PART 19

The driver had absolutely no love for the cops.

He cursed and grumbled about the police's incompetence, how they couldn't catch a criminal to save their lives, and only caused problems for regular people like him.

The inspection was taking forever. The taxi had come to a halt for a good ten minutes before finally two cops approached, shining their flashlights into the car.

One of them rapped on the window: "ID, please."

Jason and the driver handed over the driver's license and ID .

The police whipped out their gadgets, punched in the license number into their system, and then shone their flashlights onto the faces of the two men to see if the pictures matched

Suddenly, the ride-share app on Jason's phone started beeping.

The police officer inspecting Jason scowled and put his hand on his gun holster, demanding, "Sir, put your hands up and step out of the vehicle for further inspection."

Suspicious, Jason asked, "Is there a problem with my ID?"

The officer's grip on his gun tightened as he barked, "Sir, put your hands up now!"

"Easy there, officer," Jason complied and stepped out of the car, dropping to the ground and covering his head with his hands.

One officer patted him down while another searched the car and trunk meticulously.

After a thorough search, they found no prohibited items.

The officer breathed a sigh of relief and handed back the ID. "Your Card has some issues, sir. Take care of them before it's too late."

"Thank you, officer," Jason said, flashing a smile as he took back his ID.

"Yo, let's roll!"

The taxi lurched forward and the grumbling uncle driver resumed his complaints.

Jason, unperturbed, struck up a conversation with the driver while surreptitiously sliding his hands under the seat and pressing up, creating a gap between the seat and the base.

A sleek Glock 20 pistol lay nestled in the darkness, waiting.

They left Manhattan without incident and Jason hopped out at a Queens mall, walking a few hundred meters before flagging down another taxi.

This time, the driver was a young black dude in his twenties.

"Yo, where you headed, man?"

"The **** club on XX street."

The driver's eyes widened in disbelief. "Yo, that's a straight-up slum area, man. Security's nonexistent, homeless people everywhere. If you need, I can hook you up with a better spot."

Jason waved him off. "Nah, I got an appointment with a friend."

The driver shrugged helplessly.

When it's a date with a friend, there's nothing you can do.

Checking the time on his phone, Jason realized he still had ten minutes before his appointment with Franklin. He couldn't spot his friend, so he decided to reach out to him via Facebook.

The club had a vintage look with a faded neon sign and disgusting vomit stains at the entrance. However, it was a favorite pastime spot for the less fortunate in the slums.

At the door, a towering black security guard greeted Jason with a pitch for a $10 striptease. After payment, he was granted entry into the club.

Despite its worn-out exterior, the club was surprisingly spacious, covering an area of 600-700 square meters. The lounge and bar were at the periphery, and an oval dance floor occupied the center.

Several average-looking strippers swayed their bodies on steel poles to the upbeat music and flashing lights, revealing their seductive curves.

Around the dance floor, small round stools were occupied by enthusiastic men waving their change bills to catch the strippers' attention. The club was bustling with activity and the noise level was so high that people had to shout to communicate

👨‍💻 Jason: Hey man, I'm at the club. Where are you?

👨‍💼 Franklin: 💺 The elegant seat directly opposite the entrance.

Jason strode through the crowd, scanning the club for his friend. And there he was, sitting alone in a dark corner, dressed in an eye-catching outfit with an old-fashioned hairstyle.

As Jason approached, Franklin looked up, confused at first. Then, after a few seconds, he realized who it was and exclaimed, "Holy shit! You're not playing games with me, are you? You're really Jason!"

Without a word, Jason leaned forward and pulled down his collar, revealing a gruesome gunshot wound near his heart. This was the only injury he had posted on Facebook, and Franklin had reposted it, claiming it was a real man's tattoo.

At first puzzled, then thoughtful, Franklin's expression finally settled on one of surprise and excitement. "Damn, it really is you! But why do you look like that?"

Jason let go of Franklin's hand and put a finger to his lips, signaling for him to be quiet. "If you had a $13 million bounty on your head, you would be just as cautious," he whispered.

Franklin nodded in understanding, then suddenly stood up from his seat, his expression full of excitement and his words tumbling out in a rush.

"I can't believe it's really you!" he exclaimed. "I'm your biggest fan, man! Back in junior high, while all my classmates were drooling over those Hollywood stars, I knew they were all just a bunch of soft pussies. But you, you're the real deal."

"You clawed your way up from nothing, taking down enemies left and right, and you emerged from the blood and guts as a true man," he continued, his eyes shining with admiration.

"Can I get a picture with you?" he asked eagerly, before realizing that it might not be safe for Jason to be seen in public. "Oh, never mind, I understand," he added, deflated but still in awe.

Franklin's excitement was palpable as he expressed his desire to join Jason and become his " brother".

Jason, however, was quick to warn him of the dangers that lay ahead and the fact that he had nothing left to offer but his own life. But Franklin remained undeterred and pledged to stand by Jason's side no matter what.

Satisfied with his new " brother's" resolve, Jason nodded and welcomed him into the fold.

But their conversation was interrupted by a passing stripper, who offered Franklin a personal dance for a staggering $500.