[Need for Speed Gig Complete. Calculating rewards...]
[Bonus Objective: Intercept within 30 minutes — Achieved!]
[Final Rating: S-Rank. Underworld Reputation +10. Five card draws awarded.]
Lawson leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone while the Payday app tallied up his latest gig. When it finished, five playing cards fanned out across the screen. Tap one, claim your prize.
He'd pulled mediocre ratings on his last few jobs. This was his first perfect S-rank run, which meant five rewards at once.
"Alright, let's see what we're working with."
Just as his finger hovered over the cards, a crew of media people came barreling down the sidewalk.
"Move! Coming through!"
They were hauling heavy cameras and boom mics. Leading the charge was that same blonde Fox News anchor who could've been Charlize Theron's twin. They were clearly rushing to film the abandoned blue wreck before LAPD towed it away.
Idiots. The real story is standing right here.
Only the blonde—Megyn Kelly—glanced back at the handsome young guy on the sidewalk.
"Kelly! What the hell are you staring at? Hurry up! We need that footage before the cops cover this shit up!"
"Coming!"
She snapped her head forward and took off after her team.
Lawson shook his head and went back to his phone. The future tech had picked up some quirks during the time jump. To everyone else, it just looked like a bulky early-2000s cell phone.
"Okay… show me the haul."
[Acquired: Ballistic Suit!]
[Acquired: $10,000 Cash!]
[Acquired: ECM Jammer!]
[Acquired: Trump Card - Joker!]
[Acquired: 15 Cigarettes!]
Another Trump Card? And all high-quality gear drops?
Lawson couldn't hold back a grin as he checked the item descriptions.
[Ballistic Suit: Stops most small-arms fire cold. Durability fully resets at midnight every night. Classic cut. Timeless. The ultimate armor for a man who actually gets shit done.]
Not bad at all. With this on, he'd be a lot safer walking these streets. Plus it looked sharp—high-end fabric, perfect tailoring. The second he slipped it on, he'd look like money.
[ECM Jammer: Hacks electronic locks and kills signals in a pinch. Three uses per day. Recharges at midnight. And before you ask—no, it's not a fucking walkie-talkie.]
He recognized this one. Classic Ghost-class gadget from the Payday game. Super useful. Could black out cell service or pop any electronic lock. Versatile as hell.
[Joker: Words and ideas are the deadliest weapons on the planet… and you just pulled one. Want me to tell you a joke?]
Lawson's eyes went wide. If this was that Joker, this ability was straight-up broken. The kind of power that could burn an entire city to the ground with nothing but words.
[15 Cigarettes: Lights one up and it temporarily kills physical pain. Won't heal wounds, but you'll stop feeling them for a while. Refills at midnight. Fifteen fresh ones, baby.]
The app added in its usual smartass tone.
Lawson smirked. Too bad they were regular cigarettes. The health nuts would have a meltdown.
Still, they basically worked like heavy-duty painkillers with almost no downside—except maybe fucking up your lungs long-term.
Solid haul tonight. Lawson decided he'd earned a celebration. Plus he had ten grand in cash burning a hole in his pocket.
He headed over to Sangiovese, a bar sitting right on the border where three rough East LA neighborhoods met.
West and North LA had the money—Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, that whole scene. Downtown and East LA were grittier. Heavy Black and Mexican-American crowds, tougher streets.
But Sangiovese never had problems. The owner had serious pull. Local gangs didn't dare start shit, and even the cops played nice. That's why it was neutral ground for meets and deals. Talk only—no product ever crossed the threshold, or the owner would personally throw your ass out. It was the cleanest dive in East LA. No junkies, no hard drugs.
The place was packed when Lawson walked in. Big, heavily tattooed dudes were drinking and bullshitting. Nobody gave him a second glance… except the gorgeous owner behind the bar.
Yeah, Sangiovese was run by a woman. A stunning, mature Scandinavian beauty with killer curves.
Old-school underworld rule: three types of people you never fuck with—beggars, monks, and women. Same rule held up in America's criminal underground.
A woman like her running an untouchable bar in the middle of a warzone? Her backing had to be off the charts.
Lawson stepped up to the bar. The brunette with massive waves in her hair spotted him right away. And when she leaned forward on the counter, those waves weren't just in her hair.
"Lawson, you're late tonight."
His eyes were instantly pulled to the deep cleavage she was showing off. Had to be at least a G-cup. Easy.
"Yeah, got held up with a job. Just wrapped it. Anyway, boss lady—has Dom shown up yet?"
"I've told you a hundred times, call me Svafa," she said, pouring him a glass of whiskey without asking. "Toretto hasn't been in yet. You two got a meet tonight?" (Donatella Damiani as Svafa)
"Yeah, we set it up here."
Lawson took a sip, forcing his eyes up from her chest. He pulled out his phone like he was checking for new gigs.
"So… that blue piece-of-shit sedan all over the news tonight on the freeway. That was you driving, wasn't it?"