Archive of Our Own ^beta

John took the corner at forty-five miles per hour, tires screaming as the midnight-blue BMW did exactly what he told it to do. In the rearview mirror, red and blue police lights flashed across the buildings, but they slipped farther back with every turn he cut through downtown Los Angeles.

The theft itself had gone smooth—less than thirty seconds to start the car, another twenty to clear the garage. Someone must've seen him anyway. Called it in. Now John did what he always did next. He let the city swallow him. The rush hit fast, sharp enough to burn through the dull, hollow feeling that had been sitting in his chest for months. This was when he felt awake. When everything came down to timing, hands, reflex.

He knew where he was. He knew where he was headed. Every side street, every bad turn and clean exit in this part of the city lived in his head, memorized during long nights spent awake in the driver's seat, when the car felt too small and his past felt heavier than the metal around him.

John didn't just drive fast. He paid attention. He watched the other cars, waited for gaps, pushed only when it made sense. Years of convoy driving in places that wanted him dead had taught him how to read movement, how to spot order hiding inside a mess. What used to keep his unit alive now kept him ahead of flashing lights—and one day further away from going hungry.

He cranked the wheel hard into a narrow alley and shot back out onto the street, missing an old woman and her dog by inches. Her shout followed him down the block. For half a second, guilt flickered through him.

From the roof of a nearby parking garage, Gordon watched it all. The way the driver handled the car stuck with him. Too controlled for some kid boosting cars for kicks. Too calm for someone panicking. This wasn't random. This was someone using real skill just to get by. Gordon felt that familiar tug of recognition—the same one he'd felt years ago with Ghost, and later with every man he'd brought into the crew.

Next to him, Ghost lowered his binoculars. "Impressive as always," he said, quiet. Gordon caught the edge of respect in his voice. Ghost didn't hand that out lightly.

"More than impressive. You find anything on him?" Gordon asked. His thoughts were already moving ahead. He trusted his instincts, especially about people, and everything about this guy said potential. Whether the man would want what they were offering was another question.

"John Rahway. Ex-army. Dishonorable discharge. Been working this area six months, maybe longer." Ghost kept his voice flat. Gordon heard the warning anyway. Military backgrounds came with baggage.

Gordon stayed focused as John drove the BMW toward an underground parking structure. Confident enough that the cops were off him now. He'd done this before. Careful. Never rushed. Disciplined. Not the kind of guy who blew things because he got cocky.

"He's been embarrassing the cops for months," Ghost went on. "Works alone. No crew, no fallback. Lives out of his car, far as we can tell." There was something close to sympathy in his tone. It reminded them both of A.J., back when he had nothing but bad luck and stubborn pride.

Gordon watched John vanish into the structure. Bringing someone new in was always a risk. Another life tied to his decisions. Another variable that could go wrong. But they needed someone like this. And Gordon's instincts didn't miss often. "Clean?"

"As clean as it gets. No extra violence," Ghost said. Gordon felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.

They'd been tracking John for three weeks now. Watching how he worked. Where he went. How careful he was. There was a quiet isolation to it all—no one watching his back but himself.

"No family. No close connections we can find," Ghost added. That kind of isolation could harden someone—or crack them. Gordon had seen both more times than he cared to remember.

"What'd they kick him out for?" Gordon asked. He already had a guess. In his experience, the best soldiers were usually the ones who couldn't swallow certain orders.

"Insubordination. Refused a direct order. Official story, anyway." Ghost sounded tired. He'd stopped believing official stories a long time ago.

That sealed it for Gordon. A man who said no when it mattered. Maybe conscience. Or maybe someone who doesn't follow orders when things get ugly, a quieter voice warned. But Gordon knew the difference. Everything about John Rahway leaned toward principle, not rebellion. A man who'd burn his own career for his beliefs was someone Gordon wanted nearby.

Ten minutes later, John came back out on foot. Baseball cap low, blond hair tucked out of sight. Gordon studied the way he moved—the steady pace, the constant scanning. A man who never fully relaxed. A man who'd learned that being unaware got you hurt.

"Desperate, but not careless," Ghost said.

Gordon nodded. Desperation could make people reckless. John didn't have that look. He looked like someone who knew things were bad—and had decided to manage it anyway.

"Time to talk to him." Gordon sounded surer than he felt. Recruitment was always tricky. Push too hard and they'd bolt. Act too casual and they'd dismiss you. Still, John felt worth the gamble.

They stepped out of the shadows a few minutes later, their footsteps echoing. John's head snapped up at once. His eyes locked onto them, sharp and quick. He didn't look aggressive, but he looked ready to run. Training he hadn't shaken.

Gordon took in his face under the dim light. The tired lines around his eyes. The way he held himself together despite it. How long has he been running on fumes? he wondered.

"Nice work," Gordon said easily, nodding toward the garage entrance. "Clean. Quiet."

John's jaw tightened. He stayed put. Good sign. "If you're cops, save it. I know my rights." Careful, alert, but not scared.

"Do we look like cops to you?" Ghost asked, that familiar smirk already on his face. Gordon had learned to both appreciate it and, on bad days, want to knock it right off. Ghost’s confidence had a way of turning simple situations into harder ones.

John’s eyes moved between them, then settled on Gordon. Something shifted—not calm, not relief, just an adjustment. Like he was updating a mental file. Gordon wondered what John was seeing. Whatever it was, it seemed to pass, because the tight set of John’s shoulders eased just a bit. Not cops. "No," John said after a second. "You don’t."

Gordon took a step closer, palms open where John could see them. "Gordon Cozier. This is Ghost. We’ve been watching you work." The words mattered. Names mattered. It was a way of saying this wasn’t random.

"Congratulations," John said flatly. "You want an autograph?" The edge was there, but it wasn’t sharp. Gordon almost smiled.

They didn’t need someone desperate. They needed someone steady. Someone who didn’t crack when things pressed in. "What I want," Gordon said, "is to give you something better than boosting cars for chop shops."

John’s face stayed neutral, but Gordon saw the way his posture changed. Straighter. More alert.

"Not interested," John said. Too fast. Too firm.

"You haven’t heard it yet." Gordon kept his tone easy. Pushing would only make John dig in.

"Don’t need to." John shook his head. "Whatever it is, I’m not buying." Still, he didn’t step back. Didn’t leave. His body stayed put even as his words tried to shut the door.

Ghost shifted beside Gordon, irritation flashing across his face, but Gordon lifted a hand. He recognized this look. The way people protected themselves by saying no before they got pulled into something worse. John wasn’t scared of them. He was scared of hope. Of trusting again. Of finding out—again—that it had been a mistake.

"Fair enough," Gordon said. "Let me ask you something, then. How long you been doing this?"

John’s eyes narrowed. "Doing what?"

"Getting by, but never ahead. One job to the next. Always watching your back. Never building anything that lasts." Gordon said it plainly. No accusation in it.

Something flickered across John’s face. Just for a second. Enough.

"You don't know anything about me," John said, but the words lacked heat.

"I know enough." Gordon moved closer, close enough to see the exhaustion that went deeper than just physical tiredness. "I know you're better than this. I know you're tired of running in place. And I know you're smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one."

Gordon found himself holding his breath, waiting for John's response. This was the moment that would define everything—whether John would choose to keep running alone or take a chance on them.

For a long moment, John stared at Gordon, something working behind those sharp blue eyes. He could almost see the internal debate, the weighing of risks and benefits that probably dominated every decision John made these days.

"What are you offering?" John asked at last.

Something tight in Gordon’s chest eased.

"A real crew," he said. He let himself care in his voice. "People who plan ahead. Who don’t leave each other hanging. No more scraping by. No more guessing where the next job comes from." He paused. Watched John. "People who’ve got your back."

"And what do you get?" John asked. Careful. Measured. But he leaned in without realizing it.

"What you’re good at. What you’ve learned. And your loyalty." Gordon didn’t dress it up. That last word mattered.

John laughed, but there was no humor in it. More like years of disappointment. "Loyalty. Right. Until the next guy comes along with a better offer, or until I become a liability." The bitterness in his voice told Gordon more about John's history than any background check could have.

"That's not how I work," Gordon said quietly. "My crew has been together for two years, and nobody gets left behind." In their world, that kind of stability was rarer than perfect scores.

Gordon waited, giving John the space to make his own decision, to choose whether this was a risk worth taking. Every instinct told him to press harder, to make more promises, to do whatever it took to bring this man into his circle. But Gordon had learned that the best people couldn't be convinced—they had to convince themselves. All he could do was present the opportunity and hope John was ready to take it.

"Why me?" John asked, and Gordon heard the vulnerability beneath the question. This wasn't just about qualifications or skills—this was John trying to understand why anyone would want him, why he might be worth the risk Gordon was clearly taking.

"Because you’re good. Because you’re disciplined. Because you didn’t lose your principles when it cost you everything." Gordon watched him carefully. "And because we’re offering more than money. We’re offering stability."

"I work alone," John said, but it sounded almost uncertain, as if he were trying to remember why that had ever seemed like a good idea, why he'd chosen isolation over trusting other people.

"You don’t have to," Gordon said.

John looked around, eyes unfocused, like he was staring at a version of his life he’d never let himself linger on. Gordon saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled and relaxed.

"It’s late," Gordon said. "And this isn’t the place for a long talk. There’s a diner nearby—Maria’s. Good coffee. Hot food. We can finish this there."

John glanced at Ghost, then back at Gordon. "Both of you?"

"If that's an issue—" Ghost started. He had never been good with extended negotiations, preferring quick decisions and clear outcomes.

Gordon cut him off with a look, then turned back to John. "Coffee’s on me. Burger too, if you want. No strings."

John hesitated, and Gordon could see him weighing the offer. Finally, John shrugged, but there was something lighter in his expression, as if the possibility of a hot meal was more appealing than he wanted to admit. "Alright."

Gordon felt a small smile pull at his mouth. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a door slammed shut either.

Maria’s Diner was the kind of place that hadn’t changed its menu in decades. Gordon picked a booth where he could see both entrances. John slid in across from him. Ghost took the seat beside Gordon, back to the wall.

The waitress showed up without asking, notepad already out. John ordered black coffee and a burger. Gordon and Ghost ordered coffee too, though Ghost kept his attention on John instead of the menu.

"So," Gordon said once she was gone, "tell me about yourself." He left it open on purpose. Let John decide what mattered.

John lifted an eyebrow. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to say."

John looked caught off guard. Just for a moment. Then his face settled into something easier.

"Not much," he said. The edge was gone now. "Army kid. Moved a lot. Enlisted at eighteen. Three tours in Iraq." He shrugged. "Came back. Didn’t adjust. Made choices that seemed necessary at the time."

He stopped there, like that was the whole story.

Gordon knew better. That kind of summary only came from years of practice. From learning how to compress something heavy into something people wouldn’t ask about.

"What about the discharge?" Ghost asked. His voice was even, but there was something sharp underneath it. Gordon wished he’d stayed quiet.

John’s jaw tightened. He thought for a second before answering. "My CO ordered an airstrike. Intel said weapons cache." He met Gordon’s eyes, steady. "It was a school. Thirty kids inside." His voice didn’t shake, but the anger was still there, buried deep. "I refused the order."

Thirty kids. Gordon let the words sit. He tried to imagine standing there, knowing either choice would ruin your life. Following the order. Or not. "And then?" he asked quietly.

"Court-martial. Dishonorable discharge. Benefits gone. Blacklisted." John took a breath. "Apparently not blowing up kids is bad for optics."

It made Gordon angry in a way he didn’t bother hiding. This was exactly the kind of man he wanted beside him—and exactly the kind the system chewed up.

"Family?" Gordon asked.

"Dead." One word. Final. Gordon let it stand.

The waitress brought the food. They sat without talking while John ate. He didn’t rush. Didn’t linger either. Everything about him felt measured, like he’d learned to pace himself in all things.

Ghost stood and nodded toward the bathrooms. When he was gone, John glanced up, some of the tension easing.

"Your friend doesn’t trust me," John said. No offense in it. Just fact. "Thinks I’m a liability."

"He thinks everyone is," Gordon said.

John took a sip of coffee. "Fair."

Gordon watched him for a second. "Do you think we’re worth the risk?"

John didn’t answer right away. He looked at Gordon like he was actually weighing it. Careful. Thoughtful. "I haven’t decided," he said.

Gordon leaned in a bit. "I told my crew the same thing when I brought them in. I’m not looking for people to throw away. Or people who nod and say yes." He paused. "I want people who think. Who adapt. Who don’t bail the second things get hard." He watched John closely. "Sometimes the job matters less than the people doing it."

Ghost came back as John finished his burger, sliding into his seat like nothing had changed.

"You really think this works?" John asked. There was doubt there, but also interest. "Whatever it is you’re building."

"It already does," Gordon said. "The only question is whether you want in."

"And if I don’t?"

"Then you walk," Ghost said. "That’s it."

John drummed his fingers on the table. Not loud. Just thinking. Gordon waited.

He hadn’t expected to care this much. Somewhere along the way, this stopped being about filling a role and turned into something else. About offering someone a place to land.

"I want to see the work. Meet the crew," John said at last. "If I don’t like it, I’m gone."

"Deal," Gordon said, reaching across the table.

John studied his hand, then shook it.

"Tomorrow morning," Gordon said, scribbling an address and passing it over. "You’ll meet everyone."

Gordon watched John disappear into the night. The way he stayed alert. The way his head kept moving. Training that never really shut off. Gordon hoped that, eventually, John wouldn’t need to carry all of it alone.

Some soldiers came back broken. Some turned their skills into something ugly. Gordon had seen plenty of both.

But John felt different. He’d lost everything and still held the line. That kind of integrity didn’t come from training. It was just there—or it wasn’t.

Gordon felt something warm settle in his chest. By tomorrow, John might choose to belong.

:::

The warehouse Ghost had picked sat among a row of identical industrial buildings, the kind nobody paid attention to. City inspectors skipped it. Cops drove past without slowing. Inside, it had been made livable in small, practical ways—tables scavenged from old offices, mismatched chairs, couches that sagged but still held weight. The coffee maker sat on its own table. Gordon considered it non‑negotiable.

Gordon arrived first, like he always did. He walked the space, checked corners, made sure nothing felt off. That part never changed. What did change was the way his thoughts kept drifting ahead. This morning had an edge to it that made him restless.

He caught himself hoping John would see more than just the setup. That he’d see what held it all together. The trust. The way nobody here got left behind.

Gordon was looking over blueprints for a possible job when footsteps echoed near the entrance. Ghost came in first, carrying a bag that smelled strongly of takeout. Behind him was John.

Gordon felt his pulse pick up as John took in the room. His eyes moved constantly, noting exits, light, distance. The high windows let in pale daylight that mixed with the overhead lights, giving the place a feel that was practical without being cold.

"Morning," Gordon said. "It’s not much, but it’s ours."

"It’s perfect," John said. There was no hesitation in it. Gordon felt his shoulders drop without realizing they’d been tight.

Pride flickered through him. It reminded him of the early days, when they’d worked out of cheap hotel rooms and borrowed space.

"Coffee’s ready," Gordon said, nodding toward the machine.

"Good," John said. "I’ll need it."

They were still pouring cups when more footsteps sounded. Gordon looked up as the Attica brothers came in—Jake first, Jesse right behind him. Both stopped when they saw John.

"So you’re the mystery man," Jesse said, grinning openly. Gordon was grateful for him. Jesse had a way of cutting through tension without trying.

"Jesse, Jake," Gordon said, "this is John Rahway. John, the Attica brothers."

Jake stepped forward, hand out. Calm. Polite. He had a way of making things feel steady.

"Jake. Good to meet you."

"John." The handshake was brief. Gordon had a feeling they’d get along.

Jesse didn’t bother waiting. "How long you been boosting cars? Ever done an SLR McLaren? That’s my favorite—"

"Jesse," Jake said, cutting in with the familiar tired patience of an older brother.

"Maybe let him get some coffee first," Gordon added, watching John closely.

John looked amused. Not put off. "It’s fine. About eight months full‑time. Before that, it was just something I knew how to do." He thought for a second. "Never an SLR. Did a Jaguar XJ once. X350."

Jesse lit up immediately, launching into car talk. Ghost claimed a chair with his coffee.

"A.J.’s stuck in traffic," Ghost said. "405’s a mess."

"No rush," Gordon said.

They spread out naturally, but John stayed near the wall by the couch, still watching, still figuring out where he stood.

"So where you from?" Jesse asked, steering away from cars.

"Everywhere," John said easily. "Moved a lot growing up. Never stayed long."

"That gets old," Jake said. "Never settling anywhere."

John shrugged. Gordon caught the flicker that passed over his face. "You adjust. What about you guys?"

"Born here," Jesse said. "East side. Jake basically raised me after our parents died."

"Jesse," Jake said quietly.

"What? It’s not a secret." Jesse shrugged. "Car accident. Jake was eighteen. Took custody. Could’ve ditched me, didn’t."

Gordon watched John absorb that. Something in his expression softened.

The door opened again and A.J. came in, juggling a canvas bag that looked heavy enough to dislocate a shoulder.

"Sorry," he said, dropping it and heading straight for the coffee. "Traffic was—" He stopped when he noticed John. "Oh. Hey."

"A.J., this is John. John, A.J.," Gordon said. "He’s our tech. Builds things that shouldn’t work. Flies things he probably shouldn’t."

A.J. wasn’t physically imposing, but Gordon knew better than to judge on that.

"What do you do?" A.J. asked.

"Mechanical work. Firearms. Driving."

"Driving like getting us out alive, or driving like Sunday cruising?"

John’s mouth tilted. "Depends."

"Good," A.J. said. "Because Jesse thinks he’s amazing, but last time he drove, he nearly took out a hydrant."

"That was once!" Jesse protested. "And there was a cat."

Jake deadpanned, "A cat you could’ve seen if you weren’t showing off."

"What’s the point of the car if you don’t show off?" Jesse muttered.

Gordon watched John as the morning stretched on, paying attention to the small shifts. The way John leaned instead of standing stiff. The way his eyes still tracked movement but didn’t jump at every sound. The alertness hadn’t gone anywhere, but it had softened around the edges. Under it, Gordon saw something tentative, like John was testing the idea that this place might actually be what Gordon had said it was. By the time they broke for lunch—takeout A.J. had grabbed on his way over—John was perched on the arm of the couch beside Jake, talking easily about locks and security systems.

"Different from car locks," John said, watching Jake work the tension wrench. "Wafer locks are more about feel. You don’t force them. You let them tell you where they want to go."

"Exactly," Jake said, clearly enjoying himself. "Cars are fast once you know the shortcuts, but houses give you feedback. You can hear it when you’re close."

Jesse looked up from where he’d been sorting equipment. "Safes don’t do that. Safes hate you."

"Please tell me you’re not drilling through steel for hours," John said, genuine concern creeping into his voice. Gordon recognized the sound of someone who’d done that once and never wanted to do it again.

"God, no," Jesse said, grinning. "Most of the time we get codes the easy way. Asking nicely. But once? Old Mosler. Vintage. Thing weighed a ton and fought us the whole way. Took forever."

“And you complained the entire time,” A.J. added.

"I was communicating," Jesse said. "There’s a difference."

Ghost leaned closer to Gordon, voice low. "Not bad."

"He’ll fit," Gordon said without hesitation. Watching John with the others had settled something in him. It wasn’t just that John kept up. It was how naturally he slid into the rhythm.

"Fit isn’t the same as staying," Ghost said. "Guy’s been alone a long time."

Gordon looked across the room. John was answering one of A.J.’s questions about firearms, hands moving as he explained grip differences and recoil control. He looked focused, but not guarded. Present. There was a calm to him Gordon hadn’t seen before. "He’ll stay."

The afternoon moved easily after that. A.J. showed John pieces of his setup, careful not to go too deep. Ghost told a few stories from past jobs, trimmed down to the parts that made people laugh.

"Remember when A.J. fell through that low window?" Ghost said. "Straight into nettles. Pitch black. We’re crawling around trying to find a necklace while he’s swearing like he’s been stabbed."

A.J. groaned. "I was stabbed. By plants."

"We spent hours pulling thorns out of him," Jesse added.

John laughed. Not the polite kind. Gordon noticed.

"So what’s next?" Jesse asked, energy already rising. "That jewelry store you mentioned?"

John listened closely. Gordon could tell it wasn’t just the money that interested him—it was the puzzle.

By the time they wrapped up for the day, John looked different. Looser. Like he’d stopped bracing for something to go wrong.

"So," Gordon said as they headed for the door, keeping his tone casual. "Thoughts?"

"I like them," John said. No hesitation. "They’re good people. Professional, but not cold. Competent without being full of themselves." He paused. Thought. "I get why they’ve stayed together."

Gordon waited.

"I’d like to see what we could build together," John said.

The word we hit harder than Gordon expected.

Later, as John was getting ready to leave, something tugged at Gordon’s attention.

"Where you sleeping tonight?"

John stopped. "Haven’t sold the parts yet. So… wherever."

They both understood.

"We take care of our own," Gordon said.

"I’m still on probation," John said quietly.

"And I’m still not letting you sleep in your car," Gordon replied. "Hotel or my place."

John frowned. "I can’t take your money."

Gordon smiled. "Good. Then it’s my place."

John hesitated. Gordon could see the exhaustion catch up to him. Finally, he nodded.

Gordon’s house sat on a quiet street. Nothing flashy. Nothing memorable. He’d picked it that way.

"Guest room’s upstairs," Gordon said, setting his keys on a small table by the entrance. "Bathroom’s across the hall."

John stood in the entryway for a second, taking it in. The furniture. The books. The feeling that someone actually lived here.

John stood in the entryway for a moment, just looking. The living room felt lived‑in without trying too hard—leather furniture worn soft instead of shiny, bookshelves packed tight with an odd mix of titles, a few pieces of art that looked chosen because someone actually liked them, not because they matched.

"Go on," Gordon said when John didn’t move right away. "Shower’s got decent pressure. I’ll find you something clean to sleep in."

The guest room was simple, but it didn’t feel temporary. A king‑size bed made up with white sheets, a dresser pushed against one wall, a chair by the window that looked like it actually got used. John set his jacket over the back of it and paused, trying to remember the last time he’d slept in a real bed. Long enough that it wasn’t an easy answer.

The shower lived up to the promise. John stayed under the hot water longer than he needed to, head tipped forward, letting it run down his back until some of the tightness finally eased out of his shoulders. When he came back out, there was a pair of boxers and a plain gray t‑shirt folded neatly on the bed. Gordon must’ve set them there while he was in the shower.

The clothes were a little big, but clean. Soft. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn something that smelled this fresh, or felt this easy against skin that had gotten used to rough fabric and bad nights.

Sleep came faster than he expected. Maybe it was the mattress. Maybe it was knowing the door was locked and no one was looking for him here. Maybe it was just being tired enough to finally let go. Either way, his body trusted it. Trusted Gordon. He slept straight through, deeper than he had in weeks—maybe months. Waking up without that constant edge felt strange. Almost indulgent.

The smell of coffee pulled him back. Something salty too—bacon, maybe. For a second he lay there, confused by the ceiling above him and the space around the bed. No cramped car. No need to check mirrors. Memory caught up, bringing a mix of gratitude and something closer to unease.

He went to brush his teeth and grab his clothes. The chair by the sink was empty.

Gordon was in the kitchen, already dressed—slacks pressed sharp, button‑down tucked in, tie knotted perfectly, even though it was barely seven and there was nowhere urgent to be. The care he put into it didn’t feel showy. It felt intentional. Gordon looked up from the paper when John stopped in the doorway.

"Morning," he said. "Coffee’s ready."

"Where’re my clothes?" John asked, taking the mug without hesitation.

"In the laundry."

John knew what his jeans looked like. More holes than fabric in places. Shirt faded to something between colors. Clothes that said too much if you looked at them too long.

"They’re still usable," John said, not arguing exactly, just stating it.

"You can borrow some of mine," Gordon replied. "We’re close enough in size."

Twenty minutes later, John stood in Gordon’s bedroom feeling like he’d crossed some invisible line. Gordon moved through the closet with the same precision he did everything else. Suits in order. Shoes lined beneath them. Shirts grouped by color.

"Here," Gordon said, handing him a white button‑down and charcoal slacks.

John held the shirt up, thumb rubbing the fabric. "This is too nice. I’ll ruin it."

"It’s a shirt," Gordon said. "Put it on."

It fit better than John expected. Too well, honestly. The fabric felt strange against his skin—smooth, structured, nothing like what he’d been wearing.

"I look… different," John said, catching himself in the mirror. Same face. Same body. Just arranged in a way he wasn’t used to seeing.

Gordon stepped closer, adjusted the collar without asking. "You look professional. Clothes don’t change who you are. But they can change how you carry yourself." There was something quietly pleased in his voice.

"I don’t wear stuff like this," John said, tugging at the cuffs.

"You’ll get used to it," Gordon said. "And it suits you."

John rolled the sleeves up anyway. "Alright. But I’m not wearing a tie like yours."

"We’ll see."

John hesitated, then spoke. "Thanks. For letting me stay."

"I don’t mind," Gordon said. Then, after a beat, "There’s a range in the basement if you want to shoot later."

Not that Gordon doubted John’s abilities—his background alone made that clear—but he was curious. Skills on paper didn’t always translate cleanly into real‑world muscle memory.

John’s head came up fast, any awkwardness about the borrowed clothes gone in an instant, replaced by something brighter. "Seriously?" The interest in his voice wasn’t subtle. This was something he actually wanted.

"Soundproofed. Climate controlled," Gordon said. "I use it regularly. Keeps me sharp." He said it the same way he talked about coffee or routines—just part of how he lived.

"Can we—?" John stopped himself, then tried again. "I mean, would you mind if I took a look?" The eagerness was obvious, and Gordon felt a flicker of anticipation himself. It was the first time he’d seen John light up like this.

The basement looked nothing like the rest of the house. It was closer to a private training facility—clean, purposeful, no wasted space. A large gun safe lined one wall, heavy and well‑anchored. Gordon had poured time and money into the room, wanting somewhere he didn’t have to rely on public ranges or borrowed setups.

He opened the safe and took out a pistol. A Sig Sauer P226. Clean. Balanced. Clearly maintained by someone who cared.

John took it without hesitation. His hands moved on instinct—checking the chamber, the slide, the magazine—with a smooth efficiency that didn’t need thought. The weight settled into his palm like something familiar. More familiar than the clothes. This, at least, made sense. The ritual—check, load, settle—came as easily as breathing.

Gordon watched the shift happen. The careful social awareness fell away. No scanning for reactions, no self‑consciousness. Just focus. This was John without armor, doing something he didn’t have to explain.

Twenty‑five yards. John brought the pistol up, stance adjusting automatically. His breathing slowed. The trigger pull was smooth, controlled. The shot cracked through the room, sharp but contained. Downrange, the paper showed a clean hole touching the bullseye.

Gordon glanced from the target back to John. Most people would’ve been pleased. John wasn’t.

He shifted his footing a fraction, recalibrated, and fired again. Then once more. Small corrections. No wasted movement. Someone who understood that close wasn’t always good enough.

John lowered the pistol, studying the target with a slight frown. "Rusty," he said. "Haven’t had much time lately."

Gordon looked again. Tight grouping. Consistent placement. The kind of shooting people bragged about. "If that’s rusty," he said, "what does a good day look like?"

John smiled, small and sure. Not showy. "Better." He paused. "Handguns aren’t really my thing, though. I’m better with rifles. Long‑range."

That landed.

Gordon nodded slowly, already rethinking a few things. "Good to know," he said. "We’ll test that later."

The look in John’s eyes said everything. Some people chased comfort. John chased precision.

:::

Two weeks later

John made a final adjustment under the hood of the getaway car, then straightened and leaned his hands on the frame for a second, breathing it out. There’d been a low buzz in his chest all morning, a nervous energy he hadn’t been able to shake. First real job. First time it mattered whether Gordon’s trust had been well placed or not.

His mind kept drifting back over the last two weeks. How easily he’d slid into the rhythm of the crew. Morning coffee with Gordon, then time at the range. Long, rambling technical arguments with A.J. and Jesse that somehow always turned productive. Physical training sessions with Jake that left him sore in ways that felt good. It felt… steady. Familiar. Like something he’d lost and hadn’t realized he missed this badly. The idea of letting any of them down made his chest tighten.

The bank was small. Local. Nothing flashy. Solid security, but not overbuilt. Gordon had picked it deliberately—enough moving parts to be real, not enough to spiral out of control. John wouldn’t be inside. Gordon wanted him on extraction. If things went bad, John was the way out. The responsibility sat heavy, even if part of him wished for something more hands‑on. He understood, though. This was Gordon showing trust.

"Positions, everyone," Gordon said over comms. Calm. Grounded. "John, you good down there?"

"Car’s ready. Route’s clean. Standing by." John kept his voice level, even as his pulse picked up. The feeling was familiar—the edge before movement, before things went loud. His mind slipped automatically into pattern recognition. Same rules as convoy work, he reminded himself. Different map.

Gordon lowered the binoculars and checked his watch. Three minutes. The plan was clean. Ghost, Gordon, and Jesse inside. Jake handling the outside flow. A.J. riding comms and systems. John waiting to pull them out the second the call came.

The tension settled in, the way it always did. But this time there was something else mixed into it. This was John’s first run with them.

As Gordon, Ghost, and Jesse moved toward the entrance, Gordon’s thoughts kept slipping back to the car idling down the block.

"Security’s normal," A.J. said in their ears. "No alarms, no unusual chatter."

Gordon knew better than to relax. Normal didn’t mean safe. It just meant nothing had gone wrong yet.

He counted the final seconds in his head. This was the point where plans stopped being theoretical.

"Go," Gordon said, and stepped inside.

For the first few minutes, everything worked the way it was supposed to. Clean. Efficient. The kind of precision that made the work feel almost elegant when no one was bleeding or screaming.

Then A.J.’s voice cut in, sharper this time. "Movement. Three units. Coming fast."

Jake swore. No alarms had gone off inside. Someone outside must’ve noticed something.

Gordon felt the adrenaline spike, hard and fast, but there wasn’t time to unpack it. "How long?"

"Two minutes."

Too close.

Gordon ran through options. This kind of thing happened. It was part of the job. But not on a first run. Not with timing this tight. John was still four minutes out on the original timeline.

The math didn’t like them.

"John," Gordon said. He kept his voice steady, even though his stomach was knotting. "You need to move. Now."

The pause that followed stretched. Gordon pictured John’s hands on the wheel, his eyes mapping traffic, angles, choke points. Speed versus visibility. Risk versus control.

"Copy," John said. Calm. Flat. Exactly right.

Relief cut through Gordon’s chest.

John moved before the word finished transmitting. Muscle memory took over. The car snapped into motion, cutting hard onto a side street, tires complaining but holding. He threaded through a gap that barely existed, slipping between moving traffic like he’d planned it days ago instead of spotting it in real time.

Gordon watched the tracker update, barely blinking.

The next sixty seconds were textbook. John used a city bus to break sightlines, slid through a blind corner, and vanished past a makeshift checkpoint before anyone realized he’d been there.

"Visual on extraction," John said.

Gordon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The sound of sirens bounced off the surrounding buildings as Gordon and the others reached the car.

John pulled away the second everyone was in, smooth acceleration that covered ground without drawing eyes. Gordon finally let himself breathe, watching John’s hands—steady, precise, not rushed. Even with the timing shot to hell, Gordon wasn’t worried anymore. John had done exactly what you needed someone to do when things stopped going clean.

"Employee?" Ghost asked, tension still riding his voice. "Someone had to have tipped them off. That was fast."

"We’ll dig into it later," Gordon said. They were clear now. That was what mattered.

"Hey, keeps it exciting," Jesse said. Near‑misses always turned into stories with him once the danger passed.

They made it back without incident. Two hours later, the warehouse felt familiar again—boxes of Chinese food open on the table, beer bottles scattered around, the post‑job ritual that helped everything settle. Gordon sat with the money laid out in front of him, counting carefully. Six even shares. One cut back into the fund.

"Twenty‑eight each," he said, sliding the stacks across the table.

Jesse grinned. "Still more than I made in a year at my last real job."

"What was that?" John asked.

"Stockroom clerk," Jesse said. "Eight‑fifty an hour. No benefits. Manager thought bathroom breaks were character flaws."

"Ah yes," Ghost said dryly. "The moral superiority of poverty."

"We’re honest too," A.J. said. "We just skip the middleman."

Gordon watched John. He wasn’t counting yet. Just looking at the money like it might disappear if he touched it wrong.

When John finally looked up, he smiled. Not just happy. Relieved. Like something had clicked into place.

"Guess I’m out of excuses for wearing the same shirts," he said.

Gordon smiled back. Two weeks under his roof had made John’s limited wardrobe impossible to ignore.

"We should start lining up the next job," Ghost said. "That jewelry store on Melrose—"

"No," Gordon said, immediate. "One month. Minimum."

Ghost frowned. "That’s a long gap."

"So is a sentence," Gordon said. "We rush, we screw up."

Ghost looked like he wanted to push it, but Jake beat him to it. "He’s right."

"And I want time to upgrade," A.J. added. "That bank system was newer than expected."

Gordon nodded, then looked at John. "What do you think?"

John considered it, beer untouched in his hand. "A month makes sense. Let things cool. Review everything."

Ghost made a dismissive sound. "Paranoid," he muttered.

"Careful," John said evenly. "In the army, we called it threat assessment. Know your environment, understand your risks, plan for contingencies."

Gordon let the moment sit, then nodded. "One month. Everyone stays quiet." He looked around the room, meeting each set of eyes. "We stay good by staying disciplined."

The meeting broke apart slowly after that, the leftover adrenaline bleeding off as everyone settled back into themselves. A.J. headed out first, already talking to himself about new surveillance tech and ways to stay ahead of whatever systems were coming next. The Attica brothers left together not long after. Ghost lingered the longest, still grumbling about lost momentum, but even he didn’t push Gordon any further before finally heading out.

"What’re you gonna do with the money?" Gordon asked, turning to John.

"Probably find a place," John said, gathering empty bottles off the table. "You’ve been letting me crash for two weeks now. I’m pushing it."

"I told you, you’re fine here," Gordon said. "But I can help you look. Just don’t disappear on me, alright?" He tried to keep it light. Didn’t quite succeed.

John smiled at that. "So I can still come back for your homemade pizza?"

Gordon laughed. "Mandatory. Especially during the Stanley Cup."

They reached Gordon’s car.

"Hey," John said as he got in. "Thanks. For all of this. Feels good to be part of something again."

"Is that what you missed most?" Gordon asked. "From the army?"

John thought about it. "Part of it. The structure. Knowing people had your back—and that you mattered to them." He hesitated. "I just want to make sure I don’t screw it up. Working alone’s simpler. Nobody else depending on you."

"You don’t have to earn your place every day," Gordon said. "We mess up. All of us. That’s how you know it’s real." He glanced at John. "You fit here. The others see it."

John looked out the window, then nodded. "That I can do."

:::

Two months later

"Any word yet?" John asked, stopping in the doorway to Gordon’s kitchen.

They’d gotten two different versions of the same intel about the cruise ship—different layouts, different security assumptions. Gordon hated that kind of uncertainty. It meant choices built on trust instead of proof.

With Jesse sidelined by seasickness, they’d be running light.

"Ghost says tomorrow," Gordon said, handing John a mug. "How’s everyone else?"

John took the coffee gratefully. "Jake’s keeping Jesse distracted. Poker mostly." He leaned against the counter. "You?"

The question landed harder than Gordon expected. John had a habit of seeing past the surface. It still caught Gordon off‑guard sometimes.

"I’m fine," Gordon said.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Anxious," Gordon corrected. "Three days out. No solid confirmation. I don’t like it."

"Because you can’t verify it yourself," John said.

Gordon nodded. "I hate not knowing. If this goes wrong because I trusted bad intel—"

"That’s leadership," John said. "You carry the risk so the rest of us don’t have to."

The words hit closer than Gordon expected.

"If I screw up, it’s on me," Gordon said. "But if someone feeds us bad info… it feels like I’m walking everyone into it."

John stepped closer. "We won’t," he said, without hesitation. "That’s what you’re good at. You and Ghost don’t stop checking."

Gordon let out a quiet breath.

"And you said tomorrow," John added. "No point grinding yourself down before then."

Gordon chuckled, despite himself. He had been second-guessing himself, caught in a relentless cycle of worry and over-analysis that led nowhere. Yet, here was John, steadfast in his belief in Gordon’s judgment. "You trust me a lot."

They both heard the rest of it, unspoken.

What if that trust is misplaced?

John reached across the counter and laid his hand over Gordon’s. It was warm. Solid. The kind of contact that anchored you without trying to.

He stayed quiet for a bit, like he was choosing the words instead of letting them spill. "It’s easy to trust you," he said finally. There was no hesitation in it. "I know we haven’t known each other long, but sometimes a few months is enough. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. I’ve never seen you make a call because of ego or greed—only what keeps the crew safe." He shook his head slightly. "You might not realize it, but that matters. You’re the best leader I’ve worked with. Army or otherwise." He paused. "And like you told me—you don’t have to be perfect. That’s why there’s a team. If something goes wrong, we deal with it together."

"Thank you," Gordon said quietly. The words felt thin compared to what he meant. John trusted him with decisions that shaped his life. That kind of trust wasn’t casual. It was heavy. And it scared him a little.

John smiled, gave his hand a brief squeeze, then pulled back. Gordon noticed the absence right away. "So," John said, lighter now. "What made you start all this in the first place?"

The question shifted the air, just enough.

"It wasn’t some big vision," Gordon said. "At first, it was just survival. My first job was desperation, nothing more." He thought back to it—how thin the margins had been, how reckless they’d been because they didn’t know any better.

"And then?" John asked.

"Then I figured out I was good at it. I like the planning. Making things work that aren’t supposed to." Gordon shrugged. "The money helps, sure. But what keeps me doing it is the people. The fact that they trust me. Robbing banks is almost secondary."

"Almost," John said.

"Almost," Gordon agreed.

Jake appeared in the doorway.

"Jesse’s beating me at poker," he said flatly. "Which shouldn’t be possible, considering I taught him."

"You taught me very well!" Jesse called from the living room.

"You’re just lucky," Jake shot back.

"Thirteen hands in a row isn’t luck!"

Gordon smiled despite himself. "We should probably go rescue him," he said to John.

"Sure," John said, and Jake visibly brightened.

"Finally," Jake muttered, heading back. "Backup."

John glanced at Gordon. "You know they’d follow you anywhere, right?"

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere. You could quit this tomorrow and decide to become—what—some kind of wedding planner. They’d still show up."

Gordon laughed. He couldn’t help it.

"Wedding planner?"

"You’d be good at it," John said seriously. "Schedules. Coordination. Managing strong personalities."

"I’ll keep it in mind," Gordon said.

John’s tone shifted again. "I mean it, though. You built something real here."

"You’re part of it," Gordon said. He didn’t soften it. "You’re not on the outside looking in."

John hesitated. For a second, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. Then he smiled—open, unguarded, the kind that changed his whole face.

"Okay," he said.

From the living room, Jesse shouted, "You guys coming or what? A.J. fixed the cable and there’s a heist movie on. We can learn from it!"

"That sounds like the worst advice ever given," Jake replied.

"But they’re classics!" A.J. protested. "Mostly accurate. Except for the parts that aren’t."

John laughed.

Gordon nodded toward the living room. "Duty calls."

"Right behind you," John said.

As they headed toward the living room, Gordon found himself thinking about how much his life had shifted since John came onboard. John wasn’t like Ghost—less defiant, less driven by instinct or appetite—but he wasn’t passive either. He spoke up when something mattered, laid his thoughts out plainly, and trusted Gordon to decide what to do with them. There was no power struggle in it. No quiet competition. It felt like working alongside someone moving in the same direction instead of pulling at the wheel.

It felt solid. Like something that could last.

:::

Three days later, they arrived at the marina where the ship waited, cover identities in place, equipment tucked out of sight. On paper, they were wealthy tourists with time to burn. They had two rooms booked.

The ship itself was excessive in the way only money could manage—three decks packed with distractions meant to keep people entertained and spending. Bars stocked with high‑end liquor. Restaurants cycling through cuisines. A casino. Even an arcade. Gordon caught the way John’s eyes tracked it all as they boarded.

"Recon," Gordon murmured when John slowed to watch a magician working a small crowd near the main bar, cards flashing through his hands.

"I am reconning," John said, grin giving him away.

Ghost drifted up beside Gordon, watching John with open amusement. "Does he know you can see this stuff on land too? With our last cut, he could buy front‑row seats in Vegas."

Gordon didn’t answer right away. He was watching John. The way he listened to a piano lesson in progress like he was cataloging the notes. The way his eyes flicked automatically to the security cameras—then, a second later, to the massive pool stretching out beyond the railing. Professional one moment, openly impressed the next. It struck Gordon how little of that wonder had been burned out of him.

A.J. grabbed John by the arm without warning, already steering him toward the pool, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. Gordon watched John hesitate, then give in.

"He doesn’t really know what he can have yet," Gordon said, more to himself than anyone else. "Even now. Even with money."

He thought about how John still checked prices out of habit. Still avoided anything that felt excessive. Like he was waiting for the ground to give out again.

Jake came up alongside them. "You don’t unlearn that fast. Took A.J. forever to believe we weren’t going to dump him the first time something went sideways."

Gordon smiled at that, warmth settling in his chest. John would get there too. Slowly. With time.

"Alright," Ghost said, tapping Gordon’s shoulder and pulling him back. "Diamonds first. Let's get back to work."

The rest of the day passed in quiet work. Watching. Mapping rotations. Finding blind spots. Pinpointing the private safe where Mrs. Blackwood kept her collection. The diamonds were meant for an exhibition on the final night. If everything went right, they’d be gone well before then.

John followed instructions easily, slipping back into ground work without missing a beat after months behind the wheel.

The booking put John and Gordon in the larger room. A king‑size bed dominated the space, the kind of room that made most hotels feel small by comparison. John showered first, then came out in a t‑shirt and boxers, stretching out on his side of the bed.

"This bathroom’s bigger than my apartment," he said, stretching until the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders.

Gordon glanced up from the notepad where he’d been sketching contingencies. "After this job, you could have one just as big."

John huffed. "Might. Although it feels excessive." He paused. "But I wouldn’t say no to a long bath."

"Luxury bathrooms, wearing expensive button-down silk shirts… You're adjusting well," Gordon observed with satisfaction, thinking about John's gradual adaptation to their lifestyle over the past months.

John had stayed at Gordon's house for several more weeks before finding a small apartment to rent, where the landlord didn't ask uncomfortable questions about employment as long as the rent was paid promptly and in cash. Gordon had insisted John go shopping for decent clothes during that time, and had managed to convince him to invest in several quality dress shirts. Not tailored yet, but that was definitely on Gordon's agenda for the near future.

"I admit I'm getting used to the shirts," John said. "But just don’t expect a tie. Not gonna wear that."

"Sure you will," Gordon said, calm like it was already decided.

"Sure I won’t," John shot back, stubborn on principle, but still amused.

They both knew how that would end.

John went quiet after that, staring up at the ceiling while Gordon went back to his notes. When he spoke again, it had that slower, thoughtful tone Gordon had learned to pay attention to. "Stealing cars was all instinct. See a gap, take it, deal with whatever comes after." He waved a hand toward the papers spread across Gordon’s lap. "This is different."

Gordon set the plans aside and looked at him fully. "You having doubts?" He kept it light, but he waited.

"No," John said. He rolled onto his side, facing Gordon. "Actually, the opposite. I haven’t felt this steady in years."

Gordon let out a slow breath. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding onto it.

He finished reviewing contingencies while John drifted in and out beside him. Sometime around midnight, John started shifting—restless movements, half‑formed words slipping out under his breath. Gordon recognized it right away.

Without thinking, he reached over and rested his hand on John’s shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles through the cotton of his shirt. "Hey," he murmured. "You’re okay."

John’s breathing smoothed almost immediately. The tension eased out of his body like something unclenching. Gordon stayed there, hand steady, until John settled completely.

Only then did Gordon let himself sleep.

Sunlight woke him, thin and pale through the porthole. That's what he noticed first. The warmth came next. John was pressed close, Gordon’s arm draped across his back, John's face buried against Gordon's shoulder, and his leg hooked loosely with his. It took Gordon a second to register it.

He stayed still. Listened to John breathe. The contrast between this quiet and the job waiting for them felt strange.

His phone buzzed softly. Gordon reached for it carefully, but John shifted anyway.

"Time?" John asked, voice rough.

"Not yet," Gordon said. "We’ve got an hour."

John stretched, unfazed by how close they were. It didn’t feel awkward. It just… was.

They got dressed, slipping back into their tourist roles.

"Ready?" Gordon asked, straightening John’s collar without thinking.

"Born ready," John said.

The job went clean at first. Afternoon. Cocktail hour. Exactly when they wanted it. A.J. and Ghost watched the corridors. Jake handled the door. Gordon and John worked the safe.

"Time?" Jake asked.

"Four minutes," John said, checking his watch.

Gordon moved fast, sorting pieces by instinct.

"How do you tell one shiny from another?" John asked quietly, watching Gordon's selection process with curiosity. To his untrained eye, the various gems and jewelry pieces looked similarly valuable.

"With experience, you'll learn. Jesse has the best eye for it," Gordon replied with a quick grin.

"Let's save the lesson for when we're safely out of here," Jake chimed in, glancing nervously at the door.

They were halfway to the rendezvous when Ghost swore over comms. "Extraction’s compromised. Deck three’s flooded with security. Two drunk idiots picked a fight right next to our boat."

"More guards moving in behind you," A.J. added.

"Unbelievable," Jake muttered. It didn't mean the guards would be suspicious of them, but the black bag containing the diamonds was a bit too telling in their opinion.

Gordon's mind raced through alternatives. Maybe they could just drop the bag where it couldn't be seen and wait a few minutes for the situation to calm down. But the longer they waited, the more chances there would be for someone to discover what had happened, and on a boat, there weren't many ways to escape discreetly— their only option was the small speedboat they'd arranged for emergency extraction. The one currently unavailable. Maybe they could steal one on the other side of the deck.

"There," John said suddenly, pointing toward a service corridor. Gordon tried to remember where it led, but John didn't seem to hesitate. "Crew access that has an exit on deck three right after the kitchens, remember? It should be less monitored."

"Ghost, A.J., we're taking the service corridor," Gordon relayed.

They moved quickly but carefully through the ship's service areas, past laundry rooms and storage compartments that passengers never saw, hiding just in time from crew members. The utilitarian spaces were a stark contrast to the luxury on display in the public areas. It felt like a maze, but John moved as if the map were right in front of him.

They were almost to the boat launch when a security guard rounded the corner ahead of them.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," the guard said. "I need to see some identification." The request was polite but firm, and Gordon could see the man's suspicion building as he took in their presence in a restricted area.

"Of course, officer," Gordon said with the kind of relaxed confidence that suggested he had every right to be exactly where he was, reaching into his jacket. His hand came out with a business card. "Garry Standford, Western Security Consulting. We're conducting a routine security assessment for the ship's management company."

The guard frowned as he examined the business card, clearly trying to reconcile Gordon's explanation with his own knowledge of scheduled security assessments. Gordon held his breath. He would have to thank A.J. for thinking about creating the fake business cards days earlier.

"I wasn't informed of any security assessment happening today," the guard said slowly, his confusion evident as he tried to process information that didn't match his briefing materials.

Gordon saw him reaching for his radio to verify the story with his supervisors, when the ship's general alarm began blaring.

"Security alert, all hands to stations," came the announcement over the ship's PA system, the voice carrying official authority that commanded immediate response. "This is not a drill." The timing was perfect, providing exactly the distraction they needed to complete their escape.

The guard's attention snapped away from them. In the confusion, John smoothly stepped around him.

"Should we head back to our cabin? We can finish our assessment later when things calm down," John said with professional understanding.

The guard nodded absently, his focus already shifting toward whatever emergency had summoned all available security to immediate action. They continued toward the boat launch, maintaining purposeful pace without appearing to flee.

"I figured the alarm would help clear out the guys by our boat," A.J.'s voice reported through their earpieces with obvious satisfaction at his successful improvisation.

"And it worked, they're leaving!" Ghost confirmed, relief evident in his voice as their extraction point became viable again. "I was about to push an old lady into the ocean for distraction, I swear to God."

"The alarm did the trick on two fronts," Gordon said, appreciating A.J.'s quick thinking that had saved them.

They reached the boat launch to find Ghost and A.J. already waiting beside their speedboat, engines running and departure preparations complete.

"Half the ship's crew is still trying to figure out what set off the fire suppression system in the casino. They think it was a cheater trying to create a distraction to grab chips during the panic, which works in our favor," A.J. said with a smirk.

They climbed into the speedboat, and Gordon slowly lowered it using the davit when a shout came from behind them.

"Hey! You can't take that boat without authorization!" The security guard's voice echoed across the water as he reached for his radio to report the theft.

Gordon froze, heart's hammering against his ribs.

John didn’t. He scrambled back onto the ship's platform, pure adrenaline overriding all caution. "What are you doing?" Gordon shouted, panic rising in his voice.

John lunged at the security guard, slamming into him hard. The guard stumbled backward, his walkie-talkie spinning through the air before crashing onto the deck with a sharp clatter. They grappled dangerously close to the ship's edge, the guard's heavy frame pinning John down against the railing.

Gordon stood paralyzed, torn between rushing to help and knowing that John was buying him precious seconds to get their escape boat ready.

Everything changed when the guard drew his handgun. The metal gleamed in the dim light as John's eyes went wide with terror. In one desperate move, John twisted hard, using the guard's unsteady footing against him. They crashed through the safety barrier and plummeted over the side, both men falling thirty feet into the black water below.

Gordon quickly brought the speedboat down to the water, then climbed down the ladder, keeping an eye out for John, scanning the surface for any signs of movement. It was just water—not too high—and he didn’t hear any gunshots.

John's head suddenly burst through the surface about six feet away, choking and gasping for air. He swam toward their boat, his movements a bit uncoordinated.

The security guard surfaced moments later—until a single, muffled shot ended his struggle permanently. Ghost lowered his weapon.

Gordon leaned over the side and hauled John back into the boat. John collapsed onto the deck, drenched and shaking, water pouring off his hair and clothes. Despite everything, he broke into a breathless grin.

"Not exactly how I planned that," he gasped, wringing water from his jacket.

Gordon wanted to strangle him. And pull him close.

A.J. slammed the throttle forward, and the speedboat tore away from the cruise ship into open water. Ghost was already checking the bag, expression smug enough to confirm the job had still gone their way.

Gordon kept watching John—how he pushed wet hair back from his eyes, how he ignored the cold soaking through him. When their eyes met, that same easy trust was there, like nothing about what had just happened felt out of bounds.

But Jake noticed that John was favoring his left wrist slightly, moving it carefully in a way that suggested injury despite his attempts to minimize any sign of weakness or incapacity.

"John," Jake said, concern sharpening his voice. "Your wrist—how is it?"

"Nothing serious," John replied dismissively, trying to brush off concern that he wasn't used to receiving. "Just caught it on the railing when we went over. It's fine."

Neither Jake nor Gordon looked convinced by John's reassurances. The careful way he moved his wrist indicated genuine pain despite his attempts to appear unaffected.

"First of all," Gordon said, his voice carrying the kind of gentle authority that brooked no argument, "let me help you out of your wet jacket and shirt. You're freezing."

John started to protest that he could manage the task himself, but Gordon settled beside John on the boat's bench, already reaching for his soaked jacket. "Easy," Gordon murmured as John's breath hitched when they maneuvered his injured wrist through the sleeve, his touch careful and sure as he helped remove the waterlogged garments. After unbuttoning the shirt, he carefully repeated the process.

Gordon wrapped his own jacket around John's shoulders immediately, the fabric still warm from his body heat.

"Now let me see that wrist," Gordon said. John hesitated for a moment before extending his arm reluctantly, clearly uncomfortable with being the focus of worried attention but unable to refuse Gordon's gentle insistence.

Gordon's fingers were careful as they examined the swollen joint, assessing the extent of injury. "Alright, probably just a sprain," he murmured. "Better let it rest for a while."

He shifted his position to put his arm around John's back, pulling him closer against the cold wind while his palm moved in gentle, warming strokes across his upper back, providing both support and warmth.

John gradually relaxed against his side.

"Use my jacket too," A.J. offered.

"Thanks," John said quietly, genuine gratitude evident in his voice.

Jesse was waiting with a van and dry clothes when they reached the coast, bouncing on his toes with barely contained excitement.

"Those’ll buy a lot of dinners," he said, inspecting the haul.

"Or you could bet it all on the next poker game, like last time," A.J. quipped, his false innocent tone eliciting chuckles from everyone.

"You cheated last time. I know it, you know it, everybody knows it," Jesse replied, though he didn’t seem to hold any grudge against him.

"No idea what you’re talking about. I won fair and square," A.J. said with a smirk.

The ride back was quiet. John slept against the window.

Back at the warehouse, ice went on his wrist and conversation filled the space. John sat with A.J., learning how to spot quality stones. Gordon joined them, arm along the back of the couch.

"You know, I was thinking," Ghost said from his position in one of the armchairs, "we should have a crew name."

"You mean like the Wet Bandits?" Jesse replied, raising an eyebrow at Ghost's suggestion.

"Really?" teased jake. "That's your first thought when we're talking about crew names? Home Alone?"

"You know I love that movie," Jesse shrugged unapologetically.

"Let's aim for something cooler," Ghost said.

"Well, first of all, here's our motto: we came, we took, we left," A.J. announced.

"Venimus, cepimus, abivimus," John chimed in.

"The V.C.A. crew." A.J. laughed at the acronym. "Sounds like we're a bunch of video tapes."

"I think we need something that catches the ear. Something easy to remember. The focus is that we're thieves. We take," Ghost added.

"We're takers," Jake confirmed easily, unknowingly coining their future name.

"Are we really considering giving ourselves a name? Like some kind of boy band?" Jesse asked with incredulous amusement, though his tone suggested he was warming to the idea.

"We're boys, we're a band. Stealing is like music to my ears. I see no problems," A.J. replied.

"Jake said we were takers. I like that word. Plain and direct," John said with approval.

They had built something special together, and as John turned to Gordon, his face lighting up with a genuine smile that sparkled brighter than the diamonds they had just stolen, Gordon knew it was all worth it.

"Takers," Gordon repeated, testing how the word sounded. "It has a nice ring to it."

Whatever challenges the future might hold, the Takers would be ready to face them.

:::

THE END