Chapter 24: Ambush Alley (Part 5 of 5)
The Albuquerque morning burned bright, the sun a relentless disk baking the city's cracked pavement. Alex stood in the back office of a shuttered dry cleaner, one of his many fronts, the air thick with the chemical ghost of detergent and mothballs. The space was sparse—a metal desk, a flickering overhead light, a chipped coffee mug abandoned on a shelf—but it felt like a fortress, a place to plan the next strike. He adjusted his jacket, the zipper snagging as always, his fingers lingering on the familiar tug. Last piece of the ambush puzzle. Time to lock in the team. Jax Reed sat across the desk, his tactical jacket slung over a chair, his posture rigid but his gray eyes softer, a rare glint of trust flickering in them. The scout's retreat had forged their partnership in fire, and the air hummed with a collaborative resolve.
"The scout's gone," Jax said, his voice clipped, military-precise. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the faint scent of gun oil clinging to him. "Sent a panic signal to his bosses—called you an 'untouchable phantom.' We broke his nerve."
Alex grinned, a spark of triumph cutting through his fatigue. "Intimidation's cheaper than bullets, and twice as fun." He slid a sleek black briefcase across the desk, its click sharp as it opened, revealing neat stacks of cash—$10,000, system-funded, crisp and inky. "This is for you, Jax. Tactical gear, new comms, recon tech. We're not just surviving the next ambush—we're making sure they never see us coming."
Jax's eyes flicked to the cash, his stoic gratitude a quiet shift in his posture, his shoulders squaring. He didn't speak, but the nod was enough, a soldier's acknowledgment of a commander's trust. He's in, all the way. Alex's voice softened, but his wit stayed sharp. "Your SEAL tricks are deadly, but I want you kitted out to match my… let's call it personal flair. You're the blade, I'm the sarcastic shield. Together, we're unstoppable."
Jax's mouth twitched, a rare crack in his stoic mask. "Flair's one way to put it. That chair stunt had the scout pissing himself before I drew my knife."
"Candor's my ammo, unlimited supply," Alex shot back, clapping Jax on the shoulder, the gesture sealing their bond. His quip carried a deeper weight, a promise of bigger fights. "We're building an empire, Jax. One noble soldier at a time."
[SYSTEM: Ability Unlock: Team Synergy boosted. Cohesion stat +15%. Cartel cleanup efficiency increased. Get to work.]
The System's neutral tone underscored their progress, a nod to the elite team taking shape. We're not just a duo anymore. This is the start of something bigger. Alex leaned back, the chair creaking, his fingers brushing his zipper again, a nervous tic as he visualized the cartel's next move. The ambush arc was closing, not with a bang but with a quiet, strategic step forward.
Alone later, in the dim light of his safehouse apartment, Alex sat at a scarred wooden table, a can of energy drink sweating in his hand, the metallic tang sharp as he sipped. The room was sparse—peeling wallpaper, a buzzing fridge—but it was his, a haven to think. He opened the System interface, its glow casting shadows on his face, and ran a timeline check, cross-referencing Breaking Bad plot points with recent events. Have I screwed up the show yet?
Walter's status flashed: In Flux. Mexican deal delayed, re-routed. Minor shift. Jesse's followed: Safe. Two conflicts avoided. Arc intact. Alex exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing, his 16x stamina dulling the ache of a long night. His interventions—cryptic tips, subtle nudges—had kept the timeline steady, preserving his foresight. Still got the cheat code.
[SYSTEM: Timeline Alert: Shifts minor, foresight intact. Caution: Excessive intervention may lead to unexpected consequences (e.g., plot holes, character deaths). Don't mess with the writers.]
Writers, huh? I'm just trying not to break the best show ever, Alex muttered, his wry humor masking a deep relief. "Jesse stays alive, Walt stays… Walt. I'm good." He adjusted his ops, doubling down on system deals and covert strikes, keeping his footprint light. National expansion's next. No more local games.
His final task was a tip for Jesse, the last nudge of Arc 1. Sitting at the kitchen counter, he munched a stale bagel, crumbs dusting his shirt as he typed on a burner phone. Jesse was teetering toward a deal with a local thug, a red-shirted dealer with a vicious dog and worse debts—a trap Alex knew from Season 2's darker corners. Not on my watch, Pinkman.
He crafted a message, his fingers deliberate, his protective care laced with playful wit. Red shirt's got a bad dog and worse credit. Skip the deal, buy a lottery ticket. He sent it, then snapped the phone in half, the plastic crunching under his 16x strength. Another day, another save. He leaned back, the bagel's dryness catching in his throat, and grinned. "There you go, Jesse. Free VIP pass through Season 2's dumbest traps. Stay golden."
The tip, cryptic but sharp, would steer Jesse clear, strengthening their bond without breaking the timeline. Arc 1's done. Jesse's safe, team's ready, cartel's on notice. Alex stood, stretching, his jacket zipper catching again as he moved to the window. The city sprawled below, neon flickering in the dusk, a new battlefield waiting. Time to go bigger.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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