The planning room smelled of dust, coffee gone cold, and Victor's occasional hacks. Eight men crowded around the scarred oak table, eyes on Nate. He never raised his voice, but the weight of it filled the room anyway.
"This city's bleeding out over a trainwreck on Central," Nate began, his voice low and steady. "Every cop, every ambulance, every resource is diverted. 911 might as well be a busy signal. The system is broken, and tonight it's our Hail Mary." A cold, cynical smile touched his lips. "So, we're going to do what they can't. We're going to provide our own disaster relief."
He opened a laptop, the blue light washing over his face. "This isn't blood work. It's numbers. The city's so busy putting out one fire, they won't have enough time for what I have in store. To them, what we take will be another line item for the insurance companies to argue about. To us, it's getting my kids back."
The others listened in silence. Flash, a strong recommendation from Victor, leaned against the far wall, separated from the group. He wasn't looking at the plans on the table; his eyes were fixed on Victor, then on Nate, assessing, calculating. His grin wasn't one of excitement, but of restless ambition, a caged animal waiting for the door to spring open.
"Once the loot is in the garbage truck, it's gone. Fencing the jewelry and cars could get us more if we didn't need it yesterday, but it would still be enough. I am thinking 15 million max." Nate continued. "The cars are just noise. Decoys. The cops will be too busy chasing their own tails."
"Decoys are for cowards," Flash said, his voice a low challenge that cut through the room. He didn't look at Nate, instead examining his own knuckles. "All this tech, all this planning. Seems like a long way to go to avoid a straight fight. Victor's way is always simpler. More direct." He finally lifted his gaze to Nate, and the dislike there was naked and cold. "You sure you remember how things are done downtown, nephew? Or are you too used to your robots doing the work for you?"
A thick silence fell. Victor hacked into a handkerchief, his eyes flicking between his nephew and his protégé, saying nothing. The tension was a live wire.
Nate held Flash's stare, his own expression turning to ice. "The objective isn't to prove how tough you are, Flash. It's to be a ghost. To get in and out without leaving a trace. That's how we win."
Flash pushed off the wall, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Yeah. Winning. I got it." He sauntered toward the table, but his posture screamed defiance. He was taking in the plan not to follow it, but to find its weaknesses, to see where he could insert his own chaos. He wasn't here to help Nate save his kids; he was here to audition for Victor, to show that the old man's true heir was standing right here.
"Well, he is flashy, but he is solid and gets the job done. We will need him." Victor had said.
"I don't need flashy Victor; I need people who take orders and stay down," Nate replied. "Well, there's Milo. He's good with his hands, too." Victor said, pointing to a guy Nate didn't notice since they started.
"Milo, you're on Valet duty today," Nate said. Milo just nodded and stared at the ground. "Banda, the muscle, for crowd control, and the three of you." They watched Nate like he was scripture. A legend among them, someone Victor never shut up about.
Nate took a deep breath and looked at Flash. "Nothing flashy, no bright colored cars, once you are in, don't touch anything till the auto drive feature is off. If it is not alive, don't touch it. Drive straight to my warehouses on South Beach, drive into the cans and shut them."
"You're too close to this," Victor said quietly.
Nate's jaw twitched. He was right. It was his gala, his IPO, his big night. And here he was, plotting to bleed it dry. His uncle's voice still scratched in the back of his head, "Stay out. You've got the brains. Let others get dirty." But Nate had to be part of the effort to save his kids, not just the brains.
He closed the laptop with a snap. "We do this clean. No mistakes. No violence."
…
The gala was a brilliant, buzzing cage of glass and steel. Three blocks away, Nate sat in the stale air of the van, his face lit by the cool glow of his laptop. Lines of code scrolled. A digital incantation for the chaos to come. On his screen, tiny icons representing valet cars blinked to life one by one as Milo, inside the lion's den, fed him their digital souls.
Milo moved through the valet area like a ghost, the RFID cloner in his palm hidden by a folded towel. With each polite "excuse me" and carefully timed bump against a valet, he pressed the device against a hip, a pocket, a belt loop. A soft beep was lost in the clatter of keys and laughter.
His earpiece crackled. "That's twelve, Milo. Good. Now, the key room. Expect a guard." Nate's voice was calm, a steady drumbeat under the rising tension.
Milo nodded to himself and slipped past the key room door to the emergency exit. He cracked it open. Outside in the damp night air, shadows detached themselves from the wall. Flash, Banda, and three others flowed inside, a wave of focused intent.
"On me, Banda," Milo whispered.
The big man followed him back to the key room. Milo pointed to a shadowy alcove. Banda melted into it, a mountain of patient muscle. Milo took a breath, let his face morph into panic, and burst into the key room.
"There's an issue, a car on fight in the lot! Jenkins is down!" he gasped, his voice cracking with manufactured terror.
The lone guard inside shot up from his chair, eyes wide, and bolted for the door. He made it two steps into the hallway before Banda's fist met his jaw with a sound like a sack of cement hitting the floor. He crumpled without a sound.
Milo was already at the key cabinet. His fingers flying. "Feeding you the motherlode," he muttered into his mic. On his screen, a progress bar raced, sucking down the digital signatures of all the cars at the gala.
"Clean signals," Nate's voice approved in his ear. "Victor says you're good with your hands."
A dry, rasping laugh echoed on the comms. Milo didn't smile.
"Step two is a go," Nate said. "Let there be dark."
Banda and his team moved into the gala hall, blending into the crowd of tuxedos and gowns, becoming statues at their designated posts.
A minute later, Banda's low rumble came over the comms. "West corner's wide open. If this goes loud, we're knackered. Where the hell's Flash?"
Silence.
Then, a whisper, barely audible. "Tailing a rat in the west wing. He's jumpy. Covering him."
Nate's sigh was a burst of static. "I'm on my way." The van door slid shut. He was coming in.
In the key room, Milo unplugged the cloner. The progress bar showed 78%. The Koenigsegg's icon on Nate's screen was still outlined in red. Incomplete.
"Get to the van," Nate's voice ordered, already slightly breathless from moving. "Wait sixty seconds, then press enter. That'll bring the first wave to life. Then kill the lights."
Milo slipped out of the key room and into the bustling kitchen, the cloner gripped tight. He was almost at the service exit when a valet manager, eyes narrow, stepped in front of him.
"You. What's that?" the man demanded, pointing at the device in Milo's hand.
Milo didn't hesitate. He shoved past, breaking into a run. The valet shouted, giving chase. A chef turned, a large tray of canapés in his hands. Milo collided with him. The cloner flew from his grasp, skittering across the greasy tile and vanishing under a massive industrial refrigerator.
"No, I dropped the receiver in the kitchen," Milo warned.
"Just get on with the rest," Nate replied. "I will get it."
He could hear more shouts, the squawk of a radio. He had to go. He burst out of the service entrance into the alley and sprinted for the van, diving into the driver's seat. His heart hammered. Fifty seconds gone.
He found the console, his finger hovering over the 'ENTER' key.
Inside the gala, the world exploded.
Not with noise inside, but outside. A symphony of automotive panic erupted from the valet lot. Alarms wailed. Headlights flashed like strobes. A Maserati jerked forward and slammed into a concrete planter. The music inside died as every head turned to the windows. Guards sprinted for the doors.
Then the main lights died, plunging the ballroom into a deep, terrifying blackness before the dim emergency lights flickered on.
It was the signal.
Nate, now inside and masked, gave the nod.
Banda's voice boomed through the sudden silence. "Nobody move! This place is rigged with explosives! You play hero, you make a sound, you all go up! Your insurance company might cry, but you'll be past caring!"
The scream that followed was a single, unified sound of pure fear.
His team moved with brutal efficiency. Diamond necklaces were ripped from throats. Watches stripped from wrists. A painting was slashed from its frame and rolled up.
One thief, a wiry man with a grin too wide for his mask, zeroed in on a guest, frantically trying to swallow his own gaudy ring.
"Senator Tisbury," the thief sang, mocking. "Trying for lead poisoning? Or is that a new campaign slogan? 'Tisbury: He'll swallow his own ring before lowering your taxes.'" He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting the ring off with a brutal pop. "There. The copper shit's off. You're welcome."
A few nervous, hysterical giggles were stifled by the overwhelming fear.
"Two minutes," Nate's voice was a ghost in their ears. "Truck's waiting."
The team converged on the emergency exit, their bags heavy. Outside, the garbage truck swallowed their fortune whole.
The team scattered into the chaotic valet lot, disappearing into the programmed chaos of moving cars.
Nate broke from the group, moving against the tide of panic toward the key room. He had to get the cloner.
And then it happened.
A hand grabbed his arm. He turned. Thomas Tate, his face pale but his eyes sharp and terrified, stared at him. The man's gaze wasn't on the mask; it was on Nate's eyes, his posture, the unmistakable aura of him.
"I know you..." Tate breathed, his voice rising in dawning horror. He raised his voice, "It's you. You're Nath…"
The gunshot was immense, a single, shocking crack that swallowed all other sounds. Tate jerked, a look of profound surprise on his face, and dropped to the marble floor.
Nate's head snapped toward the source.
Flash lowered his pistol, his eyes wide not with fear, but with ecstasy. His grin was a predator's flash of teeth, aimed directly at Nate.
"Funny," Flash said, his voice cutting through the new, deeper silence. "How we keep saving your ass."
For one heartbeat, the gala was perfectly, utterly still. Then the panic erupted anew, a raw, animal stampede on the doors.
"No!" Nate snarled into his comms. "You stupid…"
But Flash was already moving, a shark through bloodied water. His eyes locked not on an exit, but on the prize: the Koenigsegg, its alarm silently screaming, its lights flashing, a king trapped on its throne.
He vaulted into the driver's seat, the pristine leather groaning under him.
"Don't you touch it!" Nate hissed. "It's not clean!"
Flash's laughter was lost in the engine's savage roar. He slammed it into gear, the tires screeching as he laid down a patch of rubber and smoke, launching the hypercar into the night like a scarlet missile.
Police swarmed. Lights flashed. Helicopters thumped in the air. The city had its villain.
Guards were everywhere now. Nate ran towards the van. Everything was unravelling. The receiver, he couldn't get. The plan, the precision, the clean crime that left only paperwork behind, it was gone. Replaced with blood on marble and a spotlight on the plan.
The garbage truck rolled steadily through backstreets, vanishing into the dark. The cars scattered. But none of it mattered now. All the world would see was the murder, the madness, the rarest car in the city, tearing through blockades with a bloody fool behind the wheel.