MARVEL'S BIG VILLAIN

Jason wasn't joking, and Wesley immediately tensed up.

"What the hell are you planning now? Let me warn you if you're thinking about going after Fisk, forget it! I won't give up any intel on him, no matter what you do with that recording."

Jason chuckled. "I really envy Wilson Fisk. A loyal right-hand man like you is rare. But relax I'm not interested in picking a fight with the Kingpin. Not yet. What I need is information on the Biker gang that runs in Hell's Kitchen."

"The Riders?" Wesley sounded surprised. "You don't have any beef with them, do you?"

"No, but I need cash fast. I heard they recently boosted a shipment of custom-built high-performance motorcycles, planning to smuggle them to South America."

"That's true, but why are you suddenly interested in them?"

Jason smirked. "I'm only interested in the money."

"Even if I had that information, why would I give it to you?"

"Because Fisk's vision is to clean up Hell's Kitchen and control all crime in New York. The Riders are just another gang that needs 'purifying.' Eventually, you'll have to deal with them. Feeding me this intel means I do some of your dirty work for you."

"No way! Right now, all the gangs in New York are united against you. If Fisk lets you live, it'll weaken our hold on the underworld."

Jason sighed. "Then let's keep it simple trade the Riders' location for your little blackmail material. That's my final offer. Otherwise, you'll be rotting in prison for the rest of your life."

Before Wesley could argue, Jason hung up. He knew Wesley was smart enough to make the right choice.

---

After finishing breakfast, Jason's phone buzzed with a text from Wesley.

It contained an address and a final warning:

"Jason, this is the last time I help you. The next time we meet, I'll kill you myself."

Jason smirked. No, Wesley… the next time we meet, it'll be your death.

He showed Franklin the address.

"This place is in the north Bronx an abandoned factory."

Jason nodded. "Perfect place to hide stolen goods."

"Boss, what's the plan?"

"The Riders have a stash of high-end stolen bikes. We're going to relieve them of it."

Franklin's eyes gleamed. Having money meant finally getting out of his miserable situation with Dennis.

"What do we need?"

Jason leaned back. "We'll need firepower I have guns stashed at my safe house. But we also need a new ride. We can't use your car too easy to track."

Franklin smirked. "I can borrow one."

Jason nodded. "One more thing cover your face. My bounty just went up again. If we slip up, we'll have half of New York's underworld on our asses."

"How much?" Franklin asked, suddenly concerned.

"The gangs pooled together a total of fifteen million dollars on my head."

Franklin whistled, stunned. "Damn, boss. You've pissed off everyone."

Jason shrugged. "I've been in the game too long. I know every crime lord, every backroom deal, every skeleton buried in this city. If the cops get me, and I talk, the entire New York underworld collapses. That's why every gangster and hitman wants me dead."

Franklin nodded grimly. He had underestimated just how deep Jason was in this war.

"Alright, I'll get the car," Franklin said.

"We'll meet at the parking lot three kilometers away."

---

Jason retrieved his weapons from his safe house in Queens, then drove to the rendezvous point.

As night fell, Franklin pulled up in a sleek Honda S2000 Roadster.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "This is the best you could steal?"

Franklin looked offended. "Boss, this is the best! The Honda S2000 is the greatest roadster ever built. 9000 RPM redline, perfect weight balance, and legendary handling. It's pure driving perfection."

Jason sighed. "It's a car, Franklin. It moves."

Franklin rolled his eyes. "No taste at all…"

---

They drove toward the factory. One kilometer away, Franklin turned off the road, parking the car in an abandoned lot. The two grabbed their weapons and crept closer.

As they moved in, the deep rumble of an Mack Pinnacle heavy truck filled the air.

A massive semi-truck with a container trailer pulled up in front of the factory, its exhaust spewing dark smoke into the night sky.

Jason grinned. "Looks like we got here at the right time."

The truck stopped in front of the lit factory. A dozen burly men in biker leathers with skull insignias lounged outside on custom Harley-Davidsons and Ducati Diavels, smoking and laughing.

As the truck's back gate lowered, the bikers sprang into action, rolling out high-end MV Agustas, BMW S1000RRs, and Ducati Panigales from the warehouse and into the container.

Jason counted. Fifty-two motorcycles.

"Franklin, you're the car guy. What's that worth?"

Franklin crouched and scribbled on the dusty concrete floor with his finger.

Jason sighed. "Can't you just count in your head?"

"Boss, I'm not Chinese," Franklin muttered.

Five minutes and two miscalculations later, Franklin had the answer.

"These bikes are worth about four million dollars."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Hell yeah."

Jason smirked. "Perfect. Even if they're hot, we can still move them for at least half that."

The bikers finished loading the last motorcycle. One of them barked orders, and a group mounted Yamaha VMAXs and Harley Fat Boys, ready to escort the truck.

The semi rumbled back to life, rolling onto the main road.

Jason and Franklin sprinted back to their Honda S2000, keeping their headlights off as they tailed the truck into the darkened streets of the Bronx.

"Stay close," Jason muttered. "That truck is our payday."

Franklin cracked his knuckles. "Boss, you picked the right guy for this job."

Jason smirked. "Then let's make some money."