This was it. The real make or break moment. Would they be millionaires, or convicts? Alarm bells went off and red warning lights flashed overhead. Fred could hear a chopper somewhere outside the building but he shut it all out as he dashed down the hallway. First right, third left, two flights of stairs… The plan ran continuously through his mind as he bolted for the arranged exit. If he took a wrong turn now he could be caught on one of the casino's security cameras and the game would be up; he had to make it to the second floor balcony.

As he rounded a corner he bowled head first into a serving waiter.

"Shit!" he cursed as they both fell in a mass of limbs. Then quickly he rolled away and regained his feet as the waiter pulled a gun – undercover cop, then. Ducking under the first shot he aimed a high kick at the man's elbow and successfully knocked the weapon from his hand. The policeman made to block his next blow but was too slow; Fred caught him hard in the solar plexus and he smacked into the wall behind him before crumpling, winded.

"Bloody police, George! You said there wouldn't be any," Fred muttered into his earpiece.

"Sorry mate, they were undercover," was the reply over the radio.

A completely insubstantial excuse but Fred didn't have time to argue as he made his way to the stairs. He was nearly there. Taking them two at a time he counted the doors as he passed them. A shot from above caught him unawares. He cursed again, ducking back down behind the last turn.

Glancing behind him he made a quick assessment of the situation. He couldn't go backwards; the only way out of the building was before him. He couldn't shoot back, or the Ministry would be here quicker than you can say 'I'm fucked' to analyse the shells, not to mention that he might actually hit the guy and he didn't fancy having murder to his name. If he made a run for it, he might get shot. Might. Those chances were good enough for him.

Taking a deep breath he dashed back out and immediately heard two shots crack above him, one bulled pinged off the handrail beside him. He thought he could make out the gunman's position from the direction of the bullets and instinct jerked him to the left as a third bullet came his way. This one hit home, and sharp pain exploded in his shoulder.

"You ok, Fred?" George asked, his tone tight with concern and tension. A job wasn't done until they were both sitting on a beach somewhere sipping Pina Coladas. "You're late. I've got the stash, get out of there quick."

Fred didn't have time to respond as he slumped against the wall, warm blood trickling down his chest and soaking into his shirt. Breathing deeply to steady himself he turned to look up the stairs. There was nothing for it, he had to get out of here. Pulling out his gun he fired a warning shot in the direction of the attacker then quickly bolted the rest of the way up the stairs. When he reached the top he whipped out his taser just before he came face-to-face with the armed policeman. The man was quick, but Fred was quicker – jabbing the taser into his torso he didn't wait to check if he was down before ducking behind him and rounding the next corner.

The door to the balcony was ahead of him. More bullets rained around him as he made a last mad dash for it, slamming the door into its frame behind him. He heard shouts of triumph from the hallway as he sealed himself into what seemed like a dead end, but with a sprint and a jump he was off the balcony and plummeting towards the tarmac below.

There was a familiar rushing sensation, then a moment of panic as he struggled to reach his chute cord with his wounded shoulder. Finally he managed to grasp it and there was a sudden lurch as it released and caught the air. He'd pulled it too low, but with an ooph! he landed softly in –

Money!

So much money! They were rich, he could buy a mansion, and ten cars, and a racetrack, and – he rolled around as adrenaline temporarily shut out the pain from his shoulder.

"George we did it! We're rich!"

"Shit, Fred, what happened to your shoulder?" Fred looked down, and grimaced at the open wound that was smearing blood over the mounds of cash. Shuffling off the huge bed of notes he regained some composure and shifted into the passenger seat of the big open-topped transit van.

"Just a flesh wound, mate. I'll be fine, we can find a doctor when we get to Lemnos. Let's get out of here."

And with that, they (and the cash) were away.

Twenty four miles in the opposite direction a file landed on Detective Granger's desk. She looked up,

"What's this?"

"The Weasley case. They've done it again, and this time it's big."

"Who's the victim?"

"Tom Riddle. You don't need me to tell you what happens if we don't get to them first, but they made a mistake this time – we found a shell."

Hermione picked up the file and felt a familiar sense of conviction wash over her. No matter that nobody had managed to catch the renowned pair before, she would succeed where others had failed.

"Consider it done," she said - and she meant it.

Written for: the 'NEW Triwizard Tournament' Competition (but not submitted in the end). Prompt: genre: crime.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

CC cover image (entitled 'Money') courtesy of Nick Ares on Flickr.

A/N: Not sure how I feel about this as it was meant to be a crime fic, and I think it turned out more real world AU action! I've rehashed it since first posting but in the end didn't submit it for the comp I wrote it for as I wasn't happy enough with it. What do you think? Please don't hesitate to let me know :) GG x