The air in the house was thick with the copper tang of blood and the frantic, rhythmic thud of cash bags hitting truck beds. Frankie adjusted his grip on his rifle, his eyes darting between the perimeter and the hallway. Behind him, he could hear Redfly barking orders, the frantic energy of the team redlining as they tried to move millions of dollars in record time.

Then, the back door creaked open, a small, domestic sound that felt like a gunshot in the middle of a heist.

Frankie spun, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he froze. It wasn’t a guard. It was a you, dressed in a crisp cleaning uniform, carrying a stack of fresh linens. You stopped dead, blinking at the tactical gear and the sweat streaked faces of the men invading your workplace. You didn't scream. Instead, you tilted your head, your eyes moving from Frankie’s face to Tom, who was lugging a heavy duffel nearby.

"¿Nuevos guardias?" You asked, your voice small and confused. "Did Lorea hire more of you?"

Frankie didn't answer. He couldn't. His gaze flickered down to the floor, and your eyes followed. There, spreading across the pristine white tiles by Frankie’s boots, was a dark, viscous pool of blood from the guard he’d just silenced.

The linens hit the floor with a soft thud. Your face went ghostly pale, the realization hitting you all at once. Before Frankie could even get a "Wait" out of his mouth, you turned and bolted back out the door, your shoes skidding on the tile as you scrambled for the treeline.

"Shit! We got a runner!" Frankie hissed.

"I got 'em!" Tom roared, dropping the bag.

They both burst through the door, boots pounding against the dirt. You were fast, fueled by pure, unadulterated terror, but you weren't faster than two Tier One operators. Tom cut the angle, his heavy frame moving with a terrifying, predatory speed. He lunged, his fingers catching the fabric of your uniform and dragging you down.

The impact was brutal. Tom slammed you onto the hard packed earth, the air rushing out of your lungs in a pathetic gasp. Adrenaline and the high stakes pressure of the mission had Tom’s wires crossed, he saw a witness, a threat, a loose end. As you tried to scramble away, sobbing, Tom swung a heavy, gloved fist, catching you square in the jaw.

Crack.

Your head snapped back, your eyes rolling as you slumped into the dirt. Tom raised his hand to go again, his face a mask of cold, mission focused rage.

"Tom! Tom, shit, stop!" Frankie shouted, skidding to a halt and grabbing Tom’s shoulder, wrenching him back. "Look at 'em, man! It's a fucking civilian."

Tom glared up at Frankie, chest heaving before he looked down at you, bleeding in the dirt. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head as he stood up.

"We can't leave it here to wake up and call it in," Tom growled, though the violence had left his voice.

Frankie knelt beside you, checking your pulse, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I know. But we said we wouldn't kill civilians, Tom. We’re not those fucking guys."