The Westbank Credit Union's marble floor was cold beneath Derek's knees as he worked the final tumbler on the vault door. The satisfying *click* of the mechanism surrendering to his expertise echoed through the building like a gunshot in the silence. Twenty-seven years of legitimate locksmithing had taught him to listen to metal the way a conductor listened to an orchestra—every pin, every spring, every worn edge told him exactly what it needed to sing.
"We're in," he said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the soft hum of the bank's air conditioning.
Behind him, Janice kept her position by the teller windows, her red-painted mask catching the emergency lighting as she swept her gaze across the empty lobby. Her movements were fluid and professional—no wasted motion, no nervous energy. Just a woman who'd done this dance before and knew exactly how it ended.
"Two minutes, thirty seconds," she reported, checking the digital watch strapped to her wrist. "Right on schedule."
Teddy moved like a shadow between the customer service desks, his black hockey mask making him nearly invisible in the dim light. He paused by each security camera in turn, his gloved hands working with the quiet efficiency of someone who understood electronics the way his father understood locks. Each camera died with a soft electronic sigh, their red recording lights winking out one by one.
"Cameras are down," he said simply, his voice muffled by the mask but carrying the calm confidence that had always made Derek proud. Where Kyle was all sharp edges and barely contained violence, Teddy was water—flowing around obstacles, finding the path of least resistance, getting the job done without fanfare.
Kyle, meanwhile, prowled the perimeter like a caged animal, his Ace mask failing to hide the nervous energy that radiated from him in waves. His hand kept drifting to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder—specifically, to the Glock concealed inside.
"This is taking too long," he muttered, his voice carrying that familiar edge that made Derek's jaw clench. "We should have been out of here by now."
"We're exactly where we need to be," Derek replied without looking up from the vault. The heavy steel door swung open with a groan that sounded like a dying giant, revealing neat stacks of currency arranged on metal shelves. "Teddy, start loading."
The younger Reston moved to comply, pulling the first duffel bag from his shoulder and beginning the methodical process of transferring cash from shelf to bag. His movements were precise, economical—no grabbing, no frantic stuffing. Just professional competence under pressure.
"Beautiful work, boys," Janice said, though her eyes never stopped scanning the street beyond the plate glass windows. "Like watching artists at work."
Kyle's laugh held no humor. "Artists? We're thieves, Mom. Let's not pretend we're—"
The distant wail of sirens cut through his words like a blade.
Everyone froze.
"Shit," Kyle breathed, his hand finally finding the grip of his Glock. "Shit, shit, shit."
Derek's mind shifted into emergency mode, twenty-seven years of experience compressing into crystal-clear decision points. "How far out?"
Janice pressed herself against the wall beside the front window, peering through the gap between the security bars and the glass. The sirens were getting closer—multiple units, coming fast.
"Four blocks, maybe three," she reported, her voice steady despite the adrenaline Derek could see coursing through her posture. "Two patrol cars that I can see. Could be more behind them."
"We stick to the plan," Derek said, his voice carrying the absolute authority that had kept his crew alive through twelve successful jobs. "Teddy, how much more?"
"Thirty seconds," his younger son replied, still loading bills with mechanical precision even as the sirens grew louder. No panic, no rushing—just the same steady competence that made Derek's chest swell with pride even in the middle of a crisis.
Kyle, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with tension. "Thirty seconds? We don't have thirty seconds! They're going to be here in—"
"We have exactly as much time as we take," Derek cut him off. "You lose your head, you lose everything. Teddy, finish up. Jan, how close?"
"Two blocks," she reported, her knuckles white where they gripped the window frame. "Definitely more than two cars."
Derek made the calculation in his head—distance to the storm drain, time to breach the manhole cover, likelihood of clean escape versus probability of confrontation. The math was ugly, but it was still workable.
"Thirty more seconds, then we move," he decided. "Kyle, you're on point to the drain. Teddy, you're carrying the bags. Jan, you're watching our six. Nobody shoots unless they shoot first."
Kyle's hand tightened on his weapon. "And if they do shoot first?"
Derek met his eyes through the mask, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that meant the conversation was over. "Then you aim to wound, not to kill. We're not murderers."
The sirens were close enough now to distinguish individual vehicles—at least three patrol cars, maybe four. The flashing red and blue lights were beginning to strobe against the bank's windows, painting the interior in alternating shadows and harsh color.
"Time," Teddy announced, slinging the last loaded duffel bag over his shoulder. The kid was carrying close to sixty thousand dollars in cash and looked like he was hauling laundry.
Derek pulled his own mask down over his face, the familiar weight of the red King settling into place like armor. "Let's go."
They moved as a unit toward the rear exit, their footsteps silent on the marble floor despite the weight of their gear. Years of practice had taught them to flow like water, each member of the team anticipating the others' movements with the unconscious precision of a family that had learned to survive by thinking as one.
The back alley was dark and narrow, boxed in by brick walls that rose three stories on either side. The storm drain access was exactly where their reconnaissance had promised—fifty feet from the bank's rear door, hidden beneath a heavy steel manhole cover that looked like it hadn't been moved in years.
Derek knelt beside the cover, his hands finding the specialized tools that would pop the municipal locks in seconds. Behind him, Kyle took up position at the alley mouth, his weapon drawn but held low, his body language screaming barely controlled aggression.
Janice covered the other end of the alley, her red Queen mask turning slowly as she scanned for any sign of SCPD flanking maneuvers. Teddy stood in the center, the duffel bags distributed across his frame like a pack mule who'd learned to fight.
The manhole cover came up with a grinding screech of metal on metal, revealing the black mouth of the storm drain system beneath. The smell that rose from the opening was everything Derek had expected—stagnant water, rust, and the accumulated decay of decades.
"Down," he ordered quietly, and Teddy went first, disappearing into the darkness with practiced ease. The bags followed, tossed down to waiting hands.
Janice was next, her red leather jacket disappearing into the black hole like a flame being extinguished. Derek started to follow, one boot already on the ladder's top rung, when Kyle's voice cut through the night air.
"Contact."
Derek's head snapped up to see his older son silhouetted against the alley mouth, weapon raised, his finger already moving toward the trigger.
"Kyle, no—"
The Glock barked three times in rapid succession, the muzzle flash strobing against the brick walls like lightning. Derek heard a shout from the street beyond, the sound of someone diving for cover, the distinctive crack of return fire.
"Kyle!" Derek roared, but his son was already moving, backing toward the storm drain with his weapon still raised, still firing.
The night exploded into chaos.
SCPD officers poured into the alley from both ends, their service weapons drawn, their tactical lights cutting through the darkness like searchlights. Detective Lucas Hilton's voice boomed over the gunfire, commanding and professional despite the circumstances.
"Starling City Police! Drop your weapons! Get on the ground!"
Kyle's response was another three-round burst that sent concrete chips flying from the wall beside Hilton's head. The detective rolled behind a dumpster, his radio crackling with urgent reports.
"Shots fired, shots fired! Suspects are armed and hostile! We need backup at the Westbank Credit Union, rear alley!"
Derek had seen enough. He hauled himself out of the storm drain opening with desperate strength, his locksmith's tools forgotten in favor of getting to his son before the kid got himself killed.
"Kyle, get down here! Now!"
But Kyle was lost in the moment, adrenaline and fear and months of suppressed anger turning him into something Derek barely recognized. The Glock in his hands wasn't a tool anymore—it was an extension of his rage, a way to strike back at a world that had taken everything from his family and left them with nothing but crime as a means of survival.
He squeezed off another burst, then another, the shots going wide but forcing the police to keep their heads down. His movements were sharp, aggressive, nothing like the smooth professionalism Derek had tried to teach him.
"Come on!" Kyle screamed into the night, his voice cracking with emotion. "Come on, you want some? Come get some!"
That's when the shadows moved.
Derek saw them first—three figures dropping from the rooftops with inhuman grace, their forms barely visible against the dark sky. One landed on the fire escape of the building across the alley with catlike silence. Another seemed to flow down the brick wall like liquid shadow. The third simply appeared at the mouth of the alley as if he'd materialized from thin air.
The Arrow.
Even in the chaos of the firefight, Derek recognized the distinctive silhouette—green hood, composite bow, the kind of predatory stillness that suggested violence was not just possible but inevitable. The vigilante had been making headlines for months, and every criminal in Starling City had learned to fear the sight of that particular shadow.
But he wasn't alone.
The figure on the fire escape wore red and black, his hood pulled low over what appeared to be a full-face mask with white eye lenses that gleamed like stars in the darkness. His posture spoke of coiled violence, of someone who'd learned to move like death itself.
The third figure was harder to make out—ashy green and brown that blended with the shadows, military precision in every line of his body. His mask was forest green, and his pale green eye lenses tracked the scene below with the calculating attention of a sniper.
Blood Raven and Druid. The other two vigilantes who'd been operating alongside the Arrow, turning Starling City's criminal underworld into their personal hunting ground.
Derek's blood turned to ice water in his veins. They were trapped—police in front, vigilantes above, and a storm drain that might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do them now.
The Arrow's bow came up with fluid precision, the motion so smooth it seemed almost casual. Derek caught the faint gleam of something metallic on the arrow's tip—not a broadhead, but some kind of specialized point he couldn't identify.
Kyle, still lost in his firefight with SCPD, never saw the shot coming.
The arrow struck the duffel bag slung over Teddy's shoulder with surgical precision, the impact spinning the younger Reston around and sending him stumbling backward. But instead of piercing the canvas, the arrow seemed to grab it, yanking the bag away from Teddy's body with irresistible force.
The bag hit the alley wall and stuck there like it had been nailed in place, sixty thousand dollars in stolen cash pinned six feet off the ground by what Derek now realized was some kind of magnetic grappling arrow.
"What the hell—" Kyle started, but his words were cut off by Detective Hilton's amplified voice booming through the alley.
"This is SCPD! We have you surrounded! Vigilantes, stand down! This is a police operation!"
The Arrow ignored the command completely, his attention focused entirely on the bank robbers below. A second arrow appeared on his bowstring as if by magic, this one with a different kind of tip that seemed to shimmer in the streetlight.
Derek grabbed Kyle's arm, hauling his son bodily toward the storm drain opening. "Move! Now!"
But Kyle was staring up at the vigilantes with a mixture of fear and fascination, his Glock hanging forgotten in his grip. "Are those the guys from the news? The ones who—"
"I don't care if they're the Justice League," Derek snarled, shoving Kyle toward the opening. "Get in the damn hole!"
Teddy was already moving, his remaining duffel bag secure across his shoulder as he dropped into the storm drain with practiced efficiency. Janice's head appeared in the opening, her eyes wide with urgency.
"Derek! Come on!"
The Arrow's second shot took out the streetlight at the end of the alley, plunging half the space into darkness. But instead of hindering the vigilantes, the shadows seemed to make them more dangerous—three predators who'd learned to hunt in the dark.
Derek got Kyle to the opening and physically threw him down into the storm drain, following close behind as bullets whined overhead. The last thing he saw before dropping into the darkness was Blood Raven flowing down the brick wall like crimson water, his movements defying everything Derek thought he knew about human limitations.
The storm drain was exactly as advertised—a concrete tunnel tall enough to crouch in, with six inches of stagnant water covering the bottom. The smell was overwhelming, but Derek had never been so grateful for industrial-strength sewage in his life.
"Which way?" Kyle gasped, his earlier bravado completely gone.
"East," Derek replied, consulting the mental map he'd memorized during their planning sessions. "Two hundred yards to the main junction, then north to the river access."
They moved through the tunnel in single file, their footsteps echoing wetly off the concrete walls. Behind them, Derek could hear the continuing chaos of the police operation—shouted orders, the screech of car brakes, the distant wail of additional sirens.
But what worried him more was what he couldn't hear. No sounds of pursuit, no indication that anyone was following them into the storm drain system. Either SCPD didn't know about their escape route, or...
Or the vigilantes were already ahead of them, waiting in the darkness.
"Dad," Teddy's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried clearly in the enclosed space. "What do we do about the money?"
Derek thought about the duffel bag pinned to the alley wall, sixty thousand dollars that might as well have been on Mars for all the good it did them now. They still had the other bag—maybe thirty thousand if they were lucky—but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough to get his family out of the country and safely beyond the reach of both the law and the vigilantes who seemed to own Starling City's nights.
"We adapt," he said finally, his voice carrying none of the certainty he was trying to project. "We always adapt."
Behind them, the sounds of the police operation were beginning to fade as they put distance between themselves and the bank. But Derek knew that distance was an illusion. In a city where vigilantes could appear from nowhere and disappear into shadow, nowhere was really safe.
They had bigger problems now than just SCPD.
---
*Several hours later, in the condemned auto garage...*
The duffel bag sat on the worktable like an accusation, its deflated canvas sides making it look somehow ashamed. Thirty-two thousand dollars—Derek had counted it three times, hoping the numbers would somehow improve with repetition. They hadn't.
The garage felt different now, smaller somehow, as if the walls were closing in with each passing hour. The same flickering bulbs cast the same harsh shadows, but the space that had felt like a fortress that morning now felt like a trap.
Kyle paced between the stripped Charger and the tool cabinets, his nervous energy filling the space like smoke. He'd ditched the Ace mask, but the adrenaline was still coursing through his system, making him jittery and unpredictable. His hands kept moving—clenching into fists, running through his hair, checking his pockets for weapons that weren't there anymore.
"Thirty-two thousand," he said for the fourth time, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that had gotten them into trouble at the bank. "Thirty-two goddamn thousand. We risked everything for beer money."
Derek sat heavily on a stack of tires, feeling every one of his fifty-three years in his bones. The job had gone wrong in ways he'd never anticipated, and the weight of that failure was settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket.
"It's enough to get us to Mexico," he said without conviction, staring at the money that suddenly looked pitiful under the harsh garage lighting. "We can make it work."
"Can we?" Janice emerged from the shadows near the back of the garage, her red Queen mask dangling from her fingers like a deflated balloon. Her makeup was smeared, her hair disheveled from the storm drain crawl, but her eyes were sharp and calculating. "Because I did the math, Derek. Thirty-two thousand, split four ways, minus expenses? We're looking at maybe six months in Tijuana if we live like monks."
Teddy sat quietly on an overturned crate, methodically cleaning his gloves with the kind of attention to detail that had always made Derek proud. Unlike his brother, the younger Reston seemed almost calm, processing the night's events with the same analytical precision he brought to electronics and security systems.
"We need more," he said simply, his voice carrying none of Kyle's agitation or Derek's defeated exhaustion. "The original plan called for at least a hundred thousand to make the transition work. Thirty-two won't cut it."
Kyle stopped pacing long enough to whirl on his younger brother, frustration boiling over into something uglier. "Oh, really? Thanks for that brilliant analysis, Einstein. Any other insights you'd like to share? Maybe some thoughts on how we're supposed to get that money now that half the city knows what we look like?"
"They don't know what we look like," Teddy replied with maddening calm, holding up his cleaned gloves to examine them in the light. "They know what our masks look like. Big difference."
"Tell that to the Arrow," Kyle shot back, resuming his pacing with renewed intensity. "Tell that to his buddies with the glowing eyes who can apparently fly down buildings like they're Spider-Man. You think masks are going to protect us from guys who hunt criminals for fun?"
Derek's head came up at that, his exhaustion temporarily overridden by parental concern. "What are you talking about?"
Kyle laughed, but there was no humor in it—just the brittle edge of someone who'd looked death in the face and wasn't entirely sure he'd escaped. "Those vigilantes, Dad. They're not human. I saw that red one move down the wall like gravity was optional. And the green one? He didn't climb that fire escape—he just appeared on it, like he teleported or something."
"You were high on adrenaline," Derek said, though his voice lacked conviction. He'd seen things in that alley that didn't make sense either, movements that defied everything he thought he knew about human limitations.
"Was I?" Kyle's voice rose dangerously. "Was I imagining the arrow that yanked Teddy's bag right off his shoulder? Was I imagining the way they moved like they could see in the dark better than we could see in daylight?"
Janice stubbed out her cigarette with more force than necessary, grinding the filter into the concrete floor. "Kyle's right about one thing," she said, her voice carrying the flat certainty of someone stating uncomfortable facts. "We're not dealing with regular cops anymore. Those vigilantes change the game completely."
Derek rubbed his face with both hands, feeling the stubble rasp against his palms. In his younger days, before the factory job, before the kids, before the mortgage and the respectable life that had imploded five years ago, he'd been good at adapting to changing circumstances. But the vigilantes represented something entirely outside his experience—unpredictable variables in what should have been a straightforward equation.
"So what do you want to do?" he asked, looking around at his family. "Run? Try to disappear with what we have? Hope thirty-two thousand is enough to start over somewhere they've never heard of the Royal Flush Gang?"
Kyle's laugh was harsh and bitter. "Start over? Dad, we're not starting over—we're dying slowly. You think thirty-two thousand is going to last long enough for us to build new lives? New identities cost money. Real documents cost money. Safe houses cost money. Everything costs money, and we don't have enough."
"Then what?" Derek's voice carried an edge of desperation he hated hearing. "What do you suggest we do? Hit another bank tomorrow? Keep going until the vigilantes catch up to us? Until SCPD gets lucky? Until one of us doesn't make it home?"
"Yes," Kyle said without hesitation, his blue eyes blazing with the kind of reckless determination that had gotten him in trouble since he was old enough to walk. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. We stick to the plan. We hit the targets we identified, we get the money we need, and then we disappear properly. With enough cash to actually survive."
"Kyle—"
"No, Dad, listen to me for once." Kyle planted both hands on the worktable, leaning forward with the intensity of a man making his final argument. "We're criminals now. There's no going back to the straight life, no matter how much money we have. The vigilantes know we exist. SCPD has our M.O. We're already on the run."
He straightened, his voice taking on a harder edge. "The only question is whether we run broke or run rich. Whether we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders in some Third World shithole, or whether we disappear with enough money to actually build something new."
Derek looked at his older son—really looked at him—and saw something that made his chest tighten with fear. Kyle had changed over the past few months, hardened in ways that went beyond simple criminal experience. There was something cold in his eyes now, something that reminded Derek uncomfortably of his own father—a man who'd chosen crime not out of necessity but out of preference, who'd enjoyed the violence and chaos of the criminal life.
"One more job," Derek said finally, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. "One more, and then we're done. Win or lose, we take what we get and disappear."
Kyle's grin was sharp and predatory. "Now you're talking."
Teddy looked up from his gloves, his dark eyes moving between his father and brother with the calculating attention of someone who'd learned to read family dynamics like weather patterns.
"Which target?" he asked quietly.
Derek reached for the yellowing blueprints scattered across the worktable, his hands moving automatically to the plans they'd abandoned in favor of the Westbank Credit Union. First National was bigger, more secure, but also more lucrative. The security systems were older, the layout more favorable to their particular skill set.
But it was also in the heart of downtown, surrounded by SCPD patrol routes and close enough to City Hall that response times would be measured in minutes rather than the precious seconds they'd need to escape.
"First National," he said, his voice carrying none of the confidence the decision required. "Downtown branch. If we're going out, we go out big."
Janice's eyebrows rose slightly, but she didn't object. She'd been with Derek long enough to recognize the tone of a man who'd made his final decision, regardless of whether it was the right one.
Kyle's grin widened. "Now we're playing for real stakes."
Teddy simply nodded, already reaching for the electronic schematics that would tell him everything he needed to know about First National's security systems. His movements were precise, professional—the kind of focused competence that had made Derek proud even as it broke his heart.
Outside the garage, the city lights twinkled like distant stars, and somewhere in that urban constellation, three vigilantes were preparing for the next round of their deadly game. The Arrow, Blood Raven, and Druid—hunters who'd claimed Starling City's nights as their personal territory.
Derek stared at the blueprints spread across the table and wondered if he was planning a heist or arranging his family's funeral.
The only certainty was that tomorrow night, one way or another, the Royal Flush Gang's story would come to an end.
—
Meanwhile, in the Foundry...
The soft hum of computers filled the underground space, punctuated by the occasional spark from Neville's welding torch as he reinforced Druid's armor plating. Multiple holographic displays cast dancing shadows across the concrete walls, their blue glow reflecting off the polished steel of weapon racks and the sleek surfaces of advanced computers that would make NASA jealous.
Hermione stood at the central workstation, her fingers dancing across holographic interfaces with the fluid precision of a concert pianist. The footage from Blood Raven and Druid's eye lenses played in crystal-clear detail—a benefit of the multiple runes and charms woven into the magical-technological hybrid that gave the vigilantes their edge.
"Pause," she commanded, and the image froze on Kyle Reston mid-scream, his Glock raised, mask askew, every line of his face twisted with desperate fury.
Harry leaned against the railing above, his emerald eyes tracking the frozen image with predatory focus. Even in casual clothes—dark jeans and a fitted black henley that showed off the lean muscle he'd built through months of vigilante work—he radiated the kind of dangerous calm that made smart people nervous.
"Well, that's not the face of a man having a pleasant evening," he drawled, his accent carrying that particular brand of British dryness that could cut glass. "Though I have to say, his form is absolutely dreadful. Really, if you're going to threaten people with firearms, at least have the courtesy to hold them properly."
Susan snorted from her position at the medical station, where she was cataloging their supplies with typical efficiency. Her auburn hair caught the light as she turned, brown eyes sparkling with amusement. "Only you would critique a bank robber's gun technique, Harry."
"Standards, darling," Harry replied smoothly, his gaze flicking to her with the kind of heat that made the temperature in the Foundry seem to rise several degrees. "If we're going to fight criminals, they should at least be competent criminals. It's more sporting that way."
Daphne looked up from the secondary terminal where she'd been running facial recognition algorithms, blonde hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder. Her blue eyes held that calculating gleam that meant her brilliant mind was working through possibilities at light speed.
"That's definitely Kyle Reston," she said, her voice carrying the kind of confidence that came from being right about everything important. "Bone structure matches the juvenile records, and the magical overlays confirm it. This one—" she gestured to Derek's figure, "—that's daddy dearest. The gait analysis is a perfect match."
She turned in her chair, and Harry felt that familiar tug of attraction as she moved with fluid grace. Even in tactical gear—black cargo pants and a fitted tank top that showed off curves that could stop traffic—she looked like she'd stepped off a magazine cover.
"The enchantments on the lenses worked beautifully," she continued, shooting a knowing look at Harry and Susan. "Image stabilization, night vision enhancement, magical triangulation for precise targeting. We got everything we needed."
"Including confirmation that our Royal Flush Gang has some serious skills," Neville added from his workstation. At six-foot-four and built like he wrestled bears for fun, he should have looked awkward handling delicate electronics. Instead, his massive hands moved with surprising precision as he adjusted the targeting systems on Druid's compound bow.
"Derek Reston wasn't just some desperate amateur," Neville continued, his voice carrying the steady certainty that had made him such an effective field operative. "That was tactical thinking under pressure. Professional-grade escape planning. The man's had training."
Hermione nodded grimly, pulling up additional files with a gesture that sent holographic documents spinning through the air. "Which brings us to the Queen Industries connection. Derek wasn't just a foreman—he was senior procurement, with access to some very interesting materials."
Oliver emerged from the shadows near the salmon ladder, and even after months of working together, Harry had to admit the man knew how to make an entrance. Sweat glistened on his muscled torso from his evening workout, and the way he moved spoke of violence barely held in check.
"Define interesting," Oliver said, reaching for a towel.
"Dwarf star alloy trace materials," Hermione replied, her brown eyes flashing with the kind of righteous anger that made her dangerous. "Restricted compounds that could be used for weapons manufacturing. Or sold to very unpleasant people for very large amounts of money."
Diggle looked up from where he'd been field-stripping and cleaning weapons with military precision. His dark eyes were hard, and his voice carried the weight of someone who'd seen too much of the world's ugliness.
"Bratva," he said simply. "Has to be. That kind of material, that level of organization? Russian mob pays top dollar for metallurgy intel, especially anything that could give them an edge in weapons dealing."
Harry pushed off from the railing and dropped to the main floor with cat-like grace, landing silently despite the fifteen-foot drop. Susan's appreciative gaze followed the movement, and he caught her eye with a grin that promised interesting things for later.
"So our desperate family of bank robbers might actually be international arms dealers," Harry mused, moving to stand behind Daphne's chair. His hands settled on her shoulders, and she leaned back into the touch with a soft sigh. "That does add a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole affair."
"It adds a body count," Oliver said bluntly, pulling on a green shirt. "If the Restons have been feeding materials to the Bratva, people have died because of it. Weapons made from Queen Industries tech have been used against innocent people."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Harry's hands tightened slightly on Daphne's shoulders, and his voice took on an edge that could cut diamond.
"Well then," he said softly, "I suppose we'll have to have a conversation with them about that."
Susan moved closer, her medical kit forgotten as she studied the frozen image of Derek Reston. "The question is whether they know what they were really doing. Derek might have thought he was just skimming materials for quick cash, not realizing he was feeding a pipeline to international criminals."
"Does it matter?" Daphne asked, her voice carrying that particular brand of aristocratic coldness that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. "Ignorance isn't an excuse for treason."
Hermione nodded agreement. "Either way, we need more information. Queen Consolidated's internal files will have warehouse records, access logs, shipping manifests. If we can track what Derek took and where it went, we can build a complete picture."
"Problem is," Neville said, looking up from his work, "those files are locked behind Queen Consolidated's internal security. Military-grade encryption, isolated servers, the works. It's not something we can crack from here."
Oliver nodded. "Which is why we need someone on the inside. Someone with legitimate access and the skills to navigate their security protocols without raising flags."
Harry raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Please tell me you're not about to suggest we dress up in business suits and apply for internships."
"Better," Oliver replied with a slight smile. "I know someone. Felicity Smoak, IT department at Queen Consolidated. She helped me track down Floyd Lawton a few weeks back. She's brilliant, discreet, and she has access to exactly the kind of systems we need."
Susan frowned slightly. "You sure we can trust her? This isn't exactly the kind of thing you want getting back to the Queen Consolidated board."
"I trust her," Oliver said simply. "She didn't ask unnecessary questions when I needed help with Deadshot. Just did what needed doing and kept her mouth shut about it."
Daphne spun her chair around to face the group, and Harry's hands moved with her, settling on the back of the chair as she looked up at him with those impossibly blue eyes.
"Assuming your computer genius can get us the intel," she said, "what's our play? The Restons are going to hit another target, probably soon. They're desperate, cornered, and they know we're hunting them."
"Which makes them dangerous," Diggle added, setting down the disassembled rifle he'd been cleaning. "Desperate people make mistakes, but they also take risks they normally wouldn't. If they think they're going down anyway, they might decide to go out loud."
Harry's expression darkened. "Meaning civilian casualties."
"Exactly," Oliver said. "Which is why we can't give them time to plan. We get the intel from Felicity, identify their next target, and we end this before it starts."
Hermione pulled up a tactical map of Starling City, highlighting potential targets with glowing markers. "Based on their skill set and the amount of money they'd need to disappear properly, they're looking at major financial institutions. First National, Starling City Savings and Loan, maybe the Federal Reserve branch downtown."
"My money's on First National," Neville said, straightening from his workstation. "It's got the highest cash reserves, and the security system is older tech—something Teddy Reston could handle with the right preparation."
"It's also in the heart of downtown," Susan pointed out, her medical training making her think in terms of potential casualties. "Crowded area, multiple escape routes, but also the highest risk for civilian involvement."
Harry studied the tactical display, his mind working through possibilities with the kind of strategic thinking that had kept him alive through years of magical warfare.
"They won't wait long," he said finally. "Every hour they delay gives us more time to track them down, and they know it. If I were Derek Reston, I'd hit the target tomorrow night. Quick turnaround, before the heat dies down but after the immediate police response relaxes."
Oliver nodded. "Then we better move fast. I'll reach out to Felicity first thing tomorrow. We get the intel, confirm the target, and we're waiting for them when they arrive."
"And this time," Daphne said, standing and moving to Harry's side with that predatory grace that never failed to make his pulse quicken, "we make sure they don't walk away."
The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of what they were planning settling over them. They'd gone up against criminals before, but the Royal Flush Gang represented something different—a family driven to desperation, with skills that made them genuinely dangerous and connections that could have international implications.
Harry looked around at his teammates—his family, really—and felt that familiar surge of protective fury. Oliver had given them a mission: clean up Starling City's streets, protect the innocent, stop the people who preyed on others. The Restons had made their choice when they decided to fund their escape with other people's money and potentially other people's lives.
"Right then," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular brand of British resolve that had seen him through a war against dark wizards. "Let's go catch ourselves a Royal Flush."
Above them, the screens still displayed the frozen moment of Kyle Reston screaming into the night, unaware that three figures in the shadows were already planning his downfall.
The Royal Flush Gang had made their play.
Now it was time for the house to collect.
---
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!