Inside: stacks of documents, contracts, and property titles. Signed, notarized, and ready for a name swap.
"Damn," James whispered. "Sloan really was planning to retire."
He picked through the files, lips curling into a grin.
"Well," he said to no one in particular, "guess I just inherited a retirement plan."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the house—still reeking faintly of charred drywall and gunpowder—James stood over a table cluttered with maps, paperwork, and a ridiculous number of property deeds. Carlos leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, surveying the organized chaos like he was deciding whether to comment or just light a cigarette.
"I can only say," Carlos said, "that Sloan was unlucky to try and use you."
James smirked without looking up. "He ran an ancient assassination cult and forgot the golden rule: always delete your browser history."
Carlos chuckled quietly. "He was old. Probably thinking about retirement. It doesn't matter now. The Fraternity is dead and it should stay that way."
"Agreed. Question is, when do we leave to settle all these accounts?"
"Tomorrow. With Sloan's offshore accounts cleared. I had transferred the funds, and bought three million shares of Stark Industries stocks as you said... because why not invest in the guy who wears a flying tank? The rest is with our usual withdrawals."
James held up a stack of documents. "These are real estate titles. Looks like Sloan had a thing for New York—villas, apartments, you name it. Makes sense, considering his plans."
Carlos nodded. "Then New York it is."
James glanced at the pile of firearms stacked against the wall like a true American Gun enthusiast of Freedom. "And what about all this? You planning to start a militia?"
"We're assassins," Carlos said. "Firearms are part of the lifestyle."
"Yeah, but this is excessive. We need high-quality weapons, not Soviet leftovers and ninja wannabe toys. For now, we are using the pistols as we stash the rest. We'll restock in New York."
"I'm bringing my sniper rifles," Carlos said, in that 'not up for debate' tone fathers use when talking about cars, tools, or in this case, long-range death barrels. "You've seen what they can do in my hands."
"Fine. But only because your kill shots are art." James pointed at the old Chevrolet Camaro SS parked nearby. "I'll load the gear. You finish packing."
The car was dusty, slightly scorched, and had a bullet hole in the rear panel, but it still purred when James turned the key. He drove it to a car wash, gave it a rinse, then returned to the safehouse and loaded Carlos's six sniper rifles under the back seat. Luggage went in the trunk, Pistols holstered, and Sunglasses on.
By dawn, they were rolling east, radio on, windows down, with nothing but open highway and classic rock like "Life is a highway" between them and New York.
The trip took two weeks.
That's right. Two weeks. Because apparently, taking a plane was too normal, and James still harbored a romantic notion about "cross-country bonding" and "seeing America."
By the time they hit Manhattan, the car smelled like sweat, old fries, and a well-oiled gun.
They checked into a mid-range hotel near Central Park. It ain't fancy but it's clean. Ensuring the rooms weren't used by people looking for just a one night fling in secret. James collapsed onto one of the beds without a care.
The next morning, he regretted every decision he made on this road trip.
Carlos was already awake, freshly shaved, flipping channels like he hadn't just spent fourteen days surviving on rest stops and trucker food.
"We should've flown," James muttered, staring at the ceiling.
Carlos didn't even look up. "You said "Road Trip" when we're going to New York."
"I was hallucinating from adrenaline and grief, just talking to myself that a relaxing road trip would have been a great idea to get my mind off things." James just slapped a hand on his eyes as he grumbled how he regrets it so much.
As they ordered room service, they scarfed down eggs and coffee, before hitting the road again—this time, into downtown, headed toward the law firm Sloan had used to manage his real estate.
The building sat right next to the New York Supreme Court, which James took either as a good omen or a sick joke—he wasn't sure but he can't help but give himself a snicker.
Inside, the air smelled like ink and paper. James walked up to the front desk and gave the receptionist a friendly greet. "Morning. I'm here about some property transfers. These were handled through your firm a few years ago."
He handed over the paperwork.
The receptionist's eyes scanned the documents, before widening from the contents. "Please wait a moment."
Ten minutes later, a well-dressed middle-aged man emerged from the hallway like he'd just stepped out of a GQ ad for divorce attorneys.
"Pleasure to meet you, I'm Philip," he said, while extending a hand. "Were you the one who handled this business with us before?"
"Ain't me. The previous owner. Sloan."
Philip's eyes flicked over James and Carlos—both in worn jeans, leather jackets, and road dust. Not giving any judgment. If anything, he looked… excited. Probably thinking about the commissions.
"This way, gentlemen."
They followed him into a small conference room where a junior assistant brought three cups of coffee—one of which James didn't trust at all.
Philip took a look at the stack of deeds, before nodding approvingly. "All in order. Four properties in total. Would you like to begin the transfer today?"
James shook his head. "Not yet. I want to see them first. If they're decent, we'll keep one or two. If not, we sell or maybe rent it out."
"Understood." Philip stood. "Shall we start the tour? We will prepare your escort that drives around our important clients."
"No need, We've got our car," James said. "But you're welcome to lead."
The Camaro looked like it had been pulled from a Mad Max set. Covered in grime, bug guts, and road rash, it trailed behind Philip's spotless Mercedes like a rebellious teenager following their rich uncle to brunch.
Carlos glanced over. "Are we really going to sell a few?"
"Depends on the condition," James replied. "We only need one place to live in. No point hoarding empty real estate unless we're becoming slumlords."
Carlos shrugged. "Your Call."
On the first property: Hell's Kitchen, High-rise Apartment
Brick exterior. Rooftop patio. A direct view of the Stark Tower, still glittering like a billionaire's middle finger and magnet for future troubles.
"What's the value of the place?" James asked.
"Currently estimated at over $30 million," Philip said. "Proximity to Stark Industries drives demand for the people to come here."
James frowned as he murmured to himself. "Yeah… and proximity to alien wormholes, robot uprisings, and Hulk-related renovations."
Philips' ears twitched from the few words he caught but didn't comment as to keep professionality.
He turned to Philip. "Sell it."
"Of course sir."
"For every million above thirty that the property gets sold, a commission bonus of 50 grand will be given."
Philip nearly dropped his tablet. "Thank you very much for your generosity. I will ensure there will be no problems. There are many people who would want to buy this place. I will gather some big buyers for the auction of the place."