The Rise of Mackin Jones

Chapter 33

Drake’s hands trembled as he gripped the steering wheel, his foot pressing the accelerator harder than necessary. His mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. Every plan, every scheme had unravelled at his feet, leaving him grasping for control in a world that no longer bent to his will. Jones had taken everything—his father’s reputation, the family’s power, and now, the very empire Drake had grown up believing would one day be his.

He pulled into a deserted parking lot at the edge of town, his headlights cutting through the misty darkness. The car came to a screeching halt, and Drake jumped out, his eyes scanning the shadows until he spotted a figure leaning casually against a sleek black car.

“You’re late,” the man said, his voice calm, almost bored. He pushed off from the car and moved towards Drake, hands in his pockets. His face was obscured in the dim light, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable.

“Spare me the pleasantries, Torres,” Drake snapped, pacing back and forth. “I’m not in the mood.”

Torres chuckled, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of his wrist. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the night air. “You’re in deep, Drake. Deeper than you’ve ever been. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Drake stopped pacing, his eyes wild with frustration. “He’s destroying everything. I need to know if you can deliver what you promised.”

Torres raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “I always deliver. But you need to understand something, Drake. Going after Jones isn’t just business. You’re going after a man who has nothing left to lose, and that makes him dangerous.”

“I don’t care how dangerous he is,” Drake growled, stepping closer, his face inches from Torres’. “I want him gone. And I want it done now.”

Torres didn’t flinch, meeting Drake’s gaze with the same cold indifference he always did. “It’ll cost you,” he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. “More than you initially agreed.”

Drake’s jaw clenched. He knew Torres was right. Taking down Mackin Jones wouldn’t be easy, and the price for pulling off something of this magnitude would be steep. But Drake wasn’t concerned about money. His obsession with seeing Jones destroyed has consumed him entirely now.

“Name your price,” Drake said finally, his voice tight.

Torres smiled—a slow, calculated smile that sent a shiver down Drake’s spine. “I already have.” He turned, opening the trunk of his car to reveal an array of weapons, neatly arranged and gleaming in the moonlight. “This is how we end him.”

At the same time, Mackin Jones sat alone in his mansion, his fingers trailing over the rim of a half-full glass of Bourbon. The silence in the room was palpable, a stark contrast to the turmoil boiling beneath his calm exterior. The family had been silenced, their hold on him severed one by one, but he knew the final confrontation was close. Drake had gone underground, no doubt planning his retaliation, and Jones was ready for whatever came next.

Lambo entered the room, his face grim as he held out a file. “I did some more digging,” he said, setting it down in front of Jones. “It’s worse than we thought.”

Jones glanced at the file but didn’t open it right away. “What did you find?”

“Drake’s been in contact with someone—an arms dealer. A man named Torres. He’s been quiet for years, but his name’s coming up again. Rumour is, Drake’s been getting serious about this.”

Jones finally opened the file, scanning the contents. “Torres,” he muttered. “He’s no small-time player.”

“Exactly,” Lambo said, crossing his arms. “If Drake’s working with him, it means he’s planning something big. And soon.”

Jones leaned back in his chair, staring out of the window. The city was quiet tonight, but the quiet was always deceptive. “We need to be ready.”

Lambo frowned. “You want me to bring in more security? Double the men?”

Jones shook his head. “No. That’s exactly what Drake wants—an arms race, more guns, more chaos. That’s not how we win.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Jones stood, walking over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Drake is betting everything on violence. But we won’t give him the satisfaction of playing his game. We’ll use his desperation against him. When men like Drake act out of fear, they make mistakes.”

Lambo nodded slowly, following Jones’ line of thought. “So we let him think he’s winning.”

Jones smiled faintly. “Exactly. We lure him in, make him think he’s outmanoeuvred us. Then, when he’s overcommitted and exposed, we strike.”

Lambo hesitated. “That’s a risky plan, boss. You’re putting a lot on the line.”

Jones turned back to face him, his eyes hard. “I’ve been putting everything on the line since the day they cast me out. This is no different.”

Lambo remained silent, knowing there was no point in arguing. Mackin Jones was a man driven by purpose, and once his mind was set, there was no turning back.

Across town, in a dimly lit room at the edge of the city, Bruno Mackin lay in his hospital bed, his body frail and his mind a shadow of the man he once was. The stroke had left him powerless, a prisoner in his own body. His eyes flickered as the door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped into the room.

Drake stood at the foot of the bed, his expression dark. “Father,” he said quietly, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I know you can hear me.”

Bruno’s eyes shifted towards his son, but he made no other movement.

“I’ve done what you asked,” Drake continued, his voice low and intense. “Jones is on borrowed time. I’m going to finish this. For you. For the family.”

Bruno’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

“You wanted power,” Drake said, his tone bitter. “But you never taught me what to do when it all fell apart. Well, I figured it out on my own.” He stood, leaning down close to Bruno’s ear. “When this is over, I’ll be the one standing. Not Jones. Not anyone else.”

Bruno’s eyes followed Drake as he turned and left the room, his expression frozen in a mask of silent rage and frustration.

The Mackin mansion was quiet that evening, the tension simmering beneath the surface as Lambo and the security team made their rounds. Jones had given them strict orders to keep a low profile and to blend in with the routine, despite knowing that something big was about to go down.

Inside his office, Jones sat at his desk, reviewing the final preparations. He wasn’t one to take chances, but this time he knew the only way to win was to let Drake come to him.

As he closed his laptop, the phone on his desk buzzed. He picked it up, his expression darkening as he read the message.

It’s happening tonight.

He stood, his pulse quickening. Everything was in place, and now it was time.

Jones walked out of the office, his mind already calculating the steps ahead. He moved swiftly through the mansion’s grand hallways, his thoughts sharp and his focus unbreakable. This was it. The final move in a game that had been in play for years.

Lambo met him at the entrance, his face set in determination. “They’re on the move.”

Jones nodded. “Get the men ready.”

Lambo pulled out his radio, barking orders into it as they both stepped outside, the cool night air biting against their skin. In the distance, the faint sound of engines revving reached their ears—Drake’s men, coming straight into the trap.

Jones’ eyes narrowed as he watched the lights approaching. “Let’s finish this.”