A/N: Prologue. So if things don't make sense now, they will in a few chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies, nor will I ever.

Morris knew that he had once chance at this. One chance, and if it didn't work out, well, he wouldn't be there to wallow in the shame. The earpiece cracked as someone attempted to get through to him— no such luck unfortunately; back up would have been nice, but luck had never been on Morris' side.

"Okay, time to do this," he muttered to no one, the gunshots falling on almost deaf ears as he steadied himself.

"On the count of three. One—"

He cocked his gun.

"Two "

He set it and turned around.

"Three."

Firing as he popped up from his hiding place, he shot almost blindly at his attackers. There was a moment of silence as his last shot rang out, his harsh breathing the only sound resonating throughout the warehouse.

Then—

"Nice try, copper. But guess again."

A click and he felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of his head.

"Bang, bang."

And he fell.

"You can't just go around shooting police officers. The ties we have are perilous enough. You being dumb enough to shoot one of their own, point blank range of all things, may take us to our gaddamn tipping point!"

He sighed after a second and rubbed at his temples.

"Blink, this isn't a game."

Blink snorted and picked at his nails, waiting for the 'reprimand' to be over with.

"Blink, look at me."

His head shot up and he turned around, ignoring Jack in favor of the speaking newcomer.

"Racetrack," he said, tipping his hat slightly.

"Good job," Race muttered, cocking his head— a sure sign for Blink to leave.

"What do you mean 'good job'?" Jack asked incredulously, eyes darting between the closed door and Race's slightly smug face.

"I mean what I said. He did exactly as I needed him to."

"And why didn't you tell me?"

Jack crossed his arms sternly against his chest and glowered down at Racetrack. He looked into Race's eyes for a second, before hesitantly darting them away. Flushing, he tried not to feel Race's smirk as the aura of it seemed to hit the back of his head.

"Need to know basis," Race finally said, voice soft, "You didn't need to know."

"Goddamnit, Race! I fuckin' run this family and you know—"

He trailed off as Race growled and took a step closer.

"You are a fucking figurehead, Jack Kelly. You are the most expendable person in this entire operation. And you know that."

He sighed and calmed himself down in a single inhale, shooting a wry smile at Jack.

"Don't try and punish people without me here next time, okay, Cowboy? Sends mixed signals and all, because you're always wrong."

He turned away and started walking, stopping only for a second as he heard Jack's question.

"Why did you need Morris Delancey killed?"

Racetrack grinned back at Jack, shrugged, and left the room.

The words, 'well, who's next for police chief?' rang through Jack's ears as he tried to figure out the significance.

What did Avery Anderson have to do with anything?

"We got Rails," was the first thing Spot said to him when he answered the phone.

"This could be bugged," Racetrack mused, sitting down and pulling out a notebook.

"Is it?"

"It could be, is all I'm saying."

He could practically see Spot rolling his eyes all the way over in Brooklyn.

"Anyways, you get Snitch?"

Racetrack hummed and murmured an affirmative, doodling little circles in the margins of the paper.

"Good, then we're set."

"Oh? When did Cat get Queens set up?"

"Just earlier. Literally an hour or two before you got it finished."

"That'll be suspicious."

"Nah," he could feel Spot smirking from across the radio waves, "Queens was suicide."

"Still… All of them in the span of three days?"

He heard Spot sigh from the other end and smirked the slightest bit. It was never really his intention to get on Spot's nerves, but he liked it when it happened.

"You worry too much, 'Track. You gotta chill out, you know? Hang out at one of your clubs or something."

Racetrack barked out a laugh.

"I think I'd have more luck relaxing while listening to Jack."

"Point."

He paused and Race imagined him deliberating with himself, eyes scrunched and face constipated looking.

"Come on down to Brooklyn, yeah? You, me, a couple of your guys, a couple of mine. We'll play a few rounds."

Race grinned. Indeed.

"Be there at eight," he said, laughing as he heard an 'I'm going to regret this,' before Spot hung up.

This would be fun.

"So, who were you?"

"No one important."

Police chief Avery Anderson sighed and gestured for the microphones to turn off.

"We can't do anything if you don't tell us anything," he said, giving a look to the kid, trying to get him to understand.

"I was a courier, that's all," the kid replied, wringing his hands.

"Snipeshooter. May I call you that?"

Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

"Snipeshooter, you came to us, the police, because you said you had information on the mob. We can't do anything for you unless you tell us your information. Got it?"

Snipeshooter nodded and looked up at Avery, tilting his head slightly.

"Can I talk to the chief?" he asked, voice young and scared.

"I am the chief."

And Snipeshooter started talking.

"Bad news, boys, we got a leak."

Spot turned from his cards and looked up at Race, who was texting furiously.

'How'd you figure that?"

"Raid. One of our warehouses."

"Shit, which one?" Spot asked, biting his lip the slightest bit— because of the news or his cards, Race didn't know.

"Down on 14th," race muttered, finally sitting down and rubbing unconsciously at his jaw.

"That's one of the best."

Racetrack nodded and tapped his fingers, wanting to be let into the next round.

"Who was it?"

"The leak?"

"No, the fuckin' Dali Lama. Of course the leak, 'Track."

"Snipeshooter."

Spot started to reply, then got a confused look.

"Never heard of him."

"He's a fucking courier, that's why."

And Spot started laughing. Mostly in pure humor, but a little bit of wariness as well. Looked like they would need to get better checks on their couriers. Ah well, such was life. Little snitch.

"He get any time?" Skittery asked, his nose scrunching up as Blue dealt the next round— Skittery didn't have the best poker face.

"Nah," Race replied, lighting a cigarette.

"Will anyone notice if he goes missing?"

Race smirked and shook his head.

"You wanna take care of that personally, Skitts?" he asked, folding his hand and then raising his eyebrow at the taller man.

Skittery nodded and declined the cigarette offered to him, as always.

"It'll be done by the end of the week. I have a couple of projects I have to do beforehand."

Race hummed and grinned as Skittery won the hand.

"Looks like your lucky week, eh, Skitts?"

"Seems to be."

"Just don't make it obvious, yeah?" Spot chimed in, dealing the next hand out.

"When do I ever?"

Snitch sighed and shook his head, looking at the plans in his hand. Fuck if he knew what to do with all this. There was just so much of it, and none of it made any sense.

"Hey, Racetrack," he mumbled into the phone as the phone clicked over, "can I get someone to take a look at all of this shit?"

"Who?" Race asked, voice wary.

"My friend. He knows this shit like the back of his hand. You honestly expected I could do anything with this?"

'Well, I was hoping you would," he heard Race mumble, the phone receiving static as Racetrack sighed, "and who is it?"

"Itey Casellas."

"Oh, yeah, we've used him before."

He paused and Snitch could feel the smirk on his face.

"Not surprised you know him."

"I know everyone. Connections and everything."

Racetrack laughed on the other end, and even Snitch deigned to let out a small smile.

"And that's why we have you."

"And that's why, indeed," Snitch repeated, hanging up without any other pretence— time to get work done.