Chapter 73: Solo Heist
The room lapsed into an uneasy silence, the celebration momentarily overshadowed by the lingering tension.
"So," Rita said finally, her voice tentative but cheerful. "Are we going to talk about how badass Bethany was back there? Because, honestly, that was some action-movie-level shooting."
Bethany blinked, caught off guard by the sudden praise. "I mean... I was just doing my part," she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.
"You took down, what? Three guys on bikes?" Rita pressed, grinning. "If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now."
"She’s right," Leo said, raising his can in a toast to Bethany. "You killed it out there."
Bethany’s smile widened, and she picked up her glass of soda, clinking it against Leo’s can. "Thanks. I guess all that training paid off."
Simon watched the exchange silently, his expression unreadable. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes — approval, perhaps, though he’d never say it out loud.
"And Rita," Bethany added, turning to the younger woman. "You were pretty damn impressive yourself. That shot you made on the bike? Perfect timing."
Rita flushed, waving a hand dismissively. "I just got lucky."
"Luck’s part of the game," Bethany said. "But you handled yourself well under pressure. That’s not luck — that’s guts."
Rita smiled shyly, her cheeks tinged pink.
Simon cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "You all did well," he said, his tone measured. "But don’t let it go to your heads. One good heist doesn’t mean we’re untouchable. Next time, we might not get so lucky."
Bethany frowned but didn’t argue. She knew he was right, even if his delivery could use some work.
"Still," she said, her tone lighter, "we should celebrate the wins when we can. It’s not every day we pull off something like this."
Leo raised his can again. "To surviving another day."
"To surviving," Rita echoed, lifting her glass.
Bethany and Simon joined in, their glasses clinking together in a quiet but heartfelt toast.
For a moment, the tension in the room eased, replaced by a rare sense of camaraderie. The team might not always see eye to eye, but tonight, they were united by their shared victory.
As the conversation turned to lighter topics — Leo’s exaggerated retelling of the chase, Rita’s surprising ability to mimic Simon’s gruff commands — Simon allowed himself a small, fleeting smile.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
The mansion was eerily quiet, its halls illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the windows.
Empty chip bags and glasses were strewn across the kitchen counter, remnants of the crew’s earlier celebration.
Upstairs, the muffled sound of Leo’s snoring mixed with the occasional creak of the old floorboards.
Simon stood in the doorway of the living room, his silhouette barely visible in the darkness. He listened intently, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows to ensure no one was stirring.
Satisfied, he grabbed the leather jacket draped over a nearby chair and slipped it on, the faint creak of the material breaking the silence.
With practiced quiet, Simon made his way to the garage. The car they’d used for the heist was still parked inside, its trunk empty now that the stolen weapons had been safely hidden away.
Simon ignored it, his focus on the sleek motorcycle tucked in the far corner.
Pulling the key from his pocket, Simon started the bike with a low growl of the engine, careful to keep the noise to a minimum.
He pushed the gate open just enough to slip through and rolled the bike out onto the driveway. Once he was far enough from the mansion, he revved the engine and sped off into the night.
The city was a labyrinth of dimly lit streets and looming skyscrapers, their windows glinting like stars against the inky black sky.
Simon weaved through the deserted roads, his movements smooth and calculated. The cold night air whipped against his face, but he welcomed the sensation — it kept him sharp, focused.
After a few minutes of driving, a soft chime sounded in his helmet. A translucent blue screen materialized in front of him, hovering just above the handlebars.
The screen displayed a name in bold letters: Adrian.
Simon’s jaw tightened. He considered ignoring the call but knew better than to provoke Adrian’s curiosity.
With a flick of his thumb, he accepted the call, and a familiar voice crackled to life in his earpiece.
"Simon," Adrian’s voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it that Simon recognized all too well. "I know where you’re heading."
Simon didn’t respond, his focus remaining on the road ahead.
"I warned you about this," Adrian continued, his tone darkening. "That warehouse isn’t just another stash spot. It’s a trap, set by people far more dangerous than you realize."
Simon smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "I don’t scare easily, Adrian."
"This isn’t about fear," Adrian shot back. "It’s about survival. You’ve already made enough noise with that heist — do you really want to paint an even bigger target on your back?"
Simon tightened his grip on the handlebars, the leather of his gloves creaking. "I don’t need a lecture."
"Then consider it advice," Adrian said sharply. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Simon. And if you keep pushing, it’s going to catch up with you."
Simon’s expression hardened. "I’ll take my chances."
Adrian sighed, a sound laced with frustration. "Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."
Without another word, Simon ended the call. The blue screen vanished, leaving only the dim glow of the city lights to guide him.
The warehouse came into view moments later, a hulking structure nestled at the edge of an industrial district.
Its corrugated metal walls were rusted and worn, and the faint hum of machinery could be heard from within.
Simon parked the bike in a shadowed alley nearby, killing the engine and dismounting in one fluid motion.
As he approached the building, his eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of movement. The streets were deserted, but Simon knew better than to trust appearances.
He reached beneath his jacket, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the knife strapped to his side.
The warehouse door groaned as Simon pushed it open, revealing rows of dimly lit shelves stacked with crates.
The faint hum of machinery buzzed in the background, and the air smelled of oil and rust. He moved carefully, his boots silent against the concrete floor, scanning the room for any movement.
The tension hung heavy in the air. Adrian’s warning echoed in his mind, but Simon dismissed it. He wasn’t one to back away from risk, especially when the rewards were this high.
Reaching the center of the warehouse, he found the crate he was searching for.
The insignia he had been briefed about was stamped in bold black ink across the side: a three-headed serpent coiled around a sword.
Just as his hand touched the lid, a faint click reached his ears.
Simon froze. His instincts screamed at him to move, and he threw himself to the side just as a bullet tore through the air, striking the crate where he had been standing.
He rolled into a crouch, his knife already in hand, his eyes scanning the shadows. A masked figure stepped into view, rifle aimed with deadly precision.
Simon didn’t hesitate. He flung the knife, the blade slicing through the air and embedding itself in the attacker’s shoulder.
The figure dropped the gun with a cry of pain, but before Simon could move in, more figures emerged from the shadows.
Four of them, all clad in dark clothing and masks, their weapons gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights.
"So much for subtle," Simon muttered, his mind racing.
The first figure lunged, swinging a baton toward Simon’s head. He dodged, grabbing the attacker’s arm and twisting it until he heard the sickening crack of bone.
The figure crumpled to the floor, but Simon had no time to recover. Another came at him from behind, a blade glinting in their hand.
Simon spun, narrowly avoiding the strike, and delivered a sharp kick to the attacker’s chest, sending them stumbling back into a stack of crates.
The sound of wood splintering filled the room as the crates toppled, spilling their contents across the floor.
Gunfire erupted, and Simon dove behind a metal shelf for cover. Bullets ricocheted off the steel, sparks flying in all directions.
He reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband, returning fire with calculated precision. One of the masked figures fell, clutching their leg, but the others pressed on, their movements coordinated and relentless.
Simon’s mind worked quickly. These weren’t ordinary guards — they were trained, disciplined. Whoever had sent them wasn’t taking any chances.
He sprinted toward a stack of crates, using them as cover as he reloaded. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed around him, but he stayed focused, his breathing steady.
He fired again, taking down another attacker, but the remaining two closed the distance, forcing him into close combat.
The first swung a knife at his torso, but Simon caught their wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor.
He delivered a brutal punch to their jaw, knocking them out cold. The second figure charged with a baton, but Simon sidestepped, delivering a swift kick to their knee that sent them sprawling.
The room fell silent, save for Simon’s heavy breathing and the faint hum of machinery. He stood amidst the chaos, blood dripping from a shallow cut on his arm.
His eyes scanned the room, searching for any remaining threats.
