[Abandoned Club – Afternoon]
Dust hangs in the air. The faint hum of the broken ceiling fan mixes with the sound of weapons being loaded. Sunlight filters weakly through the boarded-up windows, cutting narrow lines across the floor.
Bill: Alright, listen up. We're not walking into this empty-handed. Load yourselves up… just in case things go sideways.
Jack: (grins faintly, checking his revolver) When do things not go sideways with us?
Prince: (snorts, slipping a knife into his boot) He's got a point.
Bill: (glares at them) This isn't a joke. We don't know what the Crimson Hounds are planning. I want eyes sharp and fingers ready.
Matthew: (nods, calm but tense) Got it. You still want me and Prince to search them once they show up?
Bill: Exactly. No one steps past us without getting checked. I don't care if they say it's "just a talk."
They all nod, the room filled with the sound of clips locking and metal scraping.
Jack: (slinging a shotgun across his back) We're really doing this, huh?
Prince: (forces a smirk) Half an hour till showtime. Let's not make 'em wait.
Bill glances at the cracked wall clock, its second hand twitching weakly.
Bill: Fifteen minutes to the old church. Move out.
The four exchange brief looks, no words just understanding. Then they stride out, boots echoing through the empty club, the door creaking shut behind them.
[Old Church – Afternoon]
The air inside the church is thick with dust and the scent of old wood. Sunlight pours through shattered stained glass, painting broken colors on the cracked floor.
Bill sits near the altar, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the church doors. Jack stands beside him, silent, shotgun slung loosely across his chest. At the entrance, Prince and Matthew take their posts, each keeping a steady hand near their weapons.
Bill: (quietly) Fifteen minutes. Let's make this clean. No mistakes.
The distant growl of engines cuts through the silence. Four vehicles pull up outside the church, the sound echoing against the empty streets. Doors slam. Voices murmur. The Crimson Hounds have arrived. Four men in each vehicle. John and Mark step out first steady, sharp-eyed, tension heavy in their movements.
John: (to his crew) Stay focused. No one moves unless I say.
Mark nods and heads to the back of one of the cars. He pops the boot, revealing a metal briefcase. Inside sits five grand in neat stacks. He exhales slowly, then shuts it, his reflection flashing in the case's surface.
John and Mark share a quick glance, wordless understanding.
Mark: Let's make this quick.
They start toward the church. Inside, Matthew and Prince straighten, eyes locked on the door. As the two Hounds step inside, the wooden floor groans beneath their boots.
Matthew: Hold up. We need to search you.
Mark hesitates, his jaw tightening, but John raises a hand.
John: Let them. We came to talk, not fight.
Matthew steps forward and pats John down, methodical but calm. Prince checks Mark, his eyes never leaving his face.
A gun and a knife, one on each of them.
Matthew lifts the pistol from John's jacket, while Prince pulls the knife from Mark's belt.
Prince: You boys came dressed for trouble.
John: (shrugs) Habit.
Bill: (calling from the altar) Take 'em. We don't need surprises.
Matthew and Prince secure the weapons, tossing them on a nearby pew.
The silence that follows is heavy, only the faint creak of the old building filling the air.
Bill: Alright… now that we're all nice and safe, let's talk business.
Satisfied, Matthew and Prince step aside, letting the two men in.
John and Mark walk down the center aisle, their footsteps echoing softly through the hollow space. Dust floats in the shafts of sunlight slicing through broken glass. Bill rises from his seat near the altar as they approach, his gaze steady.
Bill: (extends a hand) Welcome.
John stops a few steps away, gestures to Mark to hang back, and reaches out to shake Bill's hand.
John: We're members of the Crimson Hounds. I'm John, and this is my partner, Mark.
Bill: Nice to meet you. (smiles faintly)
John: So… you must be the voice behind the call.
Bill nods, expression turning serious again.
Bill: Let's get straight to it. I'd like to see the briefcase.
John: Of course.
He gives Mark a small nod. Mark steps forward, setting the briefcase on the nearest pew. The metallic click of the locks echoes sharply. When the lid opens, stacks of crisp bills gleam under the dusty light.
Bill leans forward slightly, eyes scanning the contents, counting quickly in silence. He exhales through his nose and straightens.
Bill: Five grand. Just as promised.
He motions toward the seats in front of him.
Bill: Have a seat. Let's get this started.
John lowers himself into the pew, posture calm but watchful. Mark remains standing beside him, his hand resting near his belt as if out of habit.
Jack stays close to Bill's side, face hard and unreadable, eyes fixed on the two men from the Hounds. The church falls quiet again, only the faint creak of old wood beneath shifting weight.
[Crimson Hounds Base – Afternoon]
The sound of fists slamming against leather fills the dimly lit training room. Sweat drips from Frank's forehead as he throws another heavy punch into the hanging bag, the chains rattling with every strike.
He moves fast, sharp left jab, right hook, a kick that sends the bag swinging violently. His breathing is rough, focused.
He pauses only to wipe his face with a towel, eyes distant, jaw clenched. The muscles in his arms tense again as he resumes, landing blow after blow as if trying to beat back whatever's weighing on his mind.
A few other members watch quietly from the corner, keeping their distance. No one dares interrupt him when he's like this.
Each strike echoes through the base, heavy and relentless, Frank's own way of keeping control when everything else feels uncertain.
[Police Station – Afternoon]
The low hum of printers and phones fills the busy station. Inside a quiet office, a man sits behind a cluttered desk, the blinds half-closed, stripes of sunlight cutting across stacks of files. His badge glints faintly against his shirt — Detective Nate.
He flips through a thick folder labeled House Fire Report, eyes narrowing as he scans the photos and notes. Burnt walls. Collapsed beams. A single word circled in red ink: Bodies identified; Mikey and Cristina.
His brows draw together, a hint of confusion crossing his face.
Detective Nate: (murmuring to himself) Why does this incident look exactly like the one from ten years ago…?
He leans back, rubbing his chin, lost in thought. Then he presses a button on his desk intercom.
Detective Nate: Joyce, can you step in for a second?
Outside, Officer Joyce, his most trusted subordinate, rises from her desk and enters the office.
Officer Joyce: (respectfully) You called for me, detective?
Detective Nate: Yeah. I need you to find me the old case files… the house fire from ten years ago. Be careful when you look for them… make sure no one sees you going through these files.
Joyce tilts her head slightly, surprised.
Officer Joyce: The one from ten years back? Why are you suddenly looking into that again?
Detective Nate: (eyes fixed on the papers) There's something I need to check. Something that doesn't add up.
Joyce studies him for a moment, then nods firmly.
Officer Joyce: Okay, Detective Nate. I'll get right on it.
She turns and heads out, closing the door behind her. The faint sound of her footsteps fades down the hall.
Detective Nate exhales slowly, gaze drifting back to the photographs spread before him. The fire-scorched ruins stare back in silence and something about them feels hauntingly familiar.
[Old Church – Afternoon]
John and Bill shake hands once more, the movement firm but respectful. Mark steps forward, placing the briefcase carefully in Bill's hands.
Bill: (serious) And remember… don't underestimate Elana.
John nods, a faint smile crossing his face.
John: Thanks for the intel.
Without another word, they move toward the front door to retrieve their weapons. Bill and John grab their firearms, slinging them into place as practiced.
Mark and John exchange a quick glance, both letting out a soft sigh before heading toward their vehicles. Engines roar to life, and one by one, the cars pull out of the church parking lot, tires crunching over gravel as they drive off, heading back to the Crimson Hounds' base.
Inside the church, Bill, Jack, Matthew, and Prince wait a few moments, eyes trained on the now-empty doors. As the last car disappears from view, they move out, stepping over the dusty floorboards and exiting the church.
The ride back to their base is filled with joy, laughter and teasing breaking through the tension that had weighed on them earlier. The briefcase sits securely between them, a tangible reward for their risk.
Once inside, they gather around a table, the briefcase open before them. Bills are counted and split evenly.
Bill: (placing the stacks in front of each of them) That's $1,250 a piece.
Jack nods, a faint grin tugging at his lips. Prince and Matthew each take their share, eyes briefly meeting in acknowledgment.
[Elana's House – 13:15 PM]
The siblings are calmer now. Stacy stands, brushing her hands together.
Stacy: We should go have breakfast now… let's not make Elana wait any longer.
Bryan nods in agreement, while Dean rubs the back of his neck.
Dean: I'll take a shower first.
Bryan and Stacy head to the living room, spotting breakfast laid out neatly on the table. From the kitchen, they notice Elana and Michael preparing the meal.
Elana looks up, spotting them, and walks over with a gentle smile.
Elana: Where's Dean?
Stacy: He's showering. He'll join us in a bit.
Elana: (smiling) Okay… but let's wait for him so we can eat like a family.
She calls Michael over and introduces him to Bryan. The four of them sit together, exchanging small talk as the smell of warm toast and eggs fills the room.
About twenty minutes later, Dean finishes his shower and joins them at the table. Elana rises briefly to formally introduce Michael to the siblings again. Dean takes a seat next to Bryan.
Michael: Nice to meet you all… hope we get along.
The siblings exchange confused glances.
Dean: Get along… why?
Elana smiles, leaning slightly forward.
Elana: Michael and I will train you and show you how to handle yourselves in the cities. But before that, we'll tell you who we are while we eat.
The room fills with quiet anticipation, the scent of breakfast mixing with a growing sense of curiosity and excitement.
The siblings sit around the table, the last bites of breakfast lingering as conversations settle into an easy rhythm. Dean leans back, still processing the plan Elana and Michael hinted at. The warmth of the room contrasts sharply with the tension they know waits outside the walls of the city.
Outside, The Crimson Hounds drive back to their base, their minds racing with the intel they just received. How will they proceed with their mission now that they have this information? And what of the people who risked so much to deliver it?
Meanwhile, Detective Nate sits at his desk, the documents on the house fire spread before him. His focus is sharp, his curiosity piqued. What has caught his attention so suddenly? Why is it so important that he get his hands on the files from the incident ten years ago?
The questions hang in the air, unanswered, leaving a tension that stretches far beyond the walls of Elana's home or the church where the deal took place. The city waits, its secrets slowly unraveling, as paths begin to converge in ways no one yet fully understands.
To Be Continued…