STARLING TRUST BANK — DOWNTOWN — MIDDAY
The noon rush had thinned to a quiet buzz of footsteps on marble and the faint clink of coins behind the teller windows. The lobby gleamed — all brushed steel, glass, and self-importance — while the vault at the rear of the building hummed faintly, as if keeping its own counsel.
Behind the counter, the bank manager stood adjusting his tie for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Brendon Halcrow was a lean man in his fifties, with wire-frame glasses that slid perpetually down his nose and a face perpetually caught between apology and panic. Twenty years he'd worked without incident, and today had started no different from any other Tuesday.
"Mrs. Henderson, I understand your concern about the interest rates," he was saying to an elderly woman clutching her purse like a shield, "but corporate policy is quite clear on—"
"Corporate policy," she huffed. "In my day, bankers actually cared about their customers."
Brendon pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yes, well, times change, I'm afraid."
Near the door, the bank guard leaned against the wall like it was a lazy Sunday. Dalias Blake's uniform was crisp enough to cut glass, but his eyes drooped with the weight of another boring shift. At sixty-two, he'd been doing this job for eight years — ever since his retirement from the police force proved too quiet for his liking. If asked, he'd say nothing ever happened at Starling Trust. Hell, nothing ever happened anywhere in this sleepy part of downtown.
"Another thrilling day in paradise," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch. Still four hours until his shift ended.
Then the doors opened.
Three men walked in, side by side, boots clicking like clockwork on the marble floor.
They didn't rush. They didn't shout. They sauntered with the casual confidence of men who owned the world.
Dark jackets. Leather gloves. Messenger bags slung across their shoulders.
And the masks.
The leader's was stark white, with a black Ace of Spades painted over the eyes. It lent his sharp features an animal edge — a wolf waiting for permission to bite. Even through the mask, his presence commanded attention, every movement deliberate and calculated.
On his right, the tallest of the trio wore a King of Hearts, painted in deep crimson, grinning at the world like it was already dead and he was here to collect. His massive frame filled out his jacket like a barely contained storm, shoulders rolling with each step.
On the left, a wiry, twitching figure wore a Jack of Clubs, tilted slightly, as though the mask itself was laughing just a little too much. His movements were quick, erratic, like a hummingbird on caffeine.
The guard stiffened and straightened, his hand instinctively brushing his holster. Something wasn't right.
The Ace stopped halfway into the lobby and raised his head slightly, surveying the space like he owned it. When he spoke, his voice was rich and smooth as silk, with just a hint of mockery.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he said casually, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Perfect weather for a withdrawal."
The guard squinted, confusion mixing with growing alarm. "What the hell is this supposed to be?"
The Ace turned toward him with theatrical surprise. "Oh, this? This is an upgrade to your boring day, my friend. A little excitement to break up the monotony." He paused, tilting his head. "Now. I'm going to need you to reach for the ceiling, or you and the floor are going to have an unfortunate conversation."
The King laughed low in his chest, rolling his shoulders like a boxer warming up. "You heard the man, junior. Hands up before you do something we'll all regret."
Dalias hesitated, his training warring with his instincts. These weren't teenagers with toy guns. These were professionals.
"Come on, old-timer," the Jack said, his voice high and sing-song as his pistol flashed into view, pointed straight at the guard's chest. "Don't make me count to three. I hate counting. Makes me nervous, and when I get nervous, I get twitchy."
The guard slowly raised his hands, his jaw clenched. "You boys are making a big mistake."
"The only mistake," the Ace replied smoothly, "would be thinking this is a negotiation."
The customers began to notice the commotion. A woman near the ATM gasped. A businessman in an expensive suit looked up from his phone and froze.
The Ace raised one gloved hand and snapped his fingers. The sound cracked through the lobby like a whip.
And then chaos.
The King drew his gun and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Plaster dust rained down like snow.
"Down!" the King barked, his voice a deep growl with just a little more relish than necessary. "Everyone on your knees! Hands where we can see 'em! This is not a drill, people!"
Mrs. Henderson screamed and dropped her purse. The businessman dove behind a marble pillar. Two tellers ducked below their windows.
"That's more like it," the King continued, grinning under his mask. "See how much nicer everything is when we all cooperate?"
The Jack moved fast, weaving among the customers like a wolf in a chicken coop, sweeping phones, wallets, and jewelry into a canvas sack as he hummed a tuneless little song.
"Ooh, iPhone 15," he said, plucking a device from a trembling hand. "Nice upgrade, buddy. Thanks for the contribution to our retirement fund."
He leaned close to Mrs. Henderson and whispered through his mask: "Pretty necklace, grandma. Shame it doesn't come in spades."
She whimpered. He giggled and moved on.
"Easy there, Jack," the Ace called out. "We're not here for the small change."
"But it's so shiny," Jack protested, holding up a diamond bracelet. "And shiny things make me happy."
The King posted up at the door, one hand loosely on his pistol and the other cracking his knuckles. He shot the guard a look.
"Why don't you just take a nap, pal?" he said conversationally. "Your boss pays you minimum wage and I don't feel like making you bleed today. Nothing personal."
Dalias gritted his teeth but stayed down. "You won't get away with this."
"Oh, we will," the King replied with absolute certainty. "You know how I know? Because we've done this before. And we're very, very good at it."
The Ace strolled up to the counter like a man ordering coffee, his movements unhurried and precise.
"You," he said evenly, staring straight at the manager.
Brendon froze, clutching his deposit slips. "M-me?"
"Yes, you," the Ace replied, his tone calm but mocking. "Unless you've got a better candidate for 'most overpaid pencil pusher in the room.'"
The manager swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I—please—there's no need for violence. We can work this out."
"Good," the Ace cut him off. "I like reasonable people. Makes everything so much smoother. Vault. Combination. Now."
Brendon shook his head weakly, palms raised. "It—it's on a time lock! Only corporate has the override code, I swear on my mother's grave—"
The Ace tilted his head like a predator considering its next move. "Well," he said softly, "then you're not just underpaid, you're also useless. And that's a terrible combination in a man."
"Wait, please—" Brendon started.
In one swift motion, the Ace reached over the counter, grabbed the man by his tie, and yanked him forward hard enough to send his glasses skittering across the floor.
"Here's what's going to happen," the Ace said calmly, his face inches from the manager's. "You're going to remember that combination. Because I have a feeling it's going to come to you."
The King was already moving, vaulting the counter with surprising grace for a man his size. He loomed over the manager, cracking his neck.
"Last chance, suit," the King growled, flexing his fingers. "Talk, or I make you remember the old-fashioned way."
Brendon stammered, voice cracking. "I—I can't! The system won't let me! Please—"
"Wrong answer," the King said.
CRACK.
The King's fist connected with his jaw. The sound was sharp, sick, final.
The manager went down in a heap, groaning faintly.
A hush fell over the lobby, broken only by the Jack's quiet giggle as he rifled through another wallet.
"Lights out, banker boy," the Jack muttered. "What's next, Ace? Can we play some music? I hate working in silence."
The Ace crouched and checked the manager's pulse, then straightened smoothly.
"Take him to the back," he ordered, his voice colder now. "Wake him up. Make him remember the numbers. We're not waiting for corporate."
The King grinned under his mask, grabbed the limp man by the collar, and hauled him toward the vault. "Come on, sleeping beauty. Time for a little heart-to-heart."
The Ace glanced at the guard still frozen near the door and added mildly: "Don't be a hero, Mr. Blake. That role's already been cast, and you wouldn't like how it ends."
Dalias started. How did he know his name?
The Ace seemed to read his thoughts. "Your name tag, genius. Very professional. Very... traceable."
Then he followed the King, his boots striking the marble in crisp, measured steps.
The Jack looked up, twirling his pistol lazily as he perched on the counter, swinging his legs like a child.
"Watch the windows, he says," Jack murmured to no one in particular. "Like I don't always watch the windows. Like I'm not a professional."
He addressed the cowering customers with mock cheerfulness. "Don't worry, folks. We'll be out of your hair in no time. Just a little business to conduct. Very routine."
A young woman whimpered from behind the marble pillar.
"Aw, don't cry, sweetheart," Jack said, his voice taking on a singsong quality. "Think of this as dinner party conversation for the rest of your life. 'Remember that time I got robbed by playing cards?' Very exclusive club you're joining."
Then he settled in, whistling a jaunty little tune as the screams quieted to nervous sobs.
And the bank waited.
From the back, they could hear the King's voice, low and dangerous: "Rise and shine, Mr. Halcrow. Time to earn your salary."
The Ace's voice followed, smooth as velvet: "Now, let's try this again. The combination. And this time, let's pretend your life depends on it."
Jack giggled softly. "They always remember eventually."
---
**CONTINUED**
The bank was quiet now, save for Jack's whistling — something vaguely like a nursery rhyme, though off-key enough to make your teeth itch — and the occasional muffled sob from the customers huddled on the floor like sheep in a thunderstorm.
Stan Washington crouched near the far corner, his back pressed to the cool marble of a pillar. He was built like a linebacker who'd traded his shoulder pads for a business suit, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, sweat gleaming on his temple despite his best efforts to stay calm. Normally, he was the calm one. The rock. The guy everyone turned to when things went sideways. But this... this was different.
His fingers inched toward his waistband, brushing the grip of his Glock 26. He didn't have his badge today — it was his day off, for Christ's sake. No vest. No radio. No backup. But he had his gun. He'd never left home without it in fifteen years on the force.
King stood at the door like a sentinel, his massive silhouette framed by the light coming through the windows. He cracked his knuckles absently as he scanned the street, his pistol loose at his side but ready. Professional. Experienced. Dangerous.
Jack lounged on the counter, swinging his legs like a kid on a playground swing, spinning his gun on a finger like it was a toy. The casual way he handled the weapon made Stan's skin crawl — this wasn't bravado. This was comfort.
Ace was still in the back, dealing with the manager. Stan could hear the occasional thump, the low murmur of voices, the manager's weak protests.
Stan sized them up. He'd faced worse. Maybe. Three-on-one wasn't great odds, but he'd been in worse spots. The element of surprise was his only advantage.
He tensed and started to draw.
A soft voice beside him hissed, "Don't."
Stan froze, glancing to his left.
It was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, dark hair falling in her face, her knees hugged to her chest. Her eyes were red from crying, but they were sharp now, steady. Alert.
"What?" he murmured, his fingers still hovering over his weapon.
"Don't," she whispered again, shaking her head just slightly. "You'll just get the rest of us killed."
Stan clenched his jaw. "Lady, I'm a cop."
She glared back at him, her voice barely audible. "And they're murderers. You're not faster than three guns. Trust me."
"How do you—"
"Because I've been watching them," she interrupted. "They're not amateurs. They're not nervous. They're not making mistakes. You draw that gun, and half the people in this room die."
Stan blew out a breath through his nose. His thumb rested on the safety, but he hesitated. The woman was right. These weren't kids with Saturday night specials. These were professionals.
And then—
"Funny thing about whispers," a velvet-smooth voice said behind them.
Stan and the woman both froze, ice water flooding their veins.
Ace was standing in the doorway to the back, leaning against the frame with one shoulder, casually wiping a faint smear of blood from his sleeve with a white handkerchief. His head was tilted, the black spade on his mask catching the light just so.
"You think people can't hear you," Ace continued, his voice calm, conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "But in a quiet room... it's amazing what carries. Sound bounces off marble in interesting ways."
The woman's eyes went wide with terror.
Stan's stomach dropped like a stone.
Ace raised his pistol, one-handed, elegant even as he leveled it at Stan's chest. "Hope whatever you were planning was worth it, Officer Washington."
Stan's blood turned to ice. "How do you—"
"Your wallet," Ace said with a slight smile in his voice. "Fell out when you crouched down. Badge is right there on the floor. Fifteen years of service. Commendations. Very impressive."
"Listen—"
"No, you listen," Ace interrupted, his tone hardening. "You had a choice. Keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, walk out of here alive. Instead, you chose to play hero."
"Please—" the woman whispered.
"Don't," Ace said without looking at her. "This isn't about you."
Three shots rang out in rapid succession.
Stan jerked back, crashing to the marble. His Glock clattered away across the floor, spinning until it came to rest against the base of another pillar. He let out a faint groan, his hand reaching weakly toward his chest, before going still, eyes vacant.
The young woman screamed, clapping her hands to her mouth too late.
Smoke curled lazily from Ace's barrel. He stood there a beat longer, breathing steady, the faintest tilt to his head like he was studying a painting he didn't quite admire.
"Messy," he murmured, tucking the handkerchief back into his jacket. "But effective."
Jack stopped whistling, his head popping up like a prairie dog. "Well now," he said brightly, "that woke the room up. Was getting a little too quiet in here."
Even Dalias Blake, the guard, flinched hard. He stayed down, though, hands raised, watching Ace warily. Sixty-two years old, eight years on this job, and he'd never seen anything like this.
"Jesus Christ," Dalias muttered under his breath.
"Language," Jack chided playfully. "There are ladies present."
Then a new voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder.
"That's enough."
The King finally turned from his post at the door, striding into the center of the room like a thundercloud in a suit jacket. His massive frame seemed to fill the space, and when he walked, the marble seemed to vibrate under his boots.
Ace didn't flinch. He didn't even look up at first, just continued examining his pistol with professional interest.
"He was about to play hero," Ace said flatly, his tone matter-of-fact.
King didn't stop walking until he was toe-to-toe with him, close enough that Ace had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. His voice was low and dangerous, a growl edged with disappointment.
"I don't care."
Ace finally glanced up as King's massive hand clamped around his wrist and forced the gun down. "Excuse me?"
"I said," King repeated, louder now, his voice carrying to every corner of the room, "that's enough."
For a long, tense moment they stared at each other. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Then Ace finally holstered the pistol with a little shrug. "Fine," he muttered. "Your show."
King jabbed a finger into his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. "You know better. We don't waste bullets. We don't escalate unless we have to. And you damn well know that."
Ace's lip curled under his mask. "He was going to kill one of us."
"And now he's dead," King shot back, his deep voice filling the room like a church bell. "And every one of these sheep is twice as scared and three times as stupid. Next one of 'em tries something? That's on you."
"Oh, spare me the lecture," Ace said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Since when did you become the moral compass of this operation?"
"Since I became the one who has to clean up your messes," King replied coldly. "We had a plan. Stick to it."
"The plan didn't account for off-duty cops."
"The plan accounts for everything if you follow it."
Ace didn't respond right away. He just turned and walked back toward the hall, his voice dripping with mock courtesy.
"Don't wait up, darling," he called over his shoulder.
King shook his head slowly, muttering, "Smartass little prince."
Jack broke the silence with a soft chuckle, swinging his legs and spinning his gun again.
"Well," he drawled, "that was exciting. You two should really have these little spats more often. Very entertaining. Like dinner theater, but with more blood."
He gave the young woman a little wave, his tone mock-cheerful.
"See, sweetheart? Exclusive club and front-row seats to the show. Most people pay good money for this kind of entertainment."
She turned away, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"Aw, don't be like that," Jack continued, his voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Think of the story you'll have to tell. 'Remember that time I got front-row seats to a bank robbery?' Very exclusive club you're joining."
King addressed the hostages next, his tone suddenly easy, conversational, like he was talking to old friends at a barbecue.
"Anyone else feelin' brave today?" He paused, scanning the room with theatrical interest, his grin wolfish under the crimson mask. "No? Nobody else wants to be a hero? Good. Keep it that way. Keep your heads down, keep your mouths shut, and we'll all get through this with no more mess on my floor. Capisce?"
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Mrs. Henderson whimpered from behind her hands.
"I said," King repeated, his voice gaining an edge, "capisce?"
A few weak nods from the hostages.
"Excellent," King said, his tone brightening again. "See how easy that was? Cooperation. It's a beautiful thing."
He cracked his knuckles and went back to his post by the door. "Thought so."
From the back hall, Ace's voice floated out, low and smooth as ever.
"All right, Mr. Halcrow. Round two. Let's not make this unpleasant."
There was a faint groan, then the manager's voice, weak, pleading, barely audible.
"I—I told you... I don't know... please..."
"You'll remember," Ace interrupted, his tone velvet and icy at once. "They always do, eventually. It's amazing what the mind can recall when properly motivated."
Brendon's voice cracked. "I swear to God, I don't—"
"Don't swear," Ace said calmly. "It's unbecoming. Now, let's try this again. The vault combination. And this time, let's pretend your life depends on it."
"Because it does," King called from the door, not turning around.
Jack giggled softly, resuming his off-key whistling. "They always remember eventually," he sang to himself, swinging his legs in time with the tune.
Dalias Blake, still on his knees by the door, watched it all with the hollow eyes of a man who'd seen too much. Eight years of quiet shifts, and now this. Blood on the marble. A dead cop twenty feet away.
"Shoulda stayed retired," he muttered to himself.
"What's that?" Jack asked brightly.
"Nothing," Dalias said quickly.
"Good," Jack replied with a cheerful smile in his voice. "Because I'd hate to think you were having second thoughts about our little arrangement."
And the bank settled back into silence, broken only by the faint sound of boots on marble, the quiet hum of the vault, and the occasional muffled sob from the hostages who were beginning to understand that this wasn't just a robbery.
This was something much worse.
---
**OUTSIDE STARLING TRUST BANK — AFTERNOON**
Sirens tore through the quiet streets like banshees announcing the apocalypse as squad cars screamed to a stop outside the bank. Doors flew open with violent force. Boots pounded the pavement in a staccato rhythm. Officers fanned out like a military operation, weapons raised, forming a tight perimeter as onlookers craned for a view from behind hastily erected barriers.
From an unmarked black sedan that had seen better decades, Detective Lucas Hilton stepped out, his trench coat swirling around him like storm clouds gathering before a hurricane. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate precision as he strode forward, radiating that particular brand of calm intensity that made rookies shut up and watch. His voice was low, steady, already commanding before he'd even spoken a word.
"Talk to me," Lucas barked into the radio clipped to his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the bank's facade.
One of the patrol sergeants met him halfway, slightly out of breath. "Sir. Three—possibly four—armed suspects confirmed inside. Hostages still present. Multiple shots fired. No demands yet."
Lucas cocked his head, his sharp eyes cutting through the chaos like a scalpel as he squinted up at the bank's polished glass facade. He could see the vague shapes of people through the windows — all kneeling. Some shaking. Some unnaturally still.
"Any contact?" Lucas asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with steady hands.
"None, sir. They're not picking up the phone."
"Course they're not," Lucas muttered, taking a drag. "That would be too easy."
He snatched a bullhorn from another officer's hands and gave a curt nod to his team.
"All right, gentlemen," he muttered under his breath, smoke curling from his lips. "Let's dance."
Keying the horn, his voice rolled across the square like thunder.
"This is Detective Lucas Hilton with Starling PD! The building is surrounded. You've got nowhere to go. But nobody needs to die today. Lay down your weapons and send the hostages out. You've got thirty seconds before I come in there and ruin your whole afternoon. Make it easy on yourselves."
The crowd behind the barricades fell into a nervous hush, the only sound the crackle of police radios and the distant hum of traffic.
Lucas checked his watch. "Twenty-five seconds."
The double doors creaked open.
Lucas raised a hand to his men, his voice sharp and clear. "Hold. Nobody fires unless they earn it."
One by one, the hostages began to file out — single file, slow, arms high. Each one wore a playing-card mask: Ace. King. Jack. The white, red, and black faces created an eerie procession of identical figures.
Lucas's brow knitted as he watched them spill out into the street, a dozen, then two dozen, their matching masks turning the scene into something surreal.
"What the—" Lucas growled, flicking his cigarette away. "What kind of amateur-hour bullshit is this?"
The square devolved into chaos as uniforms moved to corral the hostages, shouting at them to kneel, to take the masks off, to stop moving. The confusion bought precious seconds as officers tried to sort through the identical figures.
Lucas's voice thundered over the din as he keyed the bullhorn again.
"Rip those masks off! Everyone hold position! Don't let anyone through the perimeter!"
But even as he shouted, Lucas's gut told him they were already too late. This wasn't panic. This was theater.
By the time Lucas muscled through the tide of frightened civilians and into the bank, his suspicions were confirmed.
The lobby was empty. Still as a tomb.
"Clear the building!" he barked, already moving toward the vault, his hand resting on his service weapon.
The vault door stood ajar like a mouth frozen mid-scream. The safe deposit boxes looked like a tornado had torn through them, their contents scattered across the floor. And dead center in the floor, the marble tiles were gone, replaced with a gaping black hole that seemed to swallow light itself. The faint smell of earth and dust curled upward like smoke from a grave.
Lucas crouched by the hole, scowling into the darkness, his jaw working like he was chewing glass.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "They tunneled."
A young officer nearby gulped audibly, his face pale.
Lucas shot him a withering glare that could have stripped paint. "Don't just stand there gawking like a tourist. Lock down every sewer, storm drain, and service hatch in a five-block radius. Call me when you find something. Move!"
The officer scurried away like his pants were on fire.
Lucas straightened slowly, running a hand down his weathered face, and muttered to himself, "They played us like a goddamn fiddle."
He lit another cigarette and stared into the hole, his mind already working the angles. "Professional. Planned. Patient." He took a long drag. "This ain't their first rodeo."
---
**DOWN IN THE TUNNELS — SAME TIME**
The air was damp and stale, thick with the smell of decades-old concrete and stagnant water. The three men moved at a brisk pace, their boots splashing through shallow puddles as they wound through the maze of tunnels beneath the city like rats in a labyrinth they'd memorized.
King led the way, his massive frame and broad shoulders cutting through the darkness like a bulldozer with a purpose. Every few steps he adjusted his gloves, flexed his fingers, his jaw tight under the crimson mask. His breathing was steady, controlled, but there was tension in every line of his body.
Jack trailed behind, still whistling that same off-key tune, the canvas sack of cash slung carelessly over his shoulder. He swung it lightly like a lunch bag, his pistol twirling lazily in his other hand. Water splashed around his boots as he hopped from dry spot to dry spot like a twisted game of hopscotch.
Ace brought up the rear, his pistol still drawn, his movements tight, deliberate, the sharp angles of his mask catching the light like a blade. His eyes swept the tunnels constantly, checking their six, professional and paranoid in equal measure.
After several minutes of walking, King came to a sudden stop.
"Enough," he said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.
Jack's whistle trailed off mid-note. Ace looked up, head tilting slightly like a curious predator.
"Problem?" Ace asked, his tone smooth but edged with challenge.
King turned on him, planting himself squarely in his path like a mountain that had suddenly decided to relocate. His voice was low but steel-hard.
"Yeah. You."
Ace's lips curved just barely beneath the white mask. "You want to be more specific, or should I guess?"
King took a deliberate step forward, jabbing a thick finger into Ace's chest hard enough to make him take a step back.
"You don't kill," he said flatly. "That's not what we do."
Ace's smirk didn't falter. "Man was reaching for his piece. Was gonna be him or us. You'd rather he got the drop on us? Put a bullet in one of our heads?"
King's laugh was dry, humorless, like sandpaper on glass. "Oh, you're cute. You think it was him or us. Nah. It was you. You pulled that trigger because you wanted to. Because you like the sound it makes. Because you get off on watching the light go out."
Jack chimed in from behind them, swinging the sack like a pendulum.
"Well," Jack said, his voice sing-song and cheerful, "he does have good taste. Nice, clean shots. Minimal screaming. Very professional. I give it an eight. Maybe an eight and a half."
King threw him a withering glare that could have melted steel and Jack shut up instantly, his smile faltering.
Turning back to Ace, King leaned in, his massive presence filling the tunnel like a storm front.
"This thing we do?" King said quietly, but every word carried like a judge passing sentence. "It works because we don't cross that line. We don't kill civilians. We scare them, we rob them, we leave them with a story to tell their grandkids, but we don't put them in the ground. You want to take someone down in self-defense? Fine. You execute some scared cop who was already down? You make us sloppy. You make us weak. You put every badge in the city on our asses until they find us. And when they do? They won't even bother taking us alive."
Ace stared at him for a long moment, eyes cold behind the mask, his breathing steady and controlled.
"You done?" Ace asked finally.
"Are you listening?" King shot back.
"I hear you," Ace replied. "Question is, do you hear me? That cop was going to shoot one of us. Maybe you. Maybe Jack. Maybe me. I made a tactical decision."
"You made a murder," King corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Ace's voice was silk over steel. "Because from where I'm standing, the result is the same. We're all breathing, we got the money, and we're walking away. Mission accomplished."
King's hands clenched into fists. "The mission was to get in, get the money, and get out without turning this into a bloodbath. You turned it into a bloodbath."
"Three shots," Ace said with a shrug. "Hardly a bloodbath."
"Three shots too many."
Jack giggled nervously, trying to break the tension. "Guys, come on. We're all friends here. Can't we just agree that some people needed shooting and move on?"
Both King and Ace turned to glare at him.
"Shutting up now," Jack said quickly.
King turned back to Ace, his voice dropping to a growl. "This is the last time. You understand me? The last goddamn time you go off-script."
Ace stared at him for a long moment, then finally holstered his pistol and muttered, "Fine."
King straightened, rolling his shoulders like a boxer loosening up, and started walking again.
"You keep saying 'fine,'" he said over his shoulder. "One day it won't be. One day you're gonna push too far, and I'm gonna have to put you down like a rabid dog."
Ace's voice floated after him, smooth and amused. "You could try."
Behind them, Jack giggled and twirled his pistol, the sound echoing off the tunnel walls.
"Oooh," he cooed, "Dad's mad again. Someone's getting sent to bed without supper. Should I get the belt?"
King didn't even bother to look back.
"Keep talkin', Jack," he growled. "I can always leave you down here. See how funny you are when you're explaining to the rats why you're trespassing in their neighborhood."
Jack snorted. "Promises, promises. Besides, rats love me. I speak their language."
"That's because you are one," Ace said dryly.
"Takes one to know one," Jack shot back cheerfully.
The sound of their boots on concrete echoed as they disappeared deeper into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of gunpowder and wet earth, and the lingering tension of a partnership that might not survive the next job.
---
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