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MTV Chapter 41
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 01:46:21 +0000 UTCStan stumbled out of the prison gates, the sky bruising with the faint glow of dawn. His head was a fucking mess, a storm of rage and frustration churning inside him. Sleep? Not a chance in hell. His nerves were raw, his blood boiling with the need to drown his demons in a bottle of something strong—whiskey, vodka, anything to numb the chaos in his skull. He wanted to get shitfaced, to let the world blur into a haze where he could scream, punch, or fuck his way out of this suffocating anger.
Sliding into the backseat of the waiting car, his trusted driver, a guy named Tommy, glanced back at him. “Stan, you want me to take you home to crash?”
Stan’s lips parted to spit out the name of the sleaziest dive bar he could think of, a place where the liquor was cheap and the fights were free. But then Jason’s words slammed into his mind like a freight train, sharp and urgent. He clenched his jaw, his voice rough as gravel. “Fuck no. Take me to the safehouse in Queens.”
The car peeled out, tires screeching against the asphalt as Stan stared out the window, the city’s grime mirroring the filth in his thoughts. He didn’t know what the hell Jason was playing at, but he’d be damned if he didn’t follow through.
---
Inside the safehouse, Franklin was losing his goddamn mind. He paced the living room like a caged animal, his boots scuffing the worn-out carpet, his fists clenching and unclenching. Three fucking days since Jason got nabbed, and Franklin was stuck here, glued to the TV like some useless schmuck, watching news anchors spew bullshit about his boss. His stomach churned with helplessness, his mind racing for a plan—any plan—to spring Jason. But nothing. Not a single fucking idea.
“Franklin, it’s me!” Stan’s voice boomed from the doorway, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
Franklin’s heart leapt into his throat. He bolted to the door, yanking it open, his eyes wide with desperate hope. “Stan! How’s the boss? The fucking news said they threw him in some max-security shithole. Is that true?”
Stan collapsed onto the sagging couch, his body heavy with exhaustion. He grabbed a beer from the coffee table, cracked it open, and chugged half the can in one go, the bitter fizz burning his throat. “Yeah, it’s fucking true,” He growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And it’s worse than you think. That prison’s a goddamn fortress. Less than three hundred inmates, but over a thousand guards—armed to the teeth, cameras everywhere, the works. No way in hell we’re busting him out with muscle.”
Franklin’s face fell, the spark of hope snuffed out like a cigarette under a boot. “Then what the fuck do we do? You’re the damn DEA chief! You telling me you can’t pull some strings, make some calls, get him out?”
Stan let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I’m DEA, not the fucking Attorney General. I don’t have the juice to spring a guy like Jason from a place like that.” He leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he lowered his voice. “But… Jason said something weird as hell. Told me some cryptic shit I can’t wrap my head around.”
He recounted Jason’s instructions word for word, his voice thick with skepticism. Franklin’s jaw dropped, his brain struggling to process it. “What the fuck? He wants us to go out and raise hell in his name? That’s his plan? What kind of batshit logic is that?”
Any sane person would think it was nuts, a fever dream straight out of a bad movie. But Franklin’s eyes lit up, a wild glint sparking in them. “Wait, hold up. I get it. The boss is playing 4D chess. He wants us to fuck shit up so bad the feds have no choice but to cut a deal and let him walk.”
Stan rolled his eyes, slumping back against the couch. “Jesus, Franklin, you've been watching too much Hollywood. That shit doesn’t happen in real life. You think the government’s gonna cave because we cause a ruckus? Get real.”
But Franklin wasn’t listening. His mind was racing, conviction burning in his chest. “No, man, I’m telling you, this is it! Jason’s counting on us to stir up some serious chaos. We gotta hit ‘em where it hurts. Let’s plan this shit now.”
Stan’s lips twitched, half a smirk, half a grimace. Franklin’s idea was fucking insane, but what else did they have? A whole lot of nothing, that’s what. He sighed, grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen from the table. “Fine. Jason said if we’re gonna do this, we go big—fucking deranged, balls-to-the-wall crazy. Something that’ll make headlines scream. I’m thinking of a bomb in Times Square. Maximum exposure, maximum panic.”
Franklin nodded, his pulse quickening, but then he leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. “I like the bomb idea, but Times Square’s too obvious. Let’s hit ‘em where it’ll really hurt. The NYPD headquarters.”
Stan’s head snapped back, his eyes wide. “Holy shit, man!” He let out a low whistle, a mix of shock and grudging respect. “You’re one crazy motherfucker, you know that? You pull that off, every cop in America will hunt you down like a dog. You’ll be dodging badges from here to fucking Antarctica.”
Franklin’s face hardened, his jaw set. “Let ‘em come. If it means getting Jason out, I’ll rot in a cell next to him for life. I ain’t scared.”
Stan stared at him, a flicker of admiration cutting through his cynicism. Franklin might be a dumbass sometimes, but the guy’s loyalty was ironclad, the kind of ride-or-die shit you couldn’t fake. “Alright, fuck it,” Stan said, his voice firm. “We’re doing this. Tomorrow, NYPD HQ. I’ll get you everything you need—explosives, gear, the works.”
With that, Stan hauled himself off the couch and left the safehouse, his mind already spinning with logistics. This was gonna be a shitshow, but he’d be damned if he didn’t see it through.
---
The next morning, at 8:00 a.m. sharp, Franklin’s phone buzzed with a text from Stan: 'Gear’s ready. Underground parking lot, two blocks away. Move your ass.'
Franklin suited up, pulling on a black hoodie, a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, and a surgical mask to hide his face. He looked like a ghost, slipping through the streets, his heart pounding like a war drum. In the parking lot, he spotted the vehicle—a beat-up van with a fake postal service logo slapped on the side. As he approached, the side door slid open with a groan, and two strangers stepped out, their faces hard and unreadable.
Franklin froze, his hand twitching toward the knife in his pocket. “Who the fuck are you?”
One of the guys, a lanky dude with a scar across his cheek, raised his hands. “Easy, man. We’re Stan’s guys. You’re Franklin, right? Chill.”
“Where’s Stan?” Franklin demanded, his voice tight.
“Stuck at the prison, babysitting Jason,” Scarface replied. “As long as your boss keeps his mouth shut, Stan and the other bureau chiefs gotta keep showing up to grill him. That’s the deal.”
Franklin nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “The gear ready?”
Scarface grinned, pulling a heavy duffel bag from the van. “Ten kilos of TNT, motherfucker. Blast radius of fifty meters. This shit’ll level a city block. Bag’s coated with some high-tech crap—won’t trip even the fanciest bomb detectors.” He handed over an oval-shaped detonator, pointing to a safety cap. “It’s live. Flip the cap, slam the red button, and boom. Game over.”
He tossed in a postal worker’s uniform, the kind that screamed don’t look twice. “Anything else you need?”
Franklin shook his head, his throat tight. “Nah. I’m good.”
This wasn’t about finesse or some Ocean’s Eleven bullshit. It was about having the balls to stare death in the face and not blink. Scarface clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. Don’t fuck this up.”
Franklin changed into the uniform, the fabric stiff and scratchy against his skin. He took a deep breath, psyching himself up, then slid into the driver’s seat of the van. The engine roared to life, and he pointed it toward NYPD headquarters, his heart hammering but his resolve like steel.
---
It was 9:00 a.m., and the police headquarters was a buzzing hive of activity—cops hustling in and out, radios crackling, the air thick with the scent of coffee and bureaucracy. Franklin pulled the van into a parking spot, his hands steady despite the adrenaline screaming through his veins. He climbed out, popped the back door, and carefully lifted the duffel bag, the weight of the explosives grounding him in the moment.
A yawning cop, his uniform wrinkled like he’d slept in it, sauntered over. “Yo, what’s in the bag?”
Franklin met his gaze, his voice calm as ice. “What the fuck you think? It’s a package.”
The cop frowned, stepping closer. “I need to check it.”
Franklin’s heart skipped, a flash of panic spiking through him, but he kept his face neutral. His right hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the detonator. “Go ahead, man.”
The cop crouched, eyeing the bag. His gaze landed on the label—addressed to the goddamn police commissioner. He froze, then stood up, shaking his head. “Fuck it, never mind. Just bring it inside. Follow me.”
Franklin exhaled silently, his pulse slowing. “Sure thing.”
The NYPD headquarters was a fortress of glass and steel, crawling with cops. The bag passed through the security scanner without a hitch, the high-tech coating doing its job. Franklin followed the cop to a delivery desk, his movements deliberate, his face a mask of calm. The cop scrawled his signature on the form, and Franklin turned, walking back to the van with measured steps.
Ten meters. Thirty. Fifty. A hundred.
He slid into the driver’s seat, his hands trembling now as he gripped the wheel. The van rolled out of the lot, disappearing into the morning traffic, the weight of what he’d just done sinking into his bones.
