MARVEL'S BIG VILLAIN

Jason couldn't help but laugh.

"Congratulations, Vladimir. Your brother's now a eunuch!"

"Jason, stop!"

"I... I can compensate you. I'll cover your house and all your losses. Just please, don't hurt Anatoly."

Jason remained unmoved: "Sorry, but the only compensation I accept is your brother's life."

"FUCK YOU!"

Jason shook his head, thinking how limited American curse words were—just the same phrases repeated. Couldn't they be more creative?

"Hey! Hear your brother's screams? Why not rush to save him?"

Bang!

A bullet pierced Anatoly's thigh, eliciting another scream.

Jason's marksmanship had improved; this shot injured muscle without hitting arteries.

Anatoly's cries made Vladimir restless.

Finally, he couldn't resist and ordered one of his men to rescue Anatoly.

Emerging from the safe passage now was akin to suicide.

The chosen thug was reluctant but, under Vladimir's fierce glare and the threat of a pistol, he complied.

Sighing, the man crawled out, pressing his body to the ground.

He cautiously reached Anatoly, grabbing his feet to pull him back.

A wide trail of bright red blood smeared the white floor.

Jason watched coldly, his M4A1 trained on them, but he didn't shoot immediately.

When Anatoly was just a few meters from safety—

Bang!

A bullet tore through the rescuer's head.

"Shit!"

Vladimir slammed his fist on the ground in fury.

"Boss, it's Jason's trap. He wants to lure you out. Don't be rash."

The remaining thugs urged.

With the second-in-command incapacitated, if the boss fell, the Russian Mafia would collapse.

Vladimir knew it was Jason's ploy.

Logic told him to stay calm.

But seeing Anatoly lying there, barely alive...

His heart ached, and his feet itched to move.

His brother was out there.

As they hesitated, distant police sirens wailed.

Ten minutes had passed since the apartment explosion; the NYPD sure took their time.

The sirens snapped Vladimir back to reality.

"Boss, the cops are coming. We need to go."

Vladimir nodded.

With tear-filled eyes, he glanced at Anatoly one last time before retreating.

Jason!

I'll remember this.

Even if it costs me my life, I'll see you dead!

...

Jason heard the sirens too.

"Damn," he muttered, quickly firing several shots into Anatoly's body.

"Vladimir, leaving your brother behind?"

No response from the safe passage.

Vladimir had fled, ruining Jason's plan.

Sighing, Jason shot Anatoly in the head and swiftly left.

Jason entered a Nike store, donned new black sneakers, grabbed a large backpack, stuffed it with guns and ammo, and topped it off with a baseball cap. He exited through a concealed employee passage.

...

Stepping outside, the sky was pitch black, and the sirens grew louder.

Jason lowered his cap's brim and hurried into an alley, blending into the shadows.

The streets were crowded with people, vehicles, and surveillance cameras; the alleys were his best bet.

But alleys had their own dangers.

"Hey, buddy, what's in the bag?"

Three teens, around sixteen or seventeen, blocked Jason's path.

Their hair was dyed in vibrant colors, metal accessories clinked, gum smacked in their mouths, and daggers gleamed in their hands.

Jason lowered his head, setting his backpack down: "Got some goodies. Wanna see?"

"Of course! Show us."

One threatened with his knife.

"Easy now, I'm getting it."

Jason reached into his bag and pulled out a shotgun.

The trio froze.

"Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun, semi-automatic, handles various calibers. One shot can blow a hole in your chest. Low recoil, not too loud. Nice, huh?"

"Oh, shit!"

The three yelped and bolted.

Watching them flee, Jason reminisced about his youth.

He used to be like them, lurking in filthy alleys, robbing passersby.

The difference? Jason wielded a loaded 9mm pistol, not a dagger.

Time flies.

After a moment of reflection, Jason stowed the shotgun, traversed three blocks, and left the alley.

After switching through three taxis, Jason reached his destination.

A rental warehouse on Manhattan's west side, by the Hudson River.

These self-storage units were cheap and convenient, popular among Americans.

In remote areas, a 20-square-meter unit cost just $80 a month.

As long as you paid on time, no one questioned what you stored.

Jason rented a 100-square-meter unit as his safe house.

Its location was a secret, unknown even to his closest associates.

He unlocked the rolling shutter.

Inside was a pile of worn furniture.

TV, sofa, dining table, chairs, convenience foods, drinking water...

At first glance, it looked like any other storage unit.

He closed the shutter, grabbed a flashlight from a drawer.

After moving the furniture, he retrieved a dusty suitcase.

Inside were clothes, guns, ammo, a driver's license, passport, medical kit, phone, and twenty thousand dollars in cash...

In this line of work, precautions were necessary. Jason had seven such safe houses.

He opened the medical kit and removed his bloodstained jacket.

Sitting on the sofa, he disinfected, stitched, and bandaged his wounds.

He was more proficient than many hospital nurses.

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