The first order of business was going to be solving his newfound identity crisis. The garage where he stored his bike was just up ahead on the right, and thanks to the confusion going on down the street nobody looked twice as he sped off down the block. The briefcase he carried was now inside a black leather bag on his back.

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The suit he was wearing had everything he needed for the next phase of his contingency plan: a burner phone and a laundry ticket. Pulling over at a Jewish deli far enough from the apartment, Jack ordered himself a cup of coffee and a lox bagel before pulling out the phone and stepping aside. “Hello, I’ve got a ticket number, 2751. I’m looking to pick it up as soon as possible. I ordered the fresh-start treatment, you know, with the steam and all that. I’ve got a date tonight and I want to feel like a new man… Yes… Okay, I’ll be there in 20 minutes, thank you.” Next stop: Mr. Chang’s Dryclean Emporium.

Jack parked out front and strode purposefully through Mr. Chang’s door, “Ticket number 2751.” He said quickly. The man behind the desk just smiled and slipped into the back room; moments later he returned, bearing a finely tailored, grey double-breasted suit. Finally, The Ferryman could get the cheap piece of garbage he was wearing off his back. Not only that, but the inner pocket of the jacket would contain a brand new drivers license, passport, and a piece of paper with a time and place written on it. This stop had been to gain a new identity; his next would be to destroy the old one. “Wonderful.” Jack smiled, “Now, do you have a bathroom I could use?”

“Of course, sir. Right over there.” The young Asian man replied, indicating an unmarked room to the left. There was no bathroom, just a small empty room with a mirror on the wall. Jack changed as quickly as possible, before pulling the briefcase out of his bag and opened it up. Jack transferred the money and change of clothes into the bag, and put the new gun in his rear waistband. After he was finished with that, Jack checked out his new identity, he was now John Trumpeter, perfect. After swapping his old license for the new one retrieved the slip of paper. “12:15, The Rosewood Café, Houston St.” That was roughly two hours from now, which was good, it would give him time to think about how he was going to execute phase 3 of his contingency plan, survival. That would have to wait until he was out of this closet though, he decided, tossing his old gun, ID, phone, and credit cards into the briefcase.

Within a few minutes, Jack was back on the road again, a nearly 36 year old man wearing an expensive suit, driving an even more expensive motorcycle. Conspicuous? Certainly, but that was exactly what he needed right now. The cops would be looking for a man who just killed 3 tatted up Mexican gang-bangers. The rest of the bangers would be looking for a man on the run for his life. Safe to say, neither party was keeping a close eye on wealthy motorcycle enthusiasts… Nevertheless, Jack was on high alert as he made his way across town to the storage unit he had rented upon his arrival in town. Though it was a bit far from his apartment, he had chosen it not for ease of use, but because he had been allowed to pay in cash, and without presenting an ID.

When he arrived, Jack stopped the bike just in front of the steel roll up door and opened it up before rolling the bike inside. He had taken every precaution in making sure there was no way he could have been followed. Allowing the door to fall shut behind him, The Ferryman proceeded to take out the burner phone and used it’s light to find the oil lantern and matches he left on the table to his left. He then hurried over to the desk pushed up against the right wall and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside was a firebomb set to go off exactly 5 minutes after the main door is opened, which Jack promptly disarmed. “Burn and run.” The motto had kept him alive and out of prison for nearly 12 years as a criminal, and he had no intention of slipping up in his retirement.

Now that Jack didn’t have to worry about being consumed in flames, he had the chance to look over the supplies in his unit. There was plenty of water, a few weeks worth of MREs, dozens of boxes of various ammunition types, sleeping gear, ect. In the corner of the room was a medium height filing cabinet, which he then proceeded to unlock. The file he was looking for was one of the first, a manila folder titled, “The Arias Cartel” Jack’s prime suspect. Really, it hadn’t been very hard to put together, the tattoos on the hitmen indicated their affiliation with La Familia, a small time local Mexican gang. From there, the options were extremely limited. Most of The Ferryman’s work had been in Europe and Africa, and the work he did do in Latin America was mostly for the cartels, against government officials. However, back when the Arias Cartel were still just beginning to take a foothold in the drug trade, Jack had taken a job from a rival Cartel to kill the Arais second in command, and steal a quarter million in product.

That man happened to be the leader’s brother, which would not have been a problem if the Arias Cartel had lost the drug war with their much more powerful rivals. That was obviously not the case. Now, Jack was facing an enormous problem; his financials were secure in offshore accounts, but he couldn’t touch them without tipping off the Cartel. The only choice he had left was to call in the help of a friend.