THE STARLING PLAZA HOTEL - BAR AREA - SAME TIME
The bar occupied a quieter corner of the ballroom, positioned strategically to offer an excellent view of the proceedings while providing enough acoustic separation for more intimate conversations. The bartender—a professional who'd clearly worked enough high-end events to recognize when people needed space—had perfected the art of being available without being intrusive.
Oliver found his mother there, standing with her back to the room, one perfectly manicured hand wrapped around a crystal tumbler containing what appeared to be very expensive whiskey. Moira Queen had always been beautiful, but tonight she looked particularly striking in a way that spoke to both genetic advantages and the kind of self-care that unlimited resources could provide.
Her navy blue gown was elegantly simple, cut to showcase her still-impressive figure without drawing attention away from the diamond necklace that probably cost more than most people's houses. Her silver-blonde hair was styled with mathematical precision, and her posture carried the kind of unconscious authority that came from decades of commanding rooms full of powerful people.
But there was something in the set of her shoulders that suggested she was carrying weight that had nothing to do with jewelry or social expectations.
"Mother," Oliver said quietly, approaching with the kind of careful respect he'd learned to employ when she was in one of her more contemplative moods.
Moira turned, her blue eyes—so like his own—holding an expression that was difficult to read. Not angry, exactly, but disappointed in a way that was somehow worse.
"Oliver," she replied with perfect courtesy that carried undertones of maternal frustration. "Enjoying the evening?"
"It's a beautiful event," he said diplomatically, settling beside her at the bar. "Laurel and Tommy did incredible work putting this together."
"Yes," Moira agreed, though her tone suggested she found the small talk as inadequate as he did. "They make a good team. When they're not too busy pretending they don't care about each other to actually communicate effectively."
Oliver accepted the conversational opening with something approaching relief. Discussing other people's relationship complications was significantly easier than addressing his own family dynamics.
"They're figuring it out," he said, gesturing to the bartender for whatever his mother was drinking. "Tommy's... different now. More focused. More genuine."
"People can change," Moira observed, though there was something pointed in her tone that suggested the comment wasn't entirely about Tommy Merlyn. "Though change requires honesty about what wasn't working before."
Oliver felt the familiar weight of guilt settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. He'd been avoiding this conversation since returning from Lian Yu, hoping that enough time would somehow make it easier. It hadn't.
"Mother," he began carefully, "about the other morning. The brunch with the Bowens. I want to apologize for leaving so abruptly, and for... well, for not stopping Harry from being quite so... Harry."
Moira's smile held no warmth whatsoever. "You mean for not stopping your cousin from systematically destroying Carter Bowen's ego with surgical precision? Please, Oliver, don't insult my intelligence by pretending you weren't enjoying every minute of it."
Oliver had the grace to look slightly ashamed. "Carter was being patronizing."
"Carter was being enthusiastic," Moira corrected firmly. "Perhaps a bit too much so, but his intentions were genuine. Harry's response was... excessive."
"You're right," Oliver conceded, taking a sip of the whiskey and finding it excellent. "I should have intervened. Harry's protective instincts sometimes override his social filter."
Moira was quiet for a long moment, studying her son's face with the kind of maternal intensity that had always made him feel like she could see straight through whatever persona he was trying to project.
"Oliver," she said finally, her voice carrying a weight that suggested they were approaching the real conversation she'd been waiting to have. "We used to have a connection. Before the yacht, before Lian Yu, before everything changed. I always knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, even when you were trying to hide it from everyone else."
Oliver's chest tightened with something that felt like grief for a simpler time when his biggest secrets involved failed tests and expensive mistakes rather than vigilante activities and body counts.
"I remember," he said quietly.
"But now," Moira continued, her voice taking on a note of sadness that cut through his carefully constructed emotional defenses like a blade, "you're a stranger wearing my son's face. You show up for family obligations, you make polite conversation, you play the part of Oliver Queen returning to his privileged life. But you're not here. Not really."
The accusation hit harder than physical violence would have, partly because it was true and partly because it came from the person whose approval had always mattered more than anyone else's.
"Mother—"
"You don't talk to me," she interrupted, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears that made Oliver's throat constrict with guilt. "You don't trust me with whatever it is you're really doing with your time, your energy, your life. You certainly don't tell me the truth about where you go when you disappear for hours at a time, or why you come home with injuries you claim are from construction accidents."
Oliver's hand instinctively moved to his side, where a partially healed knife wound was hidden beneath his tuxedo. He'd told her he'd walked into a piece of rebar at the nightclub site.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, the words feeling inadequate even as he spoke them.
Moira's laugh was bitter. "Protect me? Oliver, I built this family's fortune by making deals with people who would terrify most of your nightmares. I survived twenty years of marriage to a man whose business practices occasionally required... creative problem-solving. I navigated corporate politics that make medieval court intrigue look like kindergarten playground disputes."
She set down her whiskey with more force than necessary, the crystal ringing against the bar's marble surface.
"What exactly do you think I need protection from?" she demanded. "The truth about my own son's activities? The knowledge that the person I care about most in the world doesn't trust me enough to be honest with me?"
Oliver felt the weight of her disappointment like a physical thing, pressing down on his chest until it was difficult to breathe. Part of him wanted to tell her everything—the island, the vigilante activities, the mission to save Starling City that consumed every waking moment. But another part of him, the part that had learned to calculate risks and costs with mathematical precision, knew that involving her would put her in danger he couldn't control.
"It's complicated," he said finally, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
"Everything worthwhile is complicated," Moira replied with the patient tone of someone explaining basic concepts to a child. "That's why families talk to each other, Oliver. That's why we trust each other with our complications."
Before Oliver could formulate a response that might bridge the gap between honesty and operational security, John Diggle appeared at his elbow with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested urgent business.
"Oliver," Diggle said quietly, his voice pitched to carry only to their small group, "I need a word."
Moira's expression shifted as she recognized the particular quality of attention that meant her son was about to disappear again on mysterious business that he couldn't or wouldn't explain.
"Of course," she said with bitter resignation. "By all means, don't let me keep you from whatever pressing engagement requires your immediate departure from a charity function honoring one of your closest friends."
Oliver felt his chest tighten with conflicting demands—the mission that demanded his attention, and the mother who deserved his honesty.
"Mother," he began, but Diggle's hand on his arm carried the kind of urgency that suggested delay wasn't an option.
"The situation we discussed earlier," Diggle said carefully, his eyes conveying information that couldn't be spoken aloud in a crowded ballroom. "It's happening now. The team has already moved into position."
Oliver's training kicked in automatically, his mind shifting from personal complications to tactical necessities with the speed that had kept him alive through five years of hell. The Royal Flush Gang was making their move on First National, Harry and the others were already in position, and people's lives were about to depend on decisions he made in the next thirty seconds.
"I have to go," he said to his mother, the words carrying more weight than she could possibly understand.
Moira's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Of course you do."
"Mother, please—"
"Don't," she interrupted, her voice carrying the kind of final authority that meant the conversation was over whether he wanted it to be or not. "Don't apologize, don't make excuses, don't promise to explain later when we both know you won't."
She picked up her whiskey and walked away without looking back, her posture straight and proud and utterly unforgiving.
Oliver watched her go, feeling the familiar weight of choices that had no good answers. Save the city, or maintain his relationship with his mother. Protect innocent people, or be honest with the woman who'd raised him.
"Oliver," Diggle said quietly, "we need to move."
Oliver nodded, pushing aside personal complications in favor of operational necessities. The Royal Flush Gang had made their choice, and now he had to make his.
He just hoped that someday, his mother would understand why he'd chosen to save strangers instead of their relationship.
---
STARLING PLAZA HOTEL - QUIET ALCOVE NEAR THE AUCTION DISPLAYS
The alcove had been designed for exactly this kind of conversation—intimate enough to provide privacy while maintaining enough connection to the main event to avoid seeming secretive. Elegant floral arrangements created natural barriers, while strategically placed lighting made it ideal for the kind of professional discussion that sophisticated people had at sophisticated events.
Tonks settled into one of the velvet-upholstered chairs with the kind of controlled grace that suggested she'd learned to move with confidence even in unfamiliar environments. Her burgundy gown pooled around her feet like spilled wine, and her chestnut hair caught the soft lighting in a way that made her look like she'd stepped out of a Renaissance painting.
"So," she said with genuine curiosity, "tell me about CNRI's approach to community advocacy. Sirius mentioned that you focus on legal representation for underserved populations, but I'd love to hear the details from someone who's actually doing the work."
Laurel settled across from her, grateful for the opportunity to discuss something she was passionate about with someone who seemed genuinely interested rather than simply polite.
"We started with a simple premise," Laurel began, her green eyes bright with enthusiasm. "The legal system is supposed to provide equal justice under law, but in practice, it's tilted heavily toward people who can afford quality representation. We're trying to balance those scales."
"How so?" Tonks asked, leaning forward slightly with the kind of focused attention that suggested she was actually listening rather than waiting for her turn to talk.
"Direct legal services, obviously," Laurel replied. "But also community education, advocacy training, policy reform work. We're trying to address both immediate needs and systemic problems."
Tonks nodded thoughtfully. "That's exactly the kind of proactive approach I was talking about earlier. Most law enforcement is reactive—we respond to crimes after they've been committed. But if you can address the underlying conditions that create crime in the first place..."
"Exactly," Laurel said with evident satisfaction at being understood so quickly. "It's not just about representing clients in court. It's about changing the conditions that make legal representation necessary in the first place."
"Can you give me an example?" Tonks asked. "Something specific where CNRI has made that kind of systemic impact?"
Laurel's smile was genuine and proud. "Landlord-tenant disputes. We were seeing the same problems over and over—illegal evictions, uninhabitable conditions, security deposit theft. Instead of just representing individual clients, we worked with the city council to strengthen tenant protection ordinances and establish a landlord registration system."
"Brilliant," Tonks said with obvious admiration. "Address the pattern, not just the individual cases."
"It wasn't easy," Laurel admitted. "Property owners have significantly more political influence than tenants. But we built coalitions, documented systematic problems, and eventually made the case that housing stability is a community safety issue."
Tonks was quiet for a moment, processing the information with the kind of thoughtful consideration that suggested she was seeing applications beyond the specific example.
"You know," she said finally, "in law enforcement, we often talk about community policing—building relationships with neighborhoods, addressing quality-of-life issues before they become serious crimes. But what you're describing is community justice—building systems that prevent legal problems from becoming crises."
"That's a perfect way to put it," Laurel replied, then paused as she found herself studying Tonks's face with more attention than the conversation strictly required.
There was something about the other woman that was... compelling. Not just her intelligence or her professional competence, though both of those were impressive. It was something more personal—the way she listened with complete focus, the way her dark eyes seemed to see straight through social conventions to the person underneath, the way her smile carried just enough warmth to suggest genuine interest rather than polite courtesy.
It was, Laurel realized with surprise, attractive in a way that she'd never really considered before.
"So what drew you to advocacy work?" Tonks asked, apparently oblivious to the direction of Laurel's thoughts. "It's not exactly the most lucrative field for someone with your obvious talents."
Laurel felt a flush of warmth at the compliment, though she told herself it was simply professional appreciation.
"My father's a police detective," she said, settling back in her chair as the conversation shifted to more personal territory. "I grew up seeing how the system worked—and how it didn't work—for people who couldn't afford to make it work for them."
"That must have been difficult," Tonks said with quiet sympathy. "Watching injustice from the inside, knowing you wanted to fix it but not having the tools yet."
"It was frustrating," Laurel admitted. "But also motivating. By the time I was old enough to understand what I was seeing, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life."
"And your father? Is he supportive of your work?"
Laurel's expression grew complicated. "He's... proud of what I'm doing, but worried about my safety. CNRI doesn't exactly deal with the most stable elements of society, and his protective instincts sometimes conflict with his respect for my independence."
"Understandable," Tonks said with the kind of knowing look that suggested she'd had similar conversations with protective family members. "It's difficult to balance caring about someone with respecting their autonomy to make their own choices."
"Exactly," Laurel replied, grateful to be understood so easily. "He wants to support my work, but he also wants to make sure I'm safe. Sometimes those things are in tension."
"What about romantically?" Tonks asked, then immediately looked slightly embarrassed by her own directness. "I'm sorry, that's probably too personal for a professional conversation."
Laurel felt her pulse quicken slightly, though she told herself it was just surprise at the unexpected question.
"No, it's... it's fine," she said, trying to project casual confidence while her mind raced through the implications of why Tonks might be interested in her romantic availability. "My personal life is complicated at the moment. I'm... figuring some things out."
"Aren't we all," Tonks replied with a smile that seemed to carry layers of meaning that Laurel couldn't quite decode.
There was something in the way Tonks was looking at her—not inappropriate, exactly, but more personal than their professional conversation strictly required. It was the kind of attention that made Laurel suddenly aware of her own appearance, of the way her dress clung to her figure, of the fact that she'd been unconsciously leaning closer as their conversation progressed.
"Can I ask you something?" Laurel said, her voice dropping slightly without conscious decision.
"Of course."
"Earlier, when you intervened with Carter—that wasn't just professional courtesy, was it?"
Tonks's smile was slow and knowing. "No," she said simply. "It wasn't."
The admission hung between them, charged with possibility that neither of them had expected but both were clearly considering.
"I should probably mention," Laurel said carefully, "that I've never... I mean, I don't typically..."
"Neither do I," Tonks replied with gentle amusement. "Though I've learned that attraction doesn't always follow the patterns we expect it to."
Laurel felt her cheeks warm with something that was equal parts embarrassment and excitement. "This is new territory for me."
"New territory can be interesting," Tonks said, her voice taking on a slightly husky quality that made Laurel's pulse quicken further. "Though there's no pressure to explore it if you're not comfortable."
Before Laurel could formulate a response to that particular invitation, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and voices that suggested their private moment was about to become significantly less private.
"Laurel?" Tommy's voice carried a note of concern that suggested he'd been looking for her. "The auction's about to start, and the organizers were hoping you could introduce the first few items."
Laurel felt a complicated mix of disappointment and relief as she rose from her chair, the spell of her conversation with Tonks broken by the return of professional responsibilities.
"Of course," she said, smoothing her dress with hands that she hoped weren't visibly trembling. "I should go handle that."
She turned back to Tonks, who had also risen with fluid grace.
"This conversation was... enlightening," Laurel said, the word carrying more weight than its simple definition suggested.
"Indeed it was," Tonks agreed with a smile that promised the conversation would continue later, under circumstances that might allow for more personal exploration. "I look forward to continuing our discussion about community justice initiatives."
As Laurel walked toward the auction stage, she found herself more aware than usual of the way her dress moved with her steps, of the attention she was drawing from various directions, and particularly of the warm gaze that followed her progress across the ballroom.
She'd come to the fundraiser expecting to focus on professional networking and CNRI's organizational needs. She hadn't expected to discover new aspects of her own personal interests.
But then again, the most important discoveries were usually the ones you never saw coming.
---
OUTSIDE FIRST NATIONAL BANK - NIGHT
The downtown financial district at eleven o'clock on a Friday night possessed the particular kind of urban emptiness that belonged to places where money was made but nobody actually lived. Expensive storefronts displayed their wares to empty sidewalks, while the occasional taxi or late-night delivery truck provided the only signs that the city was still awake.
First National Bank occupied a corner position in a building that had been constructed during an era when financial institutions were designed to convey permanence and authority rather than accessibility. The architecture was neo-classical—massive columns, marble facades, and the kind of imposing presence that suggested your money was being protected by something approaching divine authority.
Three blocks away, in the shadows beneath an overpass that connected two parking structures, four figures made final preparations for what would be either their greatest triumph or their last mistake.
Derek Reston checked his watch with the mechanical precision of someone who'd planned this moment down to the second. Eleven-oh-seven. Eight minutes until the security shift change that would give them their narrow window of opportunity.
"Everyone clear on timing?" he asked, his voice carrying the calm authority that had made him an effective foreman and an even more effective criminal leader.
Kyle nodded, though his nervous energy was visible in the way his hands kept moving—checking equipment, adjusting his mask, touching the grip of the pistol concealed beneath his jacket. The Ace mask made his face unreadable, but his body language screamed adrenaline and barely controlled excitement.
"In and out in four minutes," he said, reciting the plan they'd rehearsed dozens of times. "Teddy kills the cameras and alarms, you handle the vault, Mom controls the lobby, I watch the exits."
"And if the vigilantes show up?" Janice asked, her voice muffled by the Queen mask but carrying steel underneath the distortion.
"Then we execute contingency plan Alpha," Derek replied with grim finality. "But let's focus on the primary objective. Four minutes, clean and quiet, no unnecessary violence."
Teddy looked up from the tablet he'd been using to monitor the bank's security systems, his Jack mask concealing an expression that Derek suspected was more focused than nervous.
"Electronic surveillance is down," he reported with quiet competence. "Cameras are on a loop, alarms are disabled, and the silent alarm system is feeding them false positives from three weeks ago."
Derek felt a surge of pride at his younger son's technical skills, even as part of him grieved for the circumstances that had made those skills necessary.
"Motion detectors?" he asked.
"Scrambled," Teddy confirmed. "I'm feeding them random patterns that match normal cleaning crew activity. As far as the system knows, we're supposed to be there."
Kyle's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Five years of planning, and it comes down to four minutes in a bank. Either we walk out rich enough to disappear forever, or we don't walk out at all."
"We walk out," Derek said with absolute certainty, though he couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. "All of us. Together."
The feeling wasn't paranoia, as it turned out.
---
ROOFTOP SURVEILLANCE POSITION - SAME TIME
Harry Potter crouched behind the ornate stonework of a building that had been constructed during an era when architects believed that banks should look like temples and apparently succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. His Blood Raven armor was perfectly suited for urban surveillance—the deep red and black materials absorbed light rather than reflecting it, making him effectively invisible against the shadows cast by downtown's architectural flourishes.
"Visual confirmation," he said quietly into his tactical comm, his voice carrying the kind of controlled tension that preceded violence. "Royal Flush Gang is in position three blocks southeast of the target. Four individuals, full kit, moving with purpose."
Susan's voice crackled through his earpiece with electronic clarity. "Copy that, Blood Raven. Morrigan is in position on the northwest approach. I can see the back entrance and two potential escape routes."
"Druid here," Neville's deep voice added from his position across the street. "South entrance covered. Electronic countermeasures are active—if they try to jam our comms or disable our equipment, they're going to get a nasty surprise."
From her mobile command position six blocks away, Hermione's voice provided the tactical overview that coordinated their individual positions into a coherent operational plan.
"All positions confirmed," she reported with the kind of brisk efficiency that came from managing complex operations under pressure. "Overwatch shows four heat signatures approaching the target building using maintenance access points. Electronic surveillance confirms that their equipment is working exactly as expected—which is to say, not at all, thanks to some creative counter-countermeasures."
Harry's smile behind his mask was sharp enough to perform surgery. "Excellent. Arrow, what's your status?"
Oliver's voice, when it came through the comm system, carried the particular quality of controlled violence that meant he was ready to end this situation with prejudice if necessary.
"Arrow is in position," he reported from his concealment point overlooking the bank's main entrance. "Clear shot at all four targets, non-lethal takedown available on command."
"Hold position," Harry ordered, his tactical instincts warning him that something about the situation felt too easy. "Let them commit to the bank entry before we move. I want them contained in a controlled environment before we spring the trap."
"Copy that," Oliver confirmed. "Though I should mention that their body language suggests they're expecting opposition. This isn't going to be the clean ambush we planned."
Susan's voice carried a note of professional concern that made Harry's tactical instincts ping with warning signals.
"Morrigan to all positions," she reported. "I'm seeing movement in the alley behind the target building. Additional heat signatures that don't match our intelligence on the Royal Flush Gang's operational pattern."
"Explain," Harry demanded, his mind already working through implications that he didn't like.
"Five additional individuals in tactical positions around the bank's perimeter," Susan continued with the kind of precise detail that came from years of police observation training. "Professional spacing, military-grade equipment, coordinated movement patterns. This isn't civilians or private security."
"Shit," Neville's voice crackled through the comm with uncharacteristic profanity. "We've got company. And not the kind that's going to be impressed by our credentials."
Harry felt the tactical situation shifting around them like sand in an hourglass. The Royal Flush Gang had been planning this job for months, but apparently they weren't the only ones who'd been making preparations.
"Hermione," he said into his comm with sharp authority, "I need identification on those additional signatures. Police, federal, or private military?"
"Working on it," Hermione replied, her fingers flying over her keyboard with desperate efficiency. "Electronic signatures suggest advanced tactical equipment, encrypted communications, and coordination that's definitely not standard SCPD protocol."
"How definitely?" Oliver asked, his voice carrying the edge that meant he was calculating angles and evaluating threats.
"Definitely enough that I think we're looking at either federal agents or private military contractors," Hermione replied grimly. "Either way, they're here for the same reason we are, and they're not going to be interested in cooperative law enforcement."
Harry absorbed this information with the kind of tactical flexibility that had kept him alive through worse situations than this one.
"New plan," he said with deadly calm. "We let the Royal Flush Gang enter the bank as planned, but we stay back and see who else is interested in crashing this party. I have a feeling this evening is about to become significantly more complicated."
"And if the additional players decide to resolve the situation with extreme prejudice?" Susan asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
"Then we make sure they don't," Harry replied with silk-wrapped steel. "The Royal Flush Gang may be criminals, but they're our criminals. Nobody else gets to decide their fate."
---
FIRST NATIONAL BANK - MAIN ENTRANCE
Eleven-fifteen, exactly as planned.
Derek Reston led his family through the bank's heavy glass doors with the kind of controlled confidence that came from months of preparation and years of experience with high-stakes situations. The lobby was exactly as Teddy's reconnaissance had promised—spacious, elegant, and completely empty except for the night security guard who was currently in the process of being very surprised by their arrival.
"Good evening," Derek said politely to the guard, a middle-aged man whose name tag identified him as Frank Morrison. "We're going to need you to remain calm and follow instructions. Nobody needs to get hurt tonight."
Frank's hand moved toward his radio with the kind of automatic response that came from twenty years of private security work, but Kyle was already behind him with the kind of speed that spoke to extensive planning.
"I wouldn't," Kyle said quietly, his voice muffled by the Ace mask but carrying enough menace to make his point clear. "Radio stays where it is. Hands where we can see them. No sudden movements."
Frank was clearly a professional—his posture remained controlled despite the circumstances, and his voice was steady when he spoke.
"You gentlemen picked the wrong night for this," he said with the kind of calm authority that suggested he'd been through this before. "Bank's on heightened security protocol. More people are aware of your presence than you think."
Derek felt something cold settle in his stomach, but his expression remained perfectly controlled behind the King mask.
"Is that so?" he asked conversationally. "And who might be aware of our presence, Frank?"
Before Frank could answer—or decide whether he should answer—Teddy's voice cut through their conversation from his position at the bank's main computer terminal.
"Dad," he said with quiet urgency, "we've got a problem. The security system isn't responding the way it should. Someone's been making modifications."
Derek moved to his son's position with quick, efficient steps, his mind already working through implications that he didn't like.
"What kind of modifications?" he asked.
"The kind that suggest we're not the only ones who've been planning to be here tonight," Teddy replied grimly, his fingers flying over the keyboard with desperate efficiency. "Electronic countermeasures, signal jamming, communication intercepts. Professional-grade stuff."
Kyle's voice from across the lobby carried a sharp edge of nervous aggression. "Dad, we need to move. Now. This whole thing smells like a setup."
Derek's tactical instincts were screaming warnings, but they'd come too far to abort without completing the objective. His family needed this score to disappear properly, and backing down now would leave them exposed to both law enforcement and whatever other forces were apparently taking an interest in their activities.
"Two minutes," he decided. "Vault, cash, out. Contingency plan Alpha if anything goes wrong."
He moved toward the vault with the kind of focused precision that had made him successful at both legitimate and illegitimate careers, but part of his mind was already calculating alternatives and preparing for the possibility that this job was about to go spectacularly wrong.
Behind him, Janice took position at the lobby windows, her Queen mask turning slowly as she scanned the street for any sign of the opposition they all knew was coming.
"Movement," she reported quietly. "Multiple vehicles converging on our location from at least three different directions."
"Police?" Derek asked without looking up from the vault mechanism.
"Negative," Janice replied with the kind of certainty that came from extensive experience distinguishing between different types of law enforcement response. "These aren't squad cars. Too quiet, too coordinated. Professional interdiction, not emergency response."
Derek's hands continued working on the vault lock with automatic precision, but his mind was already shifting into combat mode.
"Teddy, how much longer on that electronic warfare?"
"Thirty seconds for basic countermeasures," his younger son replied with admirable calm under pressure. "Two minutes for full system control."
"Kyle, exit routes?"
"Still clear, but not for long," Kyle reported, his nervous energy finally finding a useful outlet in tactical assessment. "Whatever's coming, it's coming fast."
Derek felt the vault mechanism yield to his expertise with a soft click that should have been satisfying but instead felt ominous. The heavy steel door swung open to reveal neat stacks of currency arranged on metal shelves—more money than his family had seen in five years, enough to fund their escape and set them up for life in a place where the name Queen meant nothing and corporate promises carried no weight.
"We're in," he announced. "Ninety seconds to load and extract."
But even as he spoke, Derek Reston knew with absolute certainty that they weren't going to have ninety seconds.
The game had changed, and the house was about to collect its debts with interest.
The only question was how much interest had accumulated, and whether his family would survive the collection process.
---
ROOFTOP SURVEILLANCE POSITION - SAME TIME
"This is going to hell very quickly," Harry observed with the kind of clinical detachment that came from years of watching carefully laid plans collide with Murphy's Law at high speed.
Through his enhanced optics, he could see the Royal Flush Gang moving through the bank with the kind of professional efficiency that spoke to extensive preparation, but he could also see the tactical teams positioning themselves around the building's perimeter with the kind of coordination that suggested military training and unlimited resources.
"Federal?" Susan's voice crackled through his earpiece with tension that matched his own tactical assessment.
"Worse," Harry replied grimly. "Private military. Which means someone with serious money decided that the Royal Flush Gang needed to be stopped with prejudice, and they were willing to pay premium rates to make it happen."
"Any guesses who?" Oliver's voice carried the edge that meant he was ready to start shooting people if they didn't get answers soon.
Harry's mind worked through the implications with the kind of strategic thinking that had made him successful in both business and warfare.
"Someone who benefits from the Royal Flush Gang not being taken alive," he said finally. "Someone who doesn't want them talking about their connections, their resources, or their motivation."
"Queen Consolidated," Neville said with grim certainty. "Has to be. Derek Reston knows too much about the company's operations, and someone doesn't want that information becoming public."
"Which means," Susan added with professional alarm, "we're looking at a corporate assassination disguised as law enforcement interdiction. They're going to kill the entire family and call it justified use of force."
Harry felt his protective instincts surge to the forefront, overriding tactical caution in favor of immediate action.
"New plan," he announced with deadly calm. "We protect the Royal Flush Gang from the private military teams, extract them alive, and find out who paid for this operation."
"Harry," Oliver's voice carried a note of warning, "they're still criminals. They're still armed, still dangerous, still planning to rob a bank."
"They're also a family," Harry replied sharply. "A family that's been systematically destroyed by corporate malfeasance and is now about to be murdered to protect the reputations of the people who destroyed them in the first place."
The silence that followed carried weight as each member of the team processed the moral complexity of their situation.
"So what are you suggesting?" Susan asked finally.
"I'm suggesting we choose sides," Harry said with absolute finality. "And I choose the side that doesn't involve letting a family get slaughtered to protect corporate secrets."
"Even if it means going up against professional military contractors?" Neville asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Especially if it means that," Harry confirmed with satisfaction that bordered on anticipation. "I've been looking for a proper challenge lately, and private military contractors with delusions of adequacy should provide excellent entertainment."
Oliver's sigh was audible through the comm system. "Rules of engagement?"
"Non-lethal if possible," Harry replied with pragmatic flexibility. "Lethal if necessary. Primary objective is extraction of the Royal Flush Gang. Secondary objective is identification of whoever hired the interdiction team."
"And if the Royal Flush Gang doesn't want to be extracted?" Susan pressed.
Harry's smile behind his mask was sharp enough to cut diamonds. "Then we extract them anyway. They can thank us later, after we've prevented them from being murdered by corporate assassins."
Before anyone could raise further objections to his revised tactical plan, the situation on the street below shifted dramatically.
Multiple vehicles converged on First National Bank with the kind of coordinated precision that spoke to extensive planning and unlimited resources. Black SUVs, tactical vans, and what appeared to be a mobile command unit took positions around the building's perimeter with military efficiency.
"Show time," Harry announced with evident satisfaction. "All positions, prepare for immediate engagement. This is about to become very interesting indeed."
Inside the bank, Derek Reston was about to discover that his family's greatest threat wasn't the vigilantes who'd been hunting them for weeks.
It was the people who'd hired those vigilantes to make sure they never had the chance to tell their story.
The house always collected its debts.
But sometimes, the house made collection mistakes that required creative correction.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there