In a nondescript Chinese restaurant out in the Los Angeles suburbs, the red lanterns had long since faded, the plastic tablecloth curled up at the edges, and a ceiling fan squeaked above, barely stirring the muggy air. But nobody here was in it for the ambiance—they came for the food, and maybe to talk about whether tomorrow was the day they'd finally strike it rich.
"I'm telling you guys, if things go smooth tomorrow and the money hits, first thing I'm doing—I'm buying a Shelby Mustang GT500." The Driver munched on a potsticker, mouth working nonstop. "If anyone laughs at me for still hustling Uber, I'll just smoke 'em on the freeway."
"Your driving skills?" Miami rolled his eyes and poked at his plate of beef chow fun. "Best you could do is crash that thing from Point A to Point B. Seriously, man, all I want for the rest of my life is to go back to South Beach, open a dive school—sun, sand, bikinis, and ice-cold beer. That's it."
"Like you don't have that already," String shot back with a laugh, spinning her phone on the table. "Me? I wanna build a server farm. Like, get an old Cold War bunker, pack it full of GPUs, run some legit AI training, and maybe a little side hustle with not-so-legit data deals."
"Sounds less like retirement, more like a second front," Matriarch said, voice low but steady, peeling shrimp as she gave String a sidelong glance. "Nothing fancy for me... I just want to go live in the French countryside, grow grapes, write a journal, keep a cat." She said it calmly, but there was something in her tone—like a tiredness she never spoke of.
Vulture didn't say a word, just grinned, the light bouncing off his shaved head. His gaze was lazy, but every so often he glanced at the glass door, like he couldn't help keeping an eye on the exits. He grabbed a sweet and sour rib, chewing slow, the kind of guy who watched more than he talked.
"What about you, Fox?" Miami grinned, turning to the guy sitting in the farthest corner.
Fox leaned back, the top button of his white shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His eyes drifted around the table.
"Me?" He paused, a sly smile creeping in. "I wanna buy an offshore island, clean up my record, take a few contracts from politicians. Do some anonymous work, make money you can't exactly declare. And when I finally retire for real? I'll open a bar on the beach, only sell the kind of whiskey you can't get anywhere else."
"Sounds like money laundering to me," String laughed.
"I'm talking about dreams," Fox replied, eyes unflinching.
"Can't you have a dream that's a little more romantic?" Matriarch shook her head.
"Romantic? Like what, marrying a beautiful European princess?" Fox smiled, voice soft as a breeze. "Nah, let's not kid ourselves."
"Hey, don't be so pessimistic! Who knows, maybe one day you'll get your wish!" Miami joked.
The air was thick with the scent of fried rice and mapo tofu. Their food was still warm, but the conversation was drifting further and further. They talked about the future, but everyone at the table knew what they were really waiting for—the big payday tomorrow. Tomorrow's arms deal. If all went well, they'd finally be flush with cash. No more taking crap from anyone, no more Uber runs, no more hustling stolen servers, no more watching your back for flying bullets.
Like Fox said, "If this job works out, we might all go our separate ways. Next time we meet, it'll probably be at someone's funeral—yours, Miami, so do me a favor and eat more spinach before you go. That way, when they turn your ashes into fireworks, at least it'll be colorful."
"Fuck off!" Miami cracked up. "You wish. I'll outlive you for sure."
"Alright, enough bullshit! Let's take a picture. Who knows if we'll get another chance." Fox pulled out his phone and set it to selfie mode...
The flash was extra bright against the restaurant's dim yellow lights.
A single photo, frozen in time. But as the lens clicked, Fox's mind spun back to that conference room—air dry and cold, California sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, dusting the table with a chalky glare.
That was three weeks ago, early morning, when all six of them met the man—Mr. D.
Fox remembered it clear as day. The guy was in a charcoal suit with a purple tie, like he'd just slipped out of some Wall Street board meeting. Not a hair out of place. Even the way he said "Hello" was practiced—warm, polite, and cold, like a bank consultant.
He sat at the head of the table, smiling, set a file folder down. His tone was calm, almost gentle. "One job. Transport. Nevada to Arizona. Forty crates. Trucks, route, funding—all arranged. Military backroads. No one's gonna check you."
Fox didn't grab the folder right away. He just stared at Mr. D's face, motionless.
"Whose shipment?" he asked.
"Europeans, from the east border. Details are need-to-know." Mr. D smiled. "You just handle the delivery. The pay's more than you can imagine."
"Why us?" Matriarch asked.
"Because you're clean. More importantly—you six don't have a record. That matters to me." Mr. D's voice was as flat as a weather report.
"Who are you?" Vulture squinted, sizing him up.
"I'm the middleman." Mr. D's smile didn't budge. "I build bridges. Whether there are crocodiles under them, not my problem."
Fox flipped through the folder—route maps, schedules, itemized cargo lists, even fuel consumption per mile. All too perfect.
Perfect, like an invitation to jump into a fire pit.
But Fox closed the folder and looked up at Mr. D. "Alright. We'll take it."
"You sure?" Mr. D smiled a little wider. "Once you start, there's no turning back."
Fox didn't answer. He just stood, slipped the file into his jacket.
After the meeting, the six of them stood on a street corner outside the office tower. Sunlight hit Miami's face and he joked, "Maybe we'll be legends after this—money and power, just like that."
"As long as the money's real, I'm good," String said.
Fox didn't say anything. He stood aside, thumbing through his phone, zooming in on the IMEI number he'd snapped from Mr. D's cell. Something felt off, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
"You think this D guy's legit?" Matriarch asked quietly.
"Probably," Fox replied, tone as casual as answering a text from the bank. "He seems trustworthy enough."
"Stop overthinking it. I'm in!" Miami grabbed the folder and scrawled his name.
But none of them realized back then—this was more than just another arms deal.
It was a hit list.
And all six of their names were already on it.