My Milf Conqueror System

Chapter 184: Money shield

[Jake’s POV]

The combat corset was a medieval torture device made of Kevlar and high-tensile nylon.

When Claire pulled the straps tight, compressing the heavy bandages against the bullet wound in my side, the pain was so intense it literally drove me to my knees. I bit down on a rolled-up towel to keep from screaming, my vision flashing with brilliant bursts of white static. The pressure was agonizing, a constant, crushing weight against my torn muscle tissue.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," Claire whispered frantically, her hands shaking as she locked the heavy buckles into place.

"It’s... fine," I gasped, spitting the towel out and forcing myself back to my feet.

The corset worked. It locked my torso into a rigid, unyielding brace, preventing the torn muscle tissue from shifting. It hurt to breathe, and it hurt to move, but I could walk without feeling like my insides were going to spill out onto the floor.

I pulled a loose, dark tactical sweater over the corset, hiding the bulky medical gear, and strapped a customized shoulder holster over my chest. I checked the action on my suppressed Glock 19, the familiar, heavy weight of the weapon grounding me in the terrifying reality of the moment.

"The convoy leaves the Metropolitan Correctional Center in ten minutes," Nia reported from the war room table, her eyes glued to the satellite feed. "Three armored SUVs. Charles Bancroft is in the center vehicle. They are taking the FDR Drive north toward the George Washington Bridge."

"Where is Blackwood?" Darius asked, stepping into the room. He was wearing full urban tactical gear, carrying a heavy duffel bag filled with breaching tools and extra magazines.

"I have traffic cameras scanning the route," Nia said, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "I’ve flagged two suspicious vehicles. Heavy, unmarked utility vans pacing the FDR Drive near 34th Street. They are loitering in the right lane, waiting for the convoy to pass."

"That’s the ambush point," I said, my mind calculating the tactical geometry of the highway. "34th Street is a bottleneck. Concrete barriers on both sides. No easy off-ramps. If Blackwood boxes the convoy in there, the feds are trapped."

"We need to beat them to the bottleneck," Darius said.

I nodded, turning toward the door.

"Jake."

I stopped, looking back. Elena Vance was standing near the edge of the mahogany table. The brilliant financial architect looked terrified, her dark eyes wide with a vulnerability I had rarely seen in her.

She walked over to me, ignoring the others in the room, and placed her hands flat against my chest, right over the heavy leather of my shoulder holster.

"You built an empire of billions," Elena whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You shielded it perfectly. You outsmarted the greatest financial predators in the world. Do not throw it all away in a street fight."

"I’m protecting our investment, Elena," I said softly, resting my hand over hers. "Charles Bancroft is the key to Isabella’s digital fragments. If he dies, she rebuilds. I won’t let that happen."

Elena looked up into my eyes, her sapiosexual devotion burning through her fear. She didn’t love me just for my power; she loved the sheer, terrifying brilliance of my ambition. She leaned up and pressed her lips to mine, a desperate, bruising kiss that tasted of fear and absolute loyalty.

"Come back to me," Elena breathed against my lips.

"I always do," I promised.

I pulled away, my side throbbing with a dull, heavy ache, and followed Darius out of the medical suite.

We took the private elevator down to the subterranean garage. Waiting for us was a heavily modified, matte-black Dodge Durango. It looked like a standard civilian vehicle, but the doors were lined with ballistic steel, the windows were bulletproof, and the engine had been tuned to produce over seven hundred horsepower.

Darius took the wheel. I climbed into the passenger seat, wincing as the corset dug into my ribs.

"Nia, we are mobile," I said, tapping the comms earpiece in my right ear. "Guide us in."

"Copy that," Nia’s voice crackled over the encrypted channel. "The federal convoy is on the move. They just merged onto the FDR Drive at South Street. They are moving fast. You need to intercept them before they hit 34th Street."

Darius slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Durango roared to life, tearing out of the Apex Tower garage and launching into the chaotic, neon-lit streets of Manhattan.

Darius drove with terrifying, mechanical precision. He didn’t use sirens or flashing lights. He simply wove through the dense New York traffic like a massive, unstoppable predator, utilizing the Durango’s sheer horsepower to force other cars out of the way.

I sat in the passenger seat, my hand resting on the grip of my Glock, watching the city blur past the reinforced windows.

Without the System’s skills, I felt naked. I couldn’t slow down time. I couldn’t predict the exact trajectory of the enemy’s bullets. I was relying entirely on Darius’s driving and my own raw, human reflexes.

"Jake, the convoy is approaching 23rd Street," Nia reported, her voice tight with tension. "The two unmarked utility vans are moving. They are accelerating, cutting across lanes to intercept the feds."

"They’re springing the trap early," I said, my grip tightening on the door handle. "Darius, punch it."

Darius swerved the Durango onto the FDR Drive on-ramp, the heavy SUV fishtailing slightly before the tires gripped the asphalt. We merged onto the highway, the dark waters of the East River flashing by on our right.

Up ahead, through the dense evening traffic, I saw them.

Three black, armored Suburbans with federal plates, moving in a tight, disciplined diamond formation.

And closing in on them from the rear were the two unmarked utility vans.

"I have visual on the target," I said into the comms.

"The vans are Blackwood," Nia confirmed rapidly. "Thermal imaging shows multiple heavily armed hostiles in the back of both vehicles. Jake, they are going to box the convoy in against the concrete median."

"Not if we box them first," I growled.

"Hold on," Darius warned, his massive hands gripping the steering wheel.

He didn’t hit the brakes. He accelerated.

The Durango surged forward, the massive engine roaring as we closed the distance between us and the trailing utility van. The mercenaries inside the van were entirely focused on the federal convoy ahead of them. They didn’t check their rearview mirrors. They didn’t expect a counter-ambush on a crowded New York highway.

"Take the rear van," I ordered, drawing my Glock and rolling down the passenger window. The freezing night air whipped into the cabin, tearing at my clothes.

Darius slammed the Durango directly into the rear quarter panel of the trailing utility van.

The impact was catastrophic. The heavy ballistic steel of our bumper crushed the van’s rear axle. The van fishtailed violently, the driver losing control at seventy miles an hour. The vehicle spun out, slamming brutally into the concrete median with a shower of sparks and shattered glass, effectively blocking the two right lanes of the highway.

The federal convoy, realizing they were under attack, immediately accelerated, their sirens wailing as they tried to break contact.

But the lead utility van was already in position.

The back doors of the lead van kicked open. Standing in the back were three Blackwood mercenaries wearing heavy urban combat armor. One of them was holding a shoulder-fired rocket launcher, aiming directly at the center SUV carrying Charles Bancroft.

"RPG!" I roared.

I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have Oracle to calculate the wind resistance. I just raised my Glock, aimed through the whipping wind, and squeezed the trigger.

The suppressed shot cracked through the night.

The bullet caught the mercenary with the RPG directly in the shoulder. The kinetic impact spun him backward just as he pulled the trigger.

The rocket launched, but the trajectory was wild. It sailed over the roof of the federal convoy, detonating harmlessly in the dark waters of the East River with a massive, geysering explosion.

"They missed!" Nia cheered over the comms.

"They’re not done," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The remaining mercenaries in the back of the van opened fire with heavy assault rifles, showering the federal convoy and our Durango with a relentless hail of armor-piercing rounds.

The war had officially reached the streets of New York. The deafening roar of automatic gunfire echoed off the concrete barriers, mixing with the terrified screams of civilian drivers. Isabella Vane had brought her European mercenaries to my city, turning a crowded highway into a fatal kill box. She thought she could operate here with absolute impunity. She thought she could silence Charles Bancroft and protect her digital fragments without consequence. But she had underestimated the sheer, violent willpower of a man who had nothing left to lose. I slammed a fresh magazine into my Glock, the cold steel grounding me in the terrifying reality of the moment. I was going to finish this.