Crying Wolf
Chapter One
Hoxton was sat alone in his office in the safe house, leaning back in his desk chair and gazing gloomily at the boxes of files. The day was winding down (or had already wound down, considering Dallas had finished work for the day and was in the common room with the rest of the gang) and Hoxton let his mind wander as he kicked back and laid his feet up on the desk. His eyes lazily traveled over to Dallas's empty chair, and he thought for awhile about the Texan and his insufferable twit of a brother. Dallas and Chains were the only people that tried to make him feel like nothing had changed and it was all copacetic, like Hox never went to prison-and the crew wasn't full of new freaks he had to smile at like he gave a shit, or at least wanted them there. It didn't do any good. Dallas's greying hair, that dipshit Houston, and his own scars were a constant reminder that things would never be the same. Wolf was the only one worth talking to-Wolf never changes, thought Hoxton, Wolf hates change.
The office was coming together, at least. It wasn't very homey, but Hoxton didn't care much for pelmets and doilies and cushy throw pillows, among other creature comforts so commonly associated with places like your grandparents' house. Of course, that isn't to say that the place wasn't personalized. Hoxton kept a number of mementos from his fatherland and past friends, the most notable of which being a signed picture of David Jones as The Thin White Duke on his desk, and a banner above his cork board that read, "God is a Yorkshireman."
Hoxton had to be careful when he did this, sitting around and thinking, so as to not let his thoughts meander back to the dark days he suffered in Hazelton, lest he suffer another prison nightmare and wake the rest of the crew with his midnight ravings. Most of the crew was in the common room now, huddled around the giant television having some new episode of whatever mind rotting tripe it is that they put on T.V. now blasted into their brains. Not that they really watch it for the intriguing plot, Hoxton thought, but just so they have an excuse to all cuddle up and remind him how well they get along without him. He could hear them in there, trading little jokes and jabs like one big happy family, with creepy uncle Hoxton hiding in his hole. Hox stood up and crept over to the door, leaning against the jamb and peering out at the group. The usual suspects, with only a few absent. No Wick, or the Croat. Iron, or whatever his name was, the grease monkey was probably in the garage. He couldn't see Chains, but thought he could hear some clanging and beeping in the kitchen. Wolf wasn't with them, but that was hardly a surprise. What time Wolf didn't spend heisting was spent in his little dungeon in the basement.
It was a stressful life for anyone, committing ultra-violent crime every other day, bullets whizzing past your head as glass shatters and people scream. But for Wolf, taking hostages and shooting police wasn't any more trying than having a conversation over breakfast. Too much excitement in one day and Wolf would have a meltdown, throwing a screaming, crying tantrum. But Hoxton knew he couldn't help it. The rest of the crew, on the other hand, didn't know or care why, preferring to just lump Wolf in with that fucking freak Jacket and avoid him. So Wolf would spend his days and nights down in his lair, away from all the noise and light and people. That's just how it was now: Hoxton in his office, and Wolf in his lair.
It occurred to Hoxton, about this time, to pop down the the basement and pay Wolf a visit. He gently pushed open the door, just enough to give himself the space to slide out and slink down the staircase without being noticed. The Ozzie girl was screeching some smart-ass comment to Dallas, and Jimmy was howling with laughter enough to cover Hox's footsteps. Just as he got to the stairs, looking over his shoulder, Chains caught him coming down the stairs and took him by surprise.
"Hey, Hoxton, hol' on a minute," said Chains, laying a hand on the englishman's shoulder. "I need to talk to you about somethin'."
"What?" Hoxton already had an idea.
"It's about that last bank job we pulled with Wolf," Chains began, in the least threatening tone he could muster. "I know Wolf's ears are sensitive, and I was alright with the earplugs, but wearing these earmuffs-to the point where he can't hear us yelling to him, that could end up with somebody gettin' hurt," said Chains, softly so as to not disturb the rest of the crew (and also decrease the chances of Hox going off on him). "You know I love Wolf like a brother, and I only want what's best for him, but I gotta think about everybody else's safety, too."
Hoxton just stood there for awhile, trying to conjure up the anger to argue for his friend, but something about Chain's face and the crew being just within earshot sapped him of the power. "Yeah, alright," said Hoxton, turning away and starting down the stairs. Chains stood at the top of the staircase, watching him for a few seconds before joining the rest of the crew.
Hoxton was having to do this more and more, telling Wolf that he would have to change because everyone else said so, and he hated it. There was a time when the crew was more accepting of Wolf's quirks and eccentricities. There was also a time when the crew was more accepting of Hoxton. But things change; more and more the new heisters were getting tired of following all the little rules of interaction and parlance the original heisters laid out on how to act around Wolf. What to say and not say, how to ask him for something, not to look at him and definitely not to touch him, etc. The most exasperating rule being not to swear around Wolf (even though Wolf swore as much as he wanted during heists). The new guys, as far as Hoxton could tell, were all beginning to perceive these rules as special privileges Wolf enjoyed for no particular reason.
Chains was always the one who brought this stuff up to Hoxton, and he wanted to blame it all on Chains but he couldn't. Besides himself, Hoxton saw Chains as the only other person who still cared enough to make an effort with Wolf; making sure he had eaten on any given day and seeing if he needed anything. Whether or not Chains actually saw Wolf as a brother was beyond Hoxton, but Chains was ex-military, and concepts like fraternity are always important to soldier-types, so Hox assumed it was the truth.
Hoxton was well familiarised with the corridors and maintenance tunnels of the basement, but he still hadn't shaken the bleak feeling he felt down in the place since the first time he traversed it. It reminded him of someplace Nazis might hide while Berlin was being bombed.
"I feel like I'm going to run into Himmler going the other way," he muttered under his breath. Hoxton could tell a great deal about what was going on down in the bunker just by listening as he walked. Sergei was upstairs with the rest of the gang, so the usual slapping of a puck was absent. The thud of Dragan dropping his barbell reverberated out every-so-often, so the Croat was probably down there, unless someone was borrowing his equipment. The most jarring noise was Wick's shooting down his range, but the hitman had been absent for a little over a week. The door to Bodhi's den was closed, which was usually indicative that he was getting stoned off of his ass. The odd scissor-snip of Jacket editing his tapes could be heard by the more astute listener. Wolf, who was being driven mad by these noises, installed walls around his previously open workshop and soundproofed them-so his occasional laughter and bursting into song could no longer be heard echoing through the basement.
Hoxton had made it the door to Wolf's room and knocked softly. Silence followed, and then the door swung open.
"'Ey, Wolfman! How're ya doin'?" said Hoxton, stepping into the workshop with Wolf, who closed the door behind him. The entire place was bathed in cold blue light, and several fans hummed monotonously as they cooled the room and the safe house's servers. An electronic nest of innumerable wires ran to multiple PCs and monitors which Wolf used to write the software for the crew's turrets and other gadgets of his own invention. There was a cushy twin mattress nestled in one corner of the place were Wolf slept, just large enough for him to fit on. When queried as to why he slept there, the Swede would either (depending on his mood) timidly mutter something about not liking to be away from his work, or stare intensely at the person asking until they got spooked and left.
"It's alright… I'm, uh, I'm just debugging the turrets' AP program right now. Thinking about going to… I don't know, Red Lobster or someplace later," answered Wolf with a blank expression. He knew Hoxton would get onto him about not eating if he had to ask. Wolf kept a small refrigerator next to his cot, but only stocked it with sweets like pudding, chocolate milk and juice boxes.
"Yeah? Gonna get some surf n' turf or summat?" Hoxton grabbed a child sized box of apple juice from the fridge and struggled to peel the plastic off the straw. "I might go with ya," Wolf's workshop, like Hoxton's office, was also very utilitarian but with a few personal touches. A framed poster for Ingmar Bergman's Hour of the Wolf hung next to Wolf's main desk, on which was a framed still of the Danse Macabre from The Seventh Seal (a gift from Hoxton for Christmas). Next to the still was an old picture of Wolf as a platinum blonde child with big blue eyes sat on his grandfather's knee. In the photo, Grandpa Wolf was just a kindly old mustachioed man wearing a red sweater, but Wolf once confided in Hoxton that in his grandfather's youth, the man was actually a member of the SNSP. Hoxton wondered if his own grandfather would've been proud of him.
"Oh? A-alright… Do you think many people will be there?" asked Wolf, stepping over to one of his laptops. He wasn't actually planning on going anywhere to eat, and Hoxton knew it.
"We'll just go somewhere else, if there are too many," answered Hoxton, looking over some files Wolf had left out. Every so often Wolf would look over documents from his old life, and no one thought enough of it to ask why. Most just assumed he was trying to pinpoint where exactly his business began to fail. At any rate, it was all in Swedish so Hox didn't understand a word. But there was one paper that especially caught his eye, with a black and white picture of Wolf around ten or eleven years old. Hoxton figured it was just about some disciplinary problem at a school. What text was exposed read, "Kära herr och fru Isaksen, med tanke unga Adolfs diagnos av Aspergers syndrom, vi rekommenderar starkt att placera honom i ett specialiserat program för likaså drabbade ungdomar så att de bättre främjar en miljö vari Adolf är bekvämare att…"
"Okay, I… I'll just finish up here and we'll go… If you really want to," said Wolf.
"Yeah, alright," said Hoxton in reply, sitting in Wolf's cushioned rocking chair and crossing his legs. They were both quiet for a while, the fans humming and Wolf's typing the only sounds in the room.
"Alright then…" Wolf closed the laptop and turned awkwardly to his friend. "You're going to drive, right?" Wolf didn't like driving.
"Yeah… Yeah, I'll drive," answered Hoxton.