Not One Step Back

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: Since this next chapter takes place in Boston, I'd like you to imagine the characters with the accents of said city. Because it will be too much trouble to spell the "ah" in words, like "pahtnah" instead of "partner". So just imagine they have the accents.

Also, no offense to anyone of any race when you read the mob chapters. I want to make that clear right now. I do not have anything against anyone. I'm making a story; this story does not reflect my feelings or opinions of anyone.

And also, I had this in mind before I found out Irish gangsters were going to be on the actual show, so I am not stealing. Although I am happy for the Irish being there, and give the Irish salute for the fallen members. IRISH REPRESENT, BITCHES!!!

Enjoy


J.T. Nelson

Boston, Massachusetts

Monday, November 7th, 2017 10:38 P.M.


It was the middle of the night in downtown Boston. Lights were out in the apartments; many people were fast asleep. And, unless something were to come by and disturb them, it was likely to remain that way-

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Barreling out of a back alley were two men, each with M92F handguns, both turning behind them and firing as they ran. Both were running as fast as they could, firing at an unseen enemy. One guy tripped over a box and fell forward, rolling over, and getting back up in time to fire three more bullets while his partner sprang ahead of him, no longer worrying about the fire.

When they reached their car, the first one skidded across the hood and landed on his feet on the other side as behind them, somewhere in the alleyway, there was a massive explosion, with a massive fiery mass that rocketed skyward accompanied with a devastating BOOM!

The first man, a rough guy with a shaved head and a full beard, whistled.

"Nice," was all he said, in a calm, mellow voice.

"Fuck," said the second one; a younger man with wild brown hair and a nervous face. He turned to his partner. "Ryan, let's get out of here, man."

"Easy," was the reply.

"Come on, man, they're right on our ass! Let's move!"

"We're not leaving without him, Tucker. So sit tight."

"How do you even know if he's alive?"

Ryan just gave him a look that was asking if he was retard or something.

"It's J.T., man," was all he answered with.

While these two were arguing, deep in the alleyway, another man was sprinting down the corridor. One arm was wrapped around a bulky carrying bag, and the other hand was clutching a .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun which he occasionally turned to fire at whoever was chasing him. His hair was wet, his face drenched with sweat, but he showed no sign of being tired. On the contrary, he looked like he was having fun.

He turned the corner and saw his two partners waiting for him. He began waving his arm frantically, trying to get their attention. Which he did.

"GO! GO!"

Ryan ducked his head under the hood and behind the wheel. Tucker opened the shotgun door, but was roughly pushed aside by the third member as he jumped in. Panicking, the younger partner dove into the back seat's open window just as the car began to pull away, gunning 60 mph down the empty highway.

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"You crazy mick! The hell were you doin'? You almost got us killed!" Tucker yelled as Ryan and the other man began their victory howls.

"Tuck, swear to God, you worry way too much," the third man answered, throwing a howl through the open window into the night air. "Live a little, buddy, if only a little."

J.T. Nelson was twenty-eight. He was tall and very skinny, with a long nose, hazel eyes, and messy black hair that stuck out at the sides and in back. He was born and raised Irish Catholic, and even though he rarely ever acted out the Catholic part, his Irish pride shown brighter than the rising sun. He had grown up in the "Southie Projects" of Boston, Massachusetts his whole life, knew every street corner and back alley there was, which is why he had become an essential role with the Irish Mob group that worked there.

And tonight, he had earned his bonus pay.

"Count your blessin's, boys, 'cause we're in the good tonight," Ryan proclaimed, counting up their loot while keeping one eye on the road. "Think Frank's gonna split some of it with us?" he joked.

"He'd better, cause I'll quit if he don't," J.T. retorted.

"Then he'd have to share," his friend laughed. "You're the best guy on the team he's got, and he knows it. He'd murder you before he'd let you go."

"That's not such a bad idea," Tucker mumbled from the backseat.

"Tuck," said J.T. with a groan, "you're new, so lemme explain a few simplicities to you. When we've got a job to do, we do it. No matter who gets shot, no matter who gets blown up. No matter who gets a fuckin' knife shoved so far up their ass it's piercing their brain, as long as it gets the job done, anything's fair game. You read me?"

The other man just shrugged. He was a recent arrival, just in from on-the-job training and already out from a big heist. J.T. didn't really mind him that much- when they went to the bar, get a couple whiskeys in him and he was good company- but his "play it safe" ways definitely got on his nerves at times, especially since their job was about as safe as playing chicken on the railroad tracks was.

J.T., on the other hand, had been an acting member of Frank Hannigan's crew since he had been a kid. His parents had been killed in a car accident at a young age, which had messed him up for months, and Frank had taken him under his wing as his guardian and mentor. It had turned him from a timid little kid to the fastest, toughest, most dedicated and most dangerous son of a bitch in all of South Boston.

Ryan leaned back in his seat and blew out smoke from his cigarette. He and J.T. had known each other since they were kids. Ryan's dad had been a member of the gang for years, and it was the kind of atmosphere he had been brought up in. The two kids had been partners since their first mission, and best friends for even longer. J.T. knew that he was a guy he could trust with his own life.

Lights down the street caused them to slow the car down. This was their destination. The plan was to get the money to Frank just as he was about to "wager" with a local gang boss that had been bringing trouble to their little group recently. The money wasn't a bribe, it was a going-away gift; as in, "take the money and go away, or we'll pop a few in your head." More than likely, it was going to be the latter. That was why the three of them were here; guns concealed in their sleeves, they could back Frank up if this thing got sour.

And somehow, these things always did seem to get sour.

--------------

For a man pushing past sixty, Frank Hannigan was pretty agile, and also pretty sharp. He could be facing five guns in his face at once, all cocked and ready to fire, and he wouldn't so much as blink. He'd just stand there, with that suave look on his face and that slick grin that gave everyone on his crew the impression that everything was under control. J.T. had never known anyone more fearless than him, and there wasn't a guy on the crew who didn't, in some way shape or form, admire the man and everything about him. He looked after his boys; they hadn't taken a loss in ten or so years, and even before that, casualties had been limited.

J.T., Ryan, and Tucker got out of the car and went inside, where their boss was waiting just outside the boardroom door. He looked at all of them through his dark glasses and gave them all a nod. He wasn't one for showing emotions, but J.T. knew they were his favorites. Him especially.

"You got the goods?" was all he asked, in his usual raspy Irish voice.

"Right here, Boss," Ryan handed over the bag with the stolen money to him.

Frank looked over the contents for a moment, then nodded and rolled the bag back up.

"Looks like you boys did another good job," he said. "Shall we proceed?"

He gestured towards the door. The three checked their sleeves to make sure their weapons were secured, and when they were, they nodded, and Frank opened the door leading into the room.

J.T. was right behind Tucker and was about to make his entrance when-

He looked around the wood-colored room, at the two bodyguards that stood on either side of the door, and twice at the closet door in the corner. Things were starting to get a little bit rougher now, and that usually lead to trouble. Yet, he couldn't sense any. Maybe he was wrong this time. He hoped he was, anyway.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hannigan," the Italian boss said, somewhat resentfully.

"Aren't I, though?" Frank flashed that little smirk, but this one was different; this was the smirk he usually flashed before things were about to get ugly. "It's a simple choice: get your gang together and leave town, or die. One or the other."

"Very amusing," his adversary replied. "But I have a better offer for you-"

BAM!

The closet door had come open, the gun was in the guy's hand, and smoke was coming out the muzzle. Frank fell to his knees, clutching the rapidly spreading pool of blood that was forming in his side. He looked up at the mob man, with a look of both resentment and shock on his face.

BAM! Another shot fired from the gun. The bullet passed through the side of Frank's head, through his brain, and out the other end, the blowback shooting out all over the wall. He slumped sideways, expired.

Then there was more shooting. From everywhere, it seemed. He looked around just as Ryan took a round that smashed square into his forehead, so hard steam came out the entrance. He watched as Tucker took one, two, three, more bullets to the chest and fall backwards, with blood bubbling out his mouth. He slid to the floor and, as if on cue, the window drapes fell on his dead form to cover him up.

He was shaking, that was how afraid he was. And then he was consciously aware of the gun that had been raised again, this time in his direction. He wanted to raise his own gun to return fire, but his arm felt like lead. He closed his eyes as he heard the gun click.

BAM!

"Oye! J.T.!"

J.T. snapped out of the thought (or was it a daydream?) and looked up. Tucker motioned him to hurry up, looking impatient.

"C'mon, man, he's waiting on us!"

He shook his head just to clear it. What the hell was that? It was rare for him to dream on the job, especially that kind of dream. Was he losing it? He didn't lose it; he was strict on that fact. It was just a fucked-up daydream. He scolded himself mentally for daydreaming on the job, and followed Tucker into the room.

Upon entering, however, he stopped dead again.

Daydreaming on the job was one thing, but how the HELL did he know what the room was going to look like before he had even seen the place? The light-brown wood walls that looked like the inside of a log cabin; the two guys standing at the entrance; and that closet door in the corner, where right behind was…

The room was real. Would the rest be real too?

"Mr. Hannigan." And right at the chair was that skinny-ass guinea mob leader that Frank had been talking to right before he had been "plugged". "A pleasure of you to join us tonight."

"It's always a pleasure doing business," Frank replied, smooth as silk. "Even though the people I do the business with aren't always as much so."

That was how Frank worked; he said what was on his mind, and said it as politely as he could. He dropped the money right in front of the mob man and stood back.

"What's this?" the man asked.

"Think of it as a little…going away gift," replied Frank.

"Going away? I was not aware I was going anywhere."

"Then let me explain to you." As he spoke, he walked around the table, like a lion stalking his prey. "For the past three months, you've been operating drug deals on our turf. Irish turf, I might add. Maybe you didn't get the memo, maybe you thought it would be OK, or maybe you're just being an ignorant fuck. I honestly can't know."

The two men by the door stiffened, but their boss held up his hand to silence them. His face was growing red with anger, and J.T., for the first time, felt uneasy. He again looked at the door, almost feeling that person behind the door.

"At first I found it amusing. But then I just found it annoying. And for some reason, no matter how many of your boys I've sent back to you in a body bag, you just don't learn the lesson," Frank stopped again in front of the desk. "So I'm gonna make this simple: that money is for your troubles. If you don't leave, we kill you. If you take it, and don't leave, we kill you. You take it, and you never bring your dirty ass on my turf again, you're free to go."

J.T. looked around at the wood-colored room, at the two guys standing at the door, and then twice more over the door. And right then, he caught himself. This was it. The moment right before all hell broke loose. And this time, he knew things were going to get bad. And he knew just how bad.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hannigan," the Italian boss said, somewhat resentfully.

"Aren't I, though?" Frank flashed that little smirk, but this one was different; this was the smirk he usually flashed before things were about to get ugly. "It's a simple choice: get your gang together and leave town, or die. One or the other."

"Very amusing," his adversary replied. "But I have a better offer-"

BAM! BAM! BAM!

J.T. didn't wait. He didn't bother waiting. Before the guy could get out the rest of his sentence, he had slid out his Desert Eagle and pumped three rounds into the closet door. The movement caused the two men at the door to pull out their guns, but quick as a flash, Ryan and Tucker had their guns out and pointed at them. Everyone stood completely still, looking right at J.T., who instantly wondered if he had done the right thing or if he had just fucked things up for everybody. It had been a stupid daydream. Had he really given up their lives for-

BANG!

The closet door was open, and the guy inside fell face-first onto the ground, and the gun fell out of his hand and lay on the floor. Pools of blood began forming underneath his dead form. J.T. felt Ryan and Tucker give each other shocked looks, but when he looked at Frank, he was still staring at the Italian boss, who had gone from beet red to pale white.

"Well, well, well," he said, and as he said it, he pulled his own six-gun out of his pocket. "Looks like this changes the outcome of this scenario, wouldn't you say?"

"Please…wait-"

BAM!

One bullet later, and the Italian boss slumped back in his chair with his brains completely gone. Two more shots fired and both of his bodyguards were on the floor, Tucker and Ryan standing over them with smoking guns. Frank stepped over and grabbed the money bag off the desk, taking one more look at his handiwork.

"I'd say a successful job well done," he said, turning to his men. "Shall we retire, and leave this mess for the pigs?"

He walked out, not looking over or saying any other words, but J.T. had the distinct feeling his eyes were on him as he walked out the door. As he left, Ryan went over to him with an urgent look on his face.

"How the hell did you know about that guy?" he demanded.

J.T. looked down at the man he had killed; killed because he had been hidden, waiting for the perfect moment to kill him. And the only reason he had known him to be there…was because he had imagined it to have happened.

"Lucky guess…"


Main character No. 3. Just one more main, and then we can really dive right in.

Read, review, peace out 'til next time.