After the hardass finished, Jason fell silent.
Stark Industries beefing up security and tightening secrecy was no surprise.
But what kind of security could make Stark Industries an impenetrable fortress, keeping out even L.A.'s local gangs and dirty cops?
It was a mystery. Short of storming in and interrogating someone, no amount of bribes or threats could crack it.
With no intel, a frontal assault was the only option.
But charging in required a plan—not brainless recklessness.
If Stark had some game-changing trump card, Jason didn't have a second life to gamble.
The hardass's idea was solid.
A diversion.
Jason mulled it over. The plan seemed sound.
Send a suicide squad to storm the front, force Stark's hand, and reveal their cards. Then Jason could decide whether to push or pull back.
The flaw? After this probe, Stark would be on high alert, making the next move harder.
"Your plan's good. Make it happen."
"Yes, sir!"
Thrilled by the boss's approval, the hardass rallied the others to leave and assemble the suicide squad.
Once alone, Jason sprawled on the living room couch.
One question nagged him.
Stark Industries dealt in weapons. To avoid backstabs from rivals, their security was always tight.
Last time Jason infiltrated, he'd only gotten in because of a fluke with a guard and Christine's masterful disguise. Even then, their security was top-notch for a private company.
After Jason's billion-dollar bank heist, Stark would've patched every hole and upgraded again.
But here's the thing.
No matter how hard a private company tried, their security had limits. Guards were human—weak links.
Jason didn't buy that every guard was immune to the branch's multimillion-dollar bribes.
Only one explanation made sense: Stark had outside help, likely government or military.
Only those players could lock down secrecy so tight that cops and criminals couldn't find a crack.
Was Stark working with the military on a classified project?
Jason felt he was closing in on the truth.
But what project justified this much effort?
He stopped guessing. If luck held, he'd know tonight.
…
An hour and a half later, Jason, dressed and ready, left the room. A branch member arrived, saying the suicide squad was assembled and asking if he wanted to see.
Jason, always curious, followed through a maze of halls to a cavernous warehouse.
Overhead lights hung from the ceiling. In the center, twenty or thirty people stood scattered.
Different clothes, looks, skin tones.
One thing in common: hollow, lifeless eyes.
The hardass was on a platform, giving a speech, the squad listening intently.
As his words hit their peak, the emptiness in their eyes gave way to fervor.
Before L.A., the hardass trained at HQ. Beyond combat and firearms, speechcraft was mandatory.
His words, crafted by the organization's psychologists and orators, targeted people broken by disease, poverty, and injustice.
Precise rhetoric, paired with his passionate delivery, lit a fire in the squad, like a dying man's last surge.
"Boss, want to speak?" An underling asked.
Jason shook his head, smiling. "I might not top him."
The guy nodded, staying quiet.
Speech done, the squad's morale peaked. Time to move.
Two trucks loaded with weapons and ammo rolled in. The squad climbed aboard.
"Boss, it's time," The hardass said, seeking approval.
"Go."
…
Midnight.
L.A., the city that never sleeps, glowed with neon and debauchery.
But that was downtown. The suburbs had gone quiet, with sparse foot and car traffic.
West L.A., Stark Industries HQ.
The factory was shut down, most areas dark.
After the leak six months ago, Stark had tightened security. Harsh, impersonal rules pissed off workers and guards alike.
Days ago, those rules got stricter—downright draconian.
Workers noticed familiar guards vanishing, replaced by burly, stone-faced men.
These new guys were rigid, patrolling routes obsessively, checking every detail.
Any issue, even minor, led to a trip to the security room for a thorough shakedown.
In just days, over a thousand complaints piled up, but they vanished without a trace.
Workers were gone, but Stark's massive campus still crawled with dozens of ten-man security teams.
Each guard was jacked, clad in full-body armor, steel helmets, and face shields, wielding massive guns never seen on the market.
Even unsupervised, they patrolled diligently.
…
Three blocks from Stark Industries, Jason and the branch's top brass sat in a black Cadillac SUV.
The hardass checked his watch. "Almost time. The squad should be there."
Jason opened the door and stepped out alone.
"I'll scout from above. Switch comms to the secure channel. If shit hits the fan, you bail. I'm better off solo."
The hardass nodded. "Good luck, boss."
Jason shut the door, slipped into the dark, and powered up, soaring 100 meters into the air.
The cool night breeze hit as L.A.'s dazzling lights spread below.
This view never got old.
Smiling, he adjusted his sunglasses. "Chloe, activate high-res zoom."
"On it, boss!"
The earpiece hummed, and the shades' display zoomed in, giving Jason a crystal-clear view of Stark's front gate.
After a few minutes of cold air, a faint engine rumble reached his ears.
He turned. Two trucks sped down the road toward Stark Industries.
Jason's lips curled.
Showtime.
.
.
.
.
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.