Christine clenched her fists, her heart pounding with excitement.
She was already fantasizing about what she'd be like with superpowers.
As a Hollywood A-lister, Christine raked in $20 million per film, plus a shit-ton of cash from endorsements and gig appearances at expos. Her legit bank account was sitting pretty at two or three hundred million bucks.
Then there was her Black Organization, dealing in smuggling, robbery, and straight-up murder-for-profit—shady shit that paid off big. Though they'd only been at it a few years, they'd already banked four or five hundred million.
If she liquidated all her assets, she'd have enough to buy a superpower from Jason.
Christine's face turned dead serious. "Five hundred million, you said? I'll start moving my personal funds and the Black Organization's assets right now."
Jason grinned. "No problem. Money hits my account, you pick your power."
Christine was loaded, but the other two? They were fucked.
David, always the independent type, hated relying on others. He was already scheming to take on some side gigs. With his godlike marksmanship, a year or two of hustling could net him the cash.
Harley, though? She wasn't about that grind. She sauntered up to Jason, threw her arms around his neck, and cooed, "Honey, you just got over five hundred million, right? Use it to buy me a superpower!"
Then she planted a wet kiss on his cheek.
Jason wiped the spit off with his sleeve, shaking his head. "You're such a damn mooch. That five hundred forty million was a team effort. If I gave it all to you, you think these two would be cool with that? What kind of fairness would the Joker Organization have then?"
Harley pouted, laying on the charm. "But I don't have any money-making skills! If I have to save up, I'll never get to five hundred million in my lifetime."
Christine smirked, throwing shade. "Stop dreaming of getting shit for free. If you really want cash, I can hook you up with some *business*."
Harley knew exactly what kind of "business" Christine meant. She spun around, flipping her the bird.
Jason grabbed Harley's hand to calm her down. "Chill. Once we're back in New York, everyone's getting work. I'll divide up profits based on what you put in. Bust your ass, and in six months, five hundred million will be pocket change."
"Really?" Harley whined, still pouting.
She was like a spoiled brat—when she wanted something, she wanted it *now*. Waiting six months? Might as well be forever.
Jason patted her head, dead serious. "Trust me. Robbing banks every day's a shitty long-term plan. We need steady income. New York's black market is a fucking goldmine waiting for us to carve up. I'll make sure everyone eats."
With Jason's promise, Harley finally peeled herself off him, grudgingly agreeing.
Talk of New York jogged Jason's memory—he hadn't checked in with the crew there in ages.
How was the ranch holding up? Could John and Franklin keep those hardcore prisoners in line?
He pulled out his phone and dialed John.
"Hey, boss!" John's low, gravelly voice came through after a few seconds.
"John! How's it been? Those prisoners are still behaving?"
The line went quiet. After a pause, John said, "It's… alright. The first few days, they were chill. Fresh out of prison, all they wanted was to eat, drink, fuck, and soak up the sun."
"But lately, they're getting restless. Starting to act up, trying to sneak out. I caught a few and beat their asses, but now some are grumbling, talking shit behind my back."
A spark of rage flared in Jason's chest.
"Grumbling?" He growled. "I bust them out of prison, feed them, give them a place to crash, and they've got the balls to complain? I wanna see which fuckers are acting tough."
"Don't worry," He added. "L.A. is wrapped up. I'll be back in a few days. Keep a tight leash on them. Anyone steps out of line, make an example of him. Don't go soft."
"Got it, boss," John said, brimming with confidence. "I've got this. Those punks won't stir up shit with me around. Oh, and I saw the news last night and this morning. That bullet- and RPG-absorbing thing… that your superpower?"
Jason chuckled. "Hell yeah. Pretty badass, right?"
"Fuckin' awesome," John said, envy dripping from his voice. "So, I was wondering—"
Jason cut him off. "I know what you're gonna ask. You're on the right track. We'll talk when I'm back."
Not wanting to spill more, John backed off. "Alright, boss."
Jason hung up, his face darkening.
John's tone was too casual, like he was downplaying shit to keep Jason from worrying. That meant the ranch was probably a bigger mess than he let on.
Time to return to New York. The organization needed him in charge, or it'd go to hell.
He immediately called Stan.
"Boss! Holy shit!" Stan's sleazy voice blared through the speaker.
"You're a goddamn celebrity now! TV, newspapers, social media—everyone's talking about you. Even when I got that presidential medal, I didn't get this much hype."
Jason snorted. "Sorry for stealing your spotlight."
Stan laughed. "No apologies needed! I'm just gonna say it—I'm jealous as fuck of your superpowers."
Jason rubbed his temples, exasperated. *Why's everyone so damn obsessed with superpowers?*
"We'll talk about powers when I'm back," He said. "Stick with me, and you'll get cash, powers—whatever you want."
Stan chuckled. "I'll hold you to that blank check. What do you need me to do?"
Jason's tone turned serious. "L.A.'s done. I need to get back to New York ASAP. Make it happen."
"No problem, I'm on it," Stan said coolly. "Send me a photo of everyone heading to New York, and I'll get the IDs sorted."
"Done. And heads-up, the ranch is a shitshow. Move fast."
"Got it," Stan replied. "I'll have the plane and papers ready in two days, tops."
Jason nodded, hung up, and looked at the crew. "Alright, let's take that photo."
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.