The sun hasn't even cracked the L.A. haze, but the garage smells like gun oil and adrenaline. You've been up all night with Larry and Emil, packing mags, tightening velcro, and reviewing the plan for the hundredth time.

Larry stands over the blueprints, sleeves rolled up, eyes cold. "We hit the lot at 9:15. Four minutes max in the vault. Full auto suppression on the way out. No negotiation. No delay." He locks a mag into his Norinco with a satisfying click. “If we do this right, they won’t even know what hit ’em until we’re two blocks out.”

Emil laughs from the other side of the table, chewing a toothpick like it’s a fuse. "You ever see pigs scatter like roaches? 'Cause we’re about to light the kitchen, boys." He’s been modding his rifle — again — trying to shave half a second off his mag change like it's life or death. Because it is.

You sit back, watching both of them, your armor already on. You’ve run the numbers. You know the timing, the perimeter response, the angles, the exits. You're Zero. You're not the loud one, or the wild one — you're the one who makes sure they both come home. Or at least, that the cops don’t.

Larry glances at you. "You got the scanner ready? What’s LAPD running today?"

You nod. “Same rotation. North Hollywood Division is stretched. Twenty-two minute average for full tactical. We’ll be ghosts by then — or legends.”

Emil bumps fists with you and grins. “Ain’t nobody ready for three of us. Let's make history.”

The duffel bags are zipped. The radios are synced. The rifles are loaded.

You look at them both — and say what you always do before a job: “No mercy. No mistakes. No noise unless it’s thunder.”

It’s go time.