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Nathan Steele's eyes shot open to a blaring alarm on a warm summer morning, his position the same as when he drifted to sleep the night prior. He rolled over and checked the time. Seven AM precisely. Presently he slid out of bed and began his morning routine. Steele is a very methodical man, preferring to have a plan or system in place for everything, and to have everything follow this plan or system. He had a motto. "Everything has a place, and everything should be in its place."
In reality, his motto went something along the lines of "They'll regret the day that they fucked with the PAYDAY Gang!" caused in part by his being a member of the aforementioned gang. Mr. Steele is his name, yes, but it is just that, a name. Nathan Steele, codename Dallas, is the crew head and mastermind of the infamous PAYDAY gang. For the remainder of this tale, we can call him Dallas to keep it simple.
On any other day, Dallas-after showering, eating a slice of toast, brushing his teeth, and leaving his house at precisely seven fifteen-would normally go to the PAYDAY crew's safe house underneath an abandoned laundromat that he didn't care to know the name of. But the crew had offered him a day off from planning their next big heist on Harvis and Trustee bank (you'd think they would have beefed up security by now.). So Dallas had to resume his secret identity of Nathan Steele and go to his boring, mundane, and moreover ironic old day job working at none other than A FREAKING BANK.
Dallas always found it silly that this was his cover. He only checked back here to manage this bank every few days, claiming he was always on some business trip. When he wasn't busy in the safe house planning the next big job or risking his life in the crossfire of SWAT bullets, he had to go here. And file paperwork. And slowly wither away. God, he hated this job.
He really did. Dallas longed to be out on the battlefield, firing away at some goody two shoes law enforcer, taking hostages, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who lived to see four freaks in clown masks and suits taking the money that rightfully belonged to them. Paperwork was dull, unless it involved a heart discussion with Bain about where the contact would drop the drill.
Dallas strutted out of his office, waving off his secretary and a few interns, walking down the stairs to the main lobby. He had had enough paperwork. He had to move. It was a nice place, he had to give it that. Marble pillars, granite countertops, polished tile floors. Good stuff. If he didn't work here, he might consider putting a job on this place.
Dallas began to walk back up the stairs, but someone walking in caught his eye. Rather, some people. The men were dressed almost as sharply as he. Two piece suits, nice shoes, all holding different briefcases, and Dallas caught a hint of foreign cologne from one of them. Swedish cologne. Dallas gritted his teeth and walked as calmly as possible over to the three men.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, may I help you today? What brings you by here today?" Dallas growled as he clapped Wolf on the shoulder. Wolf winced and chuckled softly. Dallas shot a cold, knowing glace to his team. Wolf, Chains, and Hoxton were all standing here, with mixed expressions and visible emotions. Hoxton was doing his best to contain a snicker, Chains was stone faced as usual, and Wolf was practically giddy that Dallas noticed him. Fucking Wolf. "Sorry about this, min van. But we came on business." Before Dallas could get a word in, he felt the cold metal of a silencer press against his stomach. He said nothing, and simply stared at Hoxton, who could barely contain himself. "Oi, the look on your fucking face. Priceless."
Hoxton, Chains, and Wolf all pulled their masks out of their suit pockets and slipped them on. Before anyone could scream, Wolf rushed to the bank counter, jumped on top of it, and fired a few shots in the air with his pistol. NOW began the screaming. Wolf cackled like a madman and screeched at the bankgoers to kiss the dirt. Hoxton ordered Chains to go put on his armor, and Shoved the piston harder in Dallas's stomach. Dallas couldn't see it through the mask, but he knew Hoxton was smirking like a cocky asshole. Dallas made a note to punch him later. For now, he had to play the victim.
Dallas felt the gun being shoved harder into his stomach. "Oi, you, get moving!" Hoxton said with another shove. Dallas reluctantly placed his hand above his head and resigned. "Alright," He grumbled. "I'm your hostage."
Hoxton, Wolf and Chains had everyone tied down and crammed in Dallas' office in a little under ten minutes. Everyone, of course except for Dallas. He was escorted by the team as their 'personal escort' as Chains liked to call it. Wolf called him a tour guide. Hoxton called him a prick. Either way, Dallas didn't like it. Dallas had led them to the banks vault under orders of Hoxton, where Wolf promptly set up a drill. After he was done, Dallas heard bullets riddle the lobby. The police were here. Hoxton ordered Chains to go hold them off, and Chains responded with a nod, and off he went.
For once, Dallas didn't hate that the police were on the scene. On the other hand, it was still his crew.
Oh well.
"So," Dallas muttered. "Whose idea was this job? I bet is was Hox, wasn't it?" Dallas grumbled. It had to be. Only Hoxton was that sadistic and cruel, especially on his day off. Didn't he work hard enough?
Wolf just laughed while he tinkered with the drill. "Actually, it was Bain. He thought it would be funny. Want me to patch him in to you?"
Dallas stewed in his rage for a moment, then shook his head. "Fuck him. I've got nothing to do with this job, so I have no reason to talk to that asshole." He responded coldly. Wolf tilted his head in confusion, then shrugged. "Your choice, I guess." He muttered something in Swedish, but Dallas didn't care to try and make it out or ask for clarification. He was a little busy being pissed.
The steady whir of the drill piercing metal filled the room, save for the occasional clank of when it broke. When that happened, Wolf cursed loudly, sometimes in Swedish, sometimes in English. Dallas could occasionally hear the dampened sound of gunfire from a level above him, and hoped it wasn't his crew getting shot. Although secretly, he sort of was hoping that. Just a little. Not that he'd admit it.
Frankly, these cable ties we're very grating. They bit into his skin the more he struggled, and the less he struggled the more uncomfortable he got. He made a mental note to tie people more thoroughly and gentler next time.
The quiet of the room left Dallas to do some thinking. Bain, of all people, decided to pull a prank? This wasn't like him. And who could have possibly planned this job? Dallas always works with Bain to plan the jobs. It's what he did. All of their planning, down to the last detail. Sometimes he and Bain even planned for what they liked to call 'Wolf-ups', in which Wolf would do something wildly unpredictable and stupid, and possibly endanger the mission. How could Bain betray him like this? And who planned this job? He had to know.
"Hey, Wolf." Dallas muttered. Wolfs head shot up from the drill he was fixing. "Yeah?" Wolf asked.
"Let's get one thing straight. I plan the jobs, I keep you guys going, I come up with the plans. So who the hell could you possibly get to replace me?!" Dallas spat at Wolf. Wolf seemed to flinch at Dallas' harsh words, but Dallas couldn't tell.
Wolf spoke almost timidly. "Well, it was Huston and Bain who did the planning and sneaky bits.."
"Huston, of course. Backstabbing little prick. Remind me to kick his ass later." Dallas snorted. "Now who else is on the job with you? Is Huston sneaking around like the pansy he usually is?"
Wolf chuckled. "Actually, I called in a favor. You remember Jacket, right? From the Miami job?"
Dallas' jaw hit the floor. "Jacket? That...T-that psychopath? HE'S my replacement?" Dallas stammered.
In that moment, Jacket stuck his head in the doorway. Dallas looked over to him, and noticed something a little different about his usual chicken mask. Jacket had obviously had painted over it the night prior, because some of the paint hadn't set yet. Jacket had (or at least tried to) painted a crude American flag over the top of his mask, in obvious homage to Dallas' current mask. Dallas didn't know to be offended or flattered. He chose silence.
Jacket fumbled in his pocket for his tape recorder he used to communicate, ressed a few buttons, and eventually forced out a garbled 'Wolf..please assist me..lobby'. Dallas could practically see Wolf's eyes light up. Wolf hoisted up his shotgun, ejected a shell a la Hollywood, and ran off with Jacket. "I'll be back to keep you company later!" Wolf called. Joy.
Dallas had sat alone in the room for nearly a half hour. The drill maintained its steady hum, and had only broken down once. Did Dallas fix it? If he did, he would have never admitted to it. As he struggled again against the cable ties, he heard a rattling above him, like footsteps in an air duct.
A Cloaker unit dropped down from the air vent and quickly scanned his surroundings. His urban grey camo vest blended well with the light grey metal of the inner vaults shadows. Dallas' instinct told him to yell, and he almost did. But Nathan Steele had no idea what a Cloaker was, and probably wouldn't tell his friends either. So he sat in hushed silence.
The Cloaker turned to him slowly and methodically, an action that normally would have made Dallas piss himself. The Cloaker apparently had seen Dallas' fear, because he threw his head back and laughed. "Relax, civvie. I'm here to help." He put air quotes around 'civvie'. What was he playing at? The police unit laughed again.
"Don't look so confused. I know who you are, Dallas. I was up in in that vent for like, a half hour. Maybe you should practice keeping a secret identity a fucking secret."
Dallas' heart sank. "So, you've already told your superiors I bet?" He grumbled halfheartedly. The Cloaker shook his head. "You kidding? I hate using this fucking radio. It's the worst thing ever." Dallas had to agree with him there. The horrible warbling sound that came out of the headset that Cloakers wore had to be annoying for them too. Dallas sat up a bit. "So you aren't gonna tell your boss?"
"I'll tell my boss if I make it out alive today. But let's be honest. You see any Kevlar on this stupid suit I'm wearing? Honestly, what I wouldn't give to be trained as a Bulldozer. They never listen to orders anyway." The Cloaker began to exit the vault, when Dallas called to him. "Hey, aren't you gonna untie me?" He complained. The police unit laughed once more.
"You're still a criminal, aintcha? "
And he was gone. Dallas felt a little twinge of guilt.
Just a little.