citizen. "Officer, is there a problem with my ID?"
"Out of the car. Now."
"Alright, alright. No need to get excited."
Jason complied, stepping out and lying on the ground with his hands behind his head, playing the docile suspect.
One officer frisked him while the other checked the trunk and backseat.
Minutes later, the search came up empty.
The officer narrowed his eyes. "Your car's been flagged for multiple traffic violations. Get it taken care of."
Jason flashed a practiced smile. "Of course, officer. Thanks for the heads-up."
The driver wasted no time pulling away, his grumbling returning in full force.
Jason smirked but kept his hands steady as he reached under the seat, fingers finding the cold steel of a Glock 20. He slid it into his waistband.
After clearing Manhattan, things were smooth sailing.
Jason switched cabs at a Queens shopping mall, his next driver a young black man with a casual hoodie and an Avengers keychain dangling from the ignition.
"Where to?"
"The Hellfire Lounge on XX Street."
The driver stiffened. "Damn, man. That's a rough neighborhood. Homeless camps, gang bangers, and Fisk's people all over. You sure you don't want something classier?"
Jason gave a lazy shrug. "Got a meeting."
The driver muttered something about crazy rich folks but didn't push.
By 8:50, Jason arrived at the club.
The neon sign flickered weakly, half the bulbs burnt out. A pool of dried vomit stained the entrance, the sour smell clinging to the air.
Jason wrinkled his nose. This place made Josie's Bar in Hell's Kitchen look upscale.
A towering security guard, built like one of Bane's henchmen, loomed at the door.
"You here for the show?" the guard asked, voice gravelly. "Ten bucks."
Jason handed over a bill, slipping inside.
The place was dim, hazy with cheap smoke and the stink of alcohol. An oval dance floor took center stage, occupied by a few strippers moving to the beat of a Dazzler remix track.
Men crowded the bar and stage, waving bills at the dancers, their attention split between the performances and the flashing TV screens broadcasting Daily Bugle news.
Jason pulled out his burner phone and sent a message.
"I'm here. Where are you?"
Seconds later, Franklin replied.
"Corner booth, directly across from the entrance."
Jason scanned the room and spotted him sipping cheap whiskey alone in a dimly lit corner.
Green sweater, gray shorts, and sneakers that had seen better days. His buzzed haircut and awkward fashion sense made him stand out like a sore thumb.
Jason approached and took a seat.
Franklin looked up, blinked, then scowled.
"Shit! You're screwin' with me. You ain't Jason Walter."
Jason said nothing. Instead, he reached for his collar, pulling it down just enough to reveal a jagged gunshot scar near his heart the same wound he'd once posted on his old Facebook account.
Franklin had even reposted that image, calling it "the mark of a real warrior."
Recognition dawned on Franklin's face. Confusion turned to shock, then to excitement.
"Holy ! You're really him?"
Jason shushed him. "Keep it down. When you've got a $13 million bounty on your head, blending in helps."
Franklin's excitement was barely contained.
"I buy it!" He nearly jumped out of his seat. "Man, I been followin' you since middle school! My classmates used to drool over Hollywood tough guys, but I knew they were just actors. You? You climbed up from the bottom, fought tooth and nail, took on the Russian mob and came out alive"
He kept rambling, his admiration pouring out in an excited stream of words.
Jason finally interrupted. "Alright, alright. So why'd you want to meet?"
Franklin took a deep breath. Then, with unwavering seriousness, said, "I want in. I wanna be your guy, ride or die."
Jason's expression hardened. "I have nothing right now. No safehouses, no backup, and Kingpin himself wants my head. You sure you're ready for that?"
Franklin didn't flinch. "Been ready. I don't care if we got nothin'. Just being part of your crew is enough."
Jason studied him for a long moment. The kid wasn't bluffing.
Finally, he nodded. "Alright. You're with me now."
"Yes!" Franklin pumped his fist nearly smacking a passing stripper.
"Oh!"
"Shit sorry, girl!"
The stripper, a curvy woman with long braids and an outfit that barely qualified as clothing, smirked.
"No worries, sugar. You wanna private dance? Five hundred bucks."
Franklin gulped. "Uh…"
Jason chuckled, pulled out a wad of cash, and tossed it onto the table.
"Actually, call over your friends. Make it a party. My little brother here deserves a proper welcome."
Franklin's jaw dropped.
The stripper grinned, signaling her colleagues over.
Jason leaned back, watching the kid's awestruck face, amused.
He had a feeling things were about to get interesting.
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