Meanwhile, in a half-condemned auto garage clinging to the edge of the Glades like a scab no one bothered to peel, the Royal Flush Gang was suiting up.
The space was cold and metallic, lit by a handful of flickering bulbs that buzzed like flies over a corpse. The faint hum of electricity mingled with the stench of oil, metal, and hot rubber that had soaked into the concrete floor over decades of neglect. A stripped '71 Dodge Charger sat half-covered by a tarp, its black chassis gleaming like a coiled snake in the dim light. Scattered across the hood, yellowing blueprints detailed the interior of Westbank Credit Union—target number four.
Four duffel bags sat in a neat row on a nearby worktable, each one meticulously packed and ready. Each was tagged with its owner's moniker in sharp red stitching: King, Queen, Jack, and Ace.
Derek Reston—King—stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, his square jaw tight and unshaven. The red "K" on his faded leather jacket stood out like a warning flare against the black leather that had seen too many jobs, too many close calls. He looked like a man who'd wrestled the world once too often and didn't expect to win the next round, but would damn well try anyway. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the setup with the practiced weariness of someone who'd seen too many jobs go sideways—and knew exactly how to keep this one from joining that list. Mm
Across from him, Kyle—Ace—was checking his Glock with the kind of reverence other men reserved for family heirlooms. He ejected the magazine, counted the rounds, slammed it home with a satisfying click that echoed off the garage walls.
*Click.*
Chambered.
Derek's jaw clenched like a vise. The sound hit him wrong—too eager, too ready. "Kyle."
The younger Reston looked up, blue eyes sharp and defiant under messy curls that never seemed to lay flat. His grin was too wide, too smug—like a coyote with a taste for blood and an appetite for more. "What's the matter, Dad? Just making sure she's ready to dance."
Derek walked over slowly, each step deliberate and measured, his work boots heavy on the oil-stained concrete. "You're not bringing that."
Kyle held the gun up like it was a prized possession, rotating it to catch the flickering light. "It's a tool, old man. Same as your drills and detonators. Same as Mom's lock picks. Hell, same as Teddy's crowbar."
"You don't need a gun to open a vault," Derek said, his voice carrying that unmistakable edge that had kept his family alive through twelve successful heists. "You just need to listen to what I'm telling you."
Kyle let out a dry laugh that had no humor in it. "Right. And listening real hard stopped Stan Washington from bleeding all over the sidewalk, didn't it? Listening stopped that off-duty cop from reaching for his piece?"
From her perch on a stack of tires, Janice—Queen—watched the familiar dance unfold with the detached amusement of someone who'd seen this particular show before. One long leg crossed over the other, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, her red leather jacket catching the light in a way that made her look like a devil lounging on a throne of rubber and steel. She took a long drag and let the smoke curl around her words.
"Oh, here we go," she drawled, her voice carrying that particular mix of affection and exasperation that only came from twenty years of marriage to Derek Reston. "Father and son, round twenty-seven by my count. Shall I get popcorn or just wait for someone to throw a wrench? Because honestly, the suspense is killing me."
"Stay out of this, Jan," Derek said without looking at her, eyes still locked on Kyle like a sniper's scope.
"Stay out of what? Our son acting like he's auditioning for *Scarface*? Our other son pretending to be invisible in the corner? Or you pretending that giving Kyle the silent treatment is going to make him less trigger-happy?" She flicked ash onto the floor with practiced indifference. "Because honey, I hate to break it to you, but that ship sailed about three jobs ago."
Derek ignored her commentary, jabbing a finger into Kyle's chest hard enough to make his point clear. "That off-duty cop you shot? Officer Stan Washington? He's in a coma, Kyle. A coma. His wife was on the news this morning, crying on the courthouse steps, begging people to pray for him. You want to tell me how that helps us?"
"I aimed low," Kyle muttered, but his swagger wavered just a fraction.
"You aimed stupid." Derek's voice dropped to that dangerous register that made smart men step back. "And next time—because there's always a next time with you—the guy doesn't wake up. Then we're not just thieves taking what we need to survive. We're killers. We go down hard, all of us. Life without parole, Kyle. Your mother, your brother, me—all of us paying for your itchy trigger finger."
Kyle's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. "Then maybe we should stop pretending we're better than we are. Maybe we are killers. You ever think about that, Dad? Maybe that's just what we are now."
Janice blew a perfect ring of smoke toward the water-stained ceiling. "Jesus Christ, Ace, you're such a drama queen. Do us all a favor and save your existential crisis for after the heist. We've got bills to pay."
Derek turned his glare on her, the force of it enough to wilt flowers. "And you—knock it off. This isn't funny."
She raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by his intensity. "Never said it was, sweetheart. But if we're all heading to hell anyway, I'd rather do it in style than listening to you two have the same argument we had last week. And the week before that. And—"
"I get it."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're still trying to turn our son into you, and he's still trying to prove he's not." She took another drag, studying her husband with eyes that had seen him at his best and worst. "News flash, Derek—he's twenty-three. At twenty-three, you robbed your first bank with a sawed-off shotgun and a prayer. So maybe ease up on the moral high ground."
Derek's voice dropped to that gravelly register that usually meant the conversation was over—whether you liked it or not.
"I left this life the second I found out you were pregnant."
Janice gave a short, mirthless laugh and hopped down from the stack of tires with the grace of a woman who could still break a man's nose in heels if she had to.
"Oh, here we go," she said, arms crossed as she stalked toward him. "That old war story again. Yeah, I know you left. You took that foreman job at Queen Consolidated and broke your damn back for eighteen years pretending you weren't still looking over your shoulder every time you saw a black SUV."
Derek's eyes flicked to her. "I wasn't pretending."
"No?" Janice jabbed a finger into his chest, just under the red "K" stitched onto his jacket. "Then remind me what you were doing the night you came home with blood on your knuckles and told me some guy tried to short the line crew on a shipment. You told me you 'slipped' on a steel beam. Derek, you punched a guy for calling you a washed-up thief."
He didn't flinch. "I was washed up. That job—hell, that factory—was the only thing keeping me from becoming what my old man was."
"And now look at you," she snapped, tossing her cigarette to the floor and grinding it out under the heel of her boot. "Right back where you started. Only this time, you dragged your kids with you."
"That's not fair."
"Oh, spare me."
He stepped in closer, nostrils flaring. "You wanna talk fair, Jan? Let's talk about five years ago. When Robert Queen walked in with that phony-ass smile and told us our factory wasn't 'cost-effective' anymore. When he shut it down, I wasn't stealing—I was salvaging. Copper, bearings, scrap—all of it just sitting there waiting to be tossed. I thought I could build us a cushion. Something to survive the fallout."
"And you got caught," she said, voice razor-sharp. "Red-handed, in your own goddamn uniform. Fired on the spot. No pension. No severance. Everyone else walked away with a check and a pat on the back. You? You walked away with nothing but a box of your stuff and your name on the blacklist."
He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling hard. "Yeah. I know."
"You think Kyle didn't see that? Think Teddy didn't notice you couldn't look 'em in the eye for six months?"
"I did what I had to."
"And now we are doing what we have to," Janice shot back. "Only difference is, we don't get to pretend we're noble about it."
Across the garage, Kyle clapped slowly, his gloved hands making a dull, mocking rhythm that echoed against the steel walls.
"Wow. Bravo. Real touching stuff." He swung his duffel bag over one shoulder and leaned casually against the stripped-down Dodge like a man at a dive bar waiting for his drink. "Do we do this family therapy crap before every job, or is this just bonus content for today's installment of 'We All Die Broke?'"
Derek turned, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You got something to say, Ace, say it."
Kyle's smirk widened, teeth flashing beneath the edge of his mask. "Just saying—it's hard to take life lessons from a guy who's gearing up for a robbery in the same jacket he wore to a union meeting."
Janice's lips twitched, almost smirking, but she kept it in check. Derek didn't.
"You think I like this? You think I want to be here, doing this again?"
Kyle shrugged. "Could've fooled me."
Derek advanced until they were chest to chest. Kyle didn't back down.
"I've done everything I could to keep this family afloat," Derek said, low and firm. "Even when it meant working double shifts, even when it meant getting humiliated in front of men I trained. Everything I've done, I did to give you a better shot."
"Yeah?" Kyle shot back. "And look how well that turned out. We're in a condemned garage, Dad. Talking about clean exits and zip ties like we're still the good guys."
"You could still be," Derek said, teeth clenched. "If you'd stop acting like some punk with a death wish."
Kyle's jaw twitched. "You don't get to call me a punk."
"Then stop acting like one."
Janice stepped between them with the precision of a woman who'd broken up this exact fight too many times to count.
"Okay," she said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the testosterone. "Let's take a breath before someone breaks a nose and I have to stitch it up again."
Kyle stepped back first, reluctantly, like he hated giving ground.
"Whatever," he muttered, snatching his mask from the table. "Let's just do this."
In the corner, Teddy—silent this whole time—tightened the final strap on his vest and stood up. His eyes flicked toward them, unreadable, then down to his gloves as he began flexing his fingers like a boxer before the first round.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. He was always listening. Watching. Processing. Derek saw him glance at Kyle's bag. Saw the flicker of concern in his otherwise emotionless stare.
Derek exhaled hard and turned to the others.
"All right. Five-minute window. We're in and out. No gunplay unless someone's pointing one at you. We're ghosts, not cowboys."
Janice rolled her eyes but nodded. "Copy that, boss man."
Kyle was slower to answer. He paused by the table, hand resting on the Glock inside his bag.
"Leave it," Derek said, quieter now. "Please."
Kyle hesitated. Long enough for the room to tense again. Then, with a sigh, he slid the pistol deeper into the bag but didn't remove it.
"I'll try not to make it worse," he said, voice low.
Derek met his eyes and gave a single nod. "That's all I ask."
Teddy pulled on his mask—an old hockey-style piece, matte black and scratched, impassive as his face beneath. Janice followed, adjusting the red-lipped Joker-esque paint on hers with the ease of routine.
Kyle was last. Of course. He pulled his mask down over his face slowly, dramatically, like it was part of a performance he'd been practicing.
Derek looked at the three of them—his crew, his family. Every line on his face deepened.
He pulled on his own mask.
"Let's go rob a bank."
—
Carter's smile regained its full wattage as he leaned back into the sofa cushions with the confidence of a man who'd never met a conversation he couldn't dominate. His hand gestured expansively, crystal mimosa catching the light as he warmed to his favorite subject—himself.
"The research really is groundbreaking," he continued with the practiced enthusiasm of someone who'd given this speech at a dozen dinner parties, his voice carrying that particular tone of a man who genuinely believed his own press releases. "We're looking at complete tissue regeneration for burn victims—not just cosmetic healing, but full restoration of function. The applications could revolutionize emergency medicine as we know it."
From her position at the side table, Thea rolled her eyes with the kind of theatrical precision that would have made Shakespeare proud. "Oh good," she muttered under her breath, swirling her orange juice with deliberate casualness, "more medical heroics. Because that's exactly what this conversation was missing—more ways for Carter to save the world."
Delphini's lips curved into a smile that held all the warmth of a winter morning. "Hush," she whispered, her grey-green eyes sparkling with malicious delight, "you'll miss the best part. This is where he starts explaining how his brilliant mind works differently from us mere mortals."
"—and the complexity of the cellular regeneration process requires a very particular kind of analytical thinking," Carter continued, right on cue, his voice taking on the lecturing tone of a professor addressing particularly slow students. "Not everyone can visualize the molecular interactions the way I can. It's really quite fascinating, the way the mind adapts to process information at that level."
Harry's emerald eyes lit up with the kind of unholy glee usually reserved for Christmas morning or the downfall of particularly annoying enemies. He straightened slightly on the arm of Oliver's chair, his posture shifting from casual observer to predator scenting prey.
"Oh my," he said with breathless wonder, his posh British accent making each word sound like honey poured over steel, "molecular visualization! How absolutely extraordinary. Tell me, do you find that your superior analytical thinking extends to other areas as well? Reading social situations, perhaps? Interpreting subtle conversational nuances?"
Carter's chest puffed out slightly, missing entirely the razor-sharp edge beneath Harry's apparent admiration. "Well, I wouldn't want to sound immodest, but yes, I've always been rather good at reading people. It comes with the territory when you're dealing with patients and their families. You develop a certain... insight."
"Fascinating," Harry murmured, his smile taking on the quality of a blade catching sunlight. "Absolutely fascinating."
Oliver's lips twitched almost imperceptibly, though whether from amusement or the desire to commit violence remained unclear.
Janice practically glowed with maternal pride, her champagne silk blouse rustling as she shifted forward with renewed energy. Her eyes fixed on Oliver with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile, clearly sensing an opportunity to redirect the conversation toward more favorable comparisons.
"Speaking of careers," she said with the kind of bright curiosity that carried all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, "Oliver, what are your plans now that you're back? I'm sure you have some exciting projects lined up. Something that makes use of your... unique experiences."
The pause before 'unique experiences' was perfectly timed, managing to sound both sympathetic and vaguely condescending in the way that only a master of social warfare could achieve.
Oliver's expression remained perfectly neutral, though his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against his knee. When he spoke, his voice carried the measured calm of a man who'd learned to control his reactions under far more challenging circumstances than brunch conversation.
"I'm working on opening a nightclub," he replied simply.
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Thea had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the barely concealed disappointment that flickered across Janice's face.
Harry's head tilted with feline grace, his emerald eyes sparkling with wicked delight as he processed the conversational dynamics with the precision of a chess master planning seven moves ahead.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said with silken curiosity, his voice carrying just enough confusion to sound genuine while delivering maximum impact, "but didn't your son just mention that very thing not five minutes ago? Something about a 'nightclub project down in the Glades,' if memory serves."
His smile sharpened to razor precision as he continued, "I'm curious—are you genuinely interested in Oliver's answer, or were you perhaps hoping he might have a different response this time? Maybe something more... suitable for polite company? Medical research, perhaps? Or did you think that if you asked the question differently, Oliver might suddenly reveal his secret passion for molecular biology?"
The silence that followed could have been carved with a knife and served at dinner. Janice's perfectly applied makeup couldn't quite hide the flush creeping up her neck, while Carter's mimosa paused halfway to his lips as if he'd suddenly forgotten how drinking worked.
Moira's eyebrows rose fractionally—the only outward sign that she was finding the exchange more entertaining than mortifying.
"I... of course I remember," Janice stammered, her social armor developing visible cracks. "I was simply... expanding on the topic."
"Oh, were you?" Harry's voice dripped with helpful innocence. "How wonderfully thorough of you. I do so admire people who believe in... comprehensive coverage of important subjects. Though I must admit, I'm struggling to understand what additional information you were hoping to extract. Perhaps you wanted to know the square footage? The expected occupancy limits? The specific brands of alcohol Oliver plans to serve?"
Delphini made a soft sound that might have been a cough but sounded suspiciously like barely suppressed laughter. Her grey-green eyes were dancing with mirth as she watched Harry systematically dismantle Carter's mother with surgical precision.
"Actually," Thea interjected with the kind of helpful enthusiasm that suggested she'd inherited the family talent for social warfare, "I think Mom mentioned that Oliver's working with a really interesting location. Somewhere that could make a real difference to the community. Not just another generic club, but something with... what did you call it, Ollie? Social impact?"
Oliver shot his sister a look that could have melted steel, but nodded curtly. "Something like that."
Carter, apparently deciding that the conversation had veered too far from his preferred topic—himself—leaned forward with renewed enthusiasm. "That's great, Oliver, really. Community involvement is so important. Though I have to ask, don't you think your particular skill set might be better utilized in something more... significant? I mean, after everything you've been through, opening a nightclub seems a bit..."
He trailed off, clearly searching for a word that would sound supportive rather than dismissive.
"Small?" Harry suggested helpfully, his emerald eyes glittering with malicious innocence. "Insignificant? Beneath his obvious talents? Please, do continue. I'm absolutely fascinated by your assessment of what constitutes appropriate career choices for trauma survivors."
Carter's face flushed slightly. "That's not what I meant at all. I just think someone with Oliver's... experiences... might want to consider something with more direct impact. Like medicine, or research, or—"
"Or molecular biology?" Harry interrupted with apparent delight. "Oh, how marvelous! Are you suggesting that everyone should aspire to your particular brand of genius? What a refreshingly humble perspective."
"Harry," Oliver said quietly, though there was no real reproof in his voice.
"What?" Harry spread his hands with theatrical innocence. "I'm simply trying to understand Carter's fascinating worldview. Apparently, there's a hierarchy of career respectability that I wasn't aware of. Medical research at the top, nightclub ownership somewhere near the bottom. I'm curious where, say, professional ass-kicking falls on this scale. Asking for a friend, you understand."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Carter's practiced smile flickered as he apparently began to realize that he might be slightly out of his league.
Before the conversation could descend into outright warfare, the soft sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the foyer. John Diggle appeared in the doorway with his usual quiet efficiency, his dark suit impeccable despite the early hour. His expression carried the carefully neutral look of a man who'd perfected the art of being simultaneously invisible and indispensable.
He moved directly to Oliver's chair with the purposeful stride of someone bearing important information, leaning down to whisper something that made both Oliver and Harry's expressions shift subtly. Even from across the room, the words "Westbank Credit Union" were just audible to those paying attention.
Delphini's head snapped up with interest, her instincts apparently inherited along with this family's talent for finding trouble.
"Another one?" she asked quietly.
John's barely perceptible nod confirmed what everyone in the room who mattered already knew—the bank robbers had struck again.
Oliver rose from his chair with fluid grace, his movements carrying a sudden sense of purpose that transformed him from bored socialite to something altogether more dangerous. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like watching a house cat suddenly remember it was a predator.
"I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short," he said with polite finality, his voice carrying the kind of authority that made it clear this wasn't a request for permission. "I have a meeting with a liquor distributor that can't wait."
Harry slid from the chair arm with feline elegance, his earlier theatrical persona not disappearing so much as sharpening into something more focused. His emerald gaze found Delphini across the room, and the look that passed between them lasted less than a second but carried volumes of unspoken communication.
She was already rising from her chair with liquid grace, her grey-green eyes darkening with understanding as she processed the implications of John's arrival.
"Such a pity," Harry said with theatrical regret, though his smile suggested he was anything but disappointed. "Just when things were getting so delightfully... educational. I was so looking forward to hearing more about molecular visualization and the hierarchy of career respectability."
Carter started to rise, his practiced charm shifting into networking mode as he apparently sensed an opportunity slipping away. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation later? Maybe over dinner sometime? I'd love to hear more about your nightclub project, Oliver. And Harry, I'm sure you have some fascinating stories about... whatever it is you do."
"Oh, I'm sure we'll have many opportunities to chat," Harry replied with silken pleasantness, his smile taking on that particular quality that had once made Voldemort nervous. "I find that fate has a way of bringing interesting people together at precisely the right moments. Usually when they least expect it."
There was something in his tone that made Carter's confident smile flicker slightly, though he clearly couldn't pinpoint exactly what.
"Another time," Oliver cut him off with the kind of polite dismissal that brooked no argument, already moving toward the hallway with the purposeful stride of a man with more important things to do than make small talk with someone whose idea of heroism involved explaining his own brilliance.
As the three men moved toward the hallway, Harry paused just long enough to catch Delphini's eye one more time. She was already murmuring something to Thea about needing to powder her nose, her movements carrying the casual grace of someone who'd perfected the art of appearing to do one thing while actually doing something entirely different.
"Do give my regards to the good doctor," Harry called over his shoulder to Carter, his voice carrying just enough warmth to sound genuine while somehow managing to sound like a threat. "I'm sure we'll have many opportunities to discuss the fascinating complexities of superior analytical thinking in the future."
In the marble-floored hallway, away from the carefully orchestrated social theater of the living room, the atmosphere shifted immediately. John's voice dropped to the professional cadence of a man delivering a briefing, his words crisp and efficient.
"Same M.O. as the previous hits," he reported quietly, his dark eyes moving between Oliver and Harry with the focused attention of someone who'd learned to read the subtle signs that preceded violence. "In and out in under four minutes, security cameras mysteriously malfunctioned, and they were gone by the time SCPD arrived. Third bank in two weeks."
Oliver's jaw tightened as his mind shifted into tactical mode, the social mask falling away to reveal something far more dangerous underneath. "The sewers again?"
"Most likely," Harry confirmed with grim certainty, his earlier theatrical persona evaporating like morning mist. His emerald eyes had taken on the cold focus of a predator scenting prey. "They've used that escape route twice now. Smart money says they'll stick with what works."
"Pattern suggests they're not just random," John added, his voice carrying the analytical tone of a man who'd spent years studying criminal behavior. "The banks they're hitting are all in specific neighborhoods, all with easy access to the storm drain system. Someone's done their homework."
"Which means they'll hit again," Oliver said, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone who'd learned to think like his enemies. "Soon."
John nodded his agreement. "I've got eyes on the nearest access points, but—"
"Oliver? Harry?"
Moira's voice carried from behind them, her heels clicking against the marble as she approached with the measured pace of a woman accustomed to having her questions answered. Her silver-blonde hair caught the light from the foyer's crystal chandelier, and her navy dress rustled softly with each step.
The three men turned, their expressions smoothing into varying degrees of polite attention, though anyone who knew them well would have noticed the subtle tension that remained in their postures.
"Where are you going?" she asked with the kind of maternal concern that carried undertones of steel, her blue eyes moving between her son and nephew with the calculating intensity of a woman who'd built an empire by knowing when people weren't telling her the truth. "You've barely been here an hour."
Oliver's expression smoothed into the kind of neutral politeness he'd perfected over years of avoiding uncomfortable conversations with people who had a disturbing talent for asking exactly the right questions.
"Business calls," he replied simply, his voice carrying just enough finality to discourage follow-up questions while remaining respectful.
"What kind of business requires both of you on a Saturday morning?" she pressed, her gaze sharpening as it moved from Oliver to Harry to John and back again. "And Mr. Diggle as well?"
There was something in her tone that suggested she already suspected the answer would be less than completely truthful, but was giving them the opportunity to provide a convincing alternative explanation.
Harry stepped in with the kind of charming deflection that had once fooled Albus Dumbledore, though his smile carried just enough genuine affection to soften the obvious evasion.
"The exciting kind, Aunt Moira," he said with practiced warmth, his posh accent making the words sound both sincere and completely meaningless. "Terribly boring details about permits and licensing. Nothing that would interest anyone with actual good taste." He paused, his emerald eyes twinkling with mischief. "Though I suppose if you're truly desperate for entertainment, I could always go back and continue my fascinating conversation with Carter about the complexities of superior analytical thinking."
Moira's lips twitched slightly—the only outward sign that she'd found Harry's earlier performance more entertaining than embarrassing.
"Harry—" she began, clearly not entirely satisfied with his explanation.
"We really do have to run," Oliver interrupted with gentle firmness, already moving toward the door with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested delay was not an option. "Give my apologies to the Bowens."
"Particularly to Carter," Harry added with theatrical regret, his smile taking on that dangerous quality again. "I'm sure he's still processing our delightful chat about career hierarchies. Such a complex mind probably needs time to analyze all those molecular interactions."
"Harry," John said quietly, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
"What? I'm being helpful. Professional courtesy and all that." Harry's grin widened. "Besides, I wouldn't want him to think I was being rude. His superior analytical thinking might misinterpret my departure as some sort of social slight."
Before Moira could formulate another question or Harry could deliver another perfectly aimed verbal dart, the three men were through the heavy oak doors and into the morning sunlight, leaving behind the carefully orchestrated world of social warfare for something infinitely more dangerous—and infinitely more honest.
Behind them, through the tall windows of Queen Manor, the faint sound of renewed conversation drifted out as the interrupted brunch attempted to reassemble itself. But the damage, as Harry would have said with evident satisfaction, had already been thoroughly and artistically done.
And somewhere in the city, bank robbers were about to discover that their morning was about to become significantly more complicated.
---
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