"1600 Penn. Maybe we go there for our next big score"
Those words, spoken by Bain during a framing job relatively early into PAYDAY gang's reign of terror upon the state of Washington, turned out to be prophetic several years down the line. The man himself had said so as much, but without the usual fire, or at least with as much fire as he could muster while fighting a losing battle against the virus within – courtesy of his extended stay at one of Kataru's facilities. The secret society's schemes and actions had thrown not just a wrench, but an entire fucking toolbox into the plans of the PAYDAY gang. Enough to push them into the desperate measures territory - assaulting the White House.
This was truly shaping up to be a last-stand type of job – the clowns would become dead to the world if they were to pull this off (and it was a Big if), or they would be dead quite literally in the event of failure. Either way, the PAYDAY gang would cease to exist.
It is with that fatalist notion, Houston recalled, that they set their final plan in motion. Unlike before, where the majority of the gang would stay at the safehouse in case of a possible police raid (a risky thing to do, sure, but everyone had just enough bullets and faith in eachother to pull successful defenses off) while the select few would move out on the jobs, this time, every active member was involved, one way or another. Per Locke's and Bain's mutual brainstormed plan, the gang was to split up into three different groups.
The first group, consisting of Sangres, Sydney, Clover and Sokol, started out days before the planned assault, heading out South, towards Mexico – partly to set up a foothold there for the rest of the gang to retreat in case things went even more south, but mostly it was to disrupt Murkywater's operations, divert their attentions elsewhere, and – most importantly – grab several sets of PMC-issued and, more importantly, unregistered sets of armor. From Locke's words, after the disaster that was the Henry's Rock Heist, the Murkywater started using some sort of technology (later it turned out to be a highly sophisticated bar code, of all things), to tie the wearer's identity to that particular set of armor. At even the slightest hint of incompatibility, the unfortunate wearer would be royally screwed; which is what made these unmarked sets particularly valuable.
The second group – John Wick, Dragan, Jacket, Bodhi, Bonnie, Jimmy and Tony "Scarface" – was tasked with removing as many loose ends from all of the older dealings with other criminal groups, wrapping things up so to speak.
Tony and Dragan would be striking a crushing blow against the remnants of the Sosa Cartel and their new leader before they could enact some kind of a revenge plan. Bodhi, with the help of Bonnie, would wipe what remained of the Hector the Rat's Sinaloan Cartel, who have been recently making some shady moves, dropping themselves right on Bain's radar – right before Bain disappeared from all the radars himself; Bodhi despised drugs and anything related to them (which is why he and Jimmy never really got along), would refuse to participate in any kind of drug-running (mostly drug-stealing) operation and would jump at an opportunity to do just the opposite; Bonnie, meanwhile, had put a target on her back a long time ago by ratting some crucial info about Hector, so it was only natural.
Wick was tasked with perhaps the second most difficult task – assisting John "The Elephant" Simmons, a corrupt politician and a disgraced member of the Kataru, by disposing of several high profile targets - including a District Attorney and a rather power-hungry judge with ties to the Kataru - for him to replace with his own people; all of this as much for Elephant's own safety as PAYDAY gang's. Naturally, with such high-profile murders Wick would gain a lot of heat from all over the place – the ZEAL team and almost certainly several squads of Murkywater troops – on the "hidden" orders of "Kataru dwankies", of course; obviously, John, even with all his impeccable goon termination skills and even Elephant's subtle backing, would be in serious trouble. But hey, that's what Jimmy was there for – pure cop-murdering energy, especially since he ran out of coke a few days prior and was bound to be in a state of withdrawal-induced frenzy. Not the most reliable of assets, but beggars could really not be choosers.
With all that was at stake, nobody would really mind if Wick and Jimmy decided to unwind afterwards by helping Jacket – who has volunteered for his part of the plan, of course - assault several main Russian Mafia holdouts (which has recovered since the Commissar's death and has since been gaining quite a lot of traction again – Locke suspected it was Kataru's meddling once more, but even if not, they were bound to retaliate sooner or later if left unchecked).
Joy, not being part of any group, was delegated to assist Locke by coordinating everyone else from the comfort of her van at the safehouse, where Aldstone and Jiro (still grieving the death of his son) had been making preparations to move the absolutely ridiculous amounts of cash out, and leave the place utterly devoid of anything that could be pointed back to the PAYDAY gang.
No loose ends.
With Dragan and Tony leaving at the same time as the first group to wrap up their own tasks, then return to later assist the other groups where possible, it was as much of a loose end operation as it was a red herring one, aimed to put D.C in a state of chaos and hopefully divert some heat off the third group – the biggest one, and the one who would be at the center of it all. All of the OG's – Dallas, Hoxton, Chains, Wolf, plus Houston himself, Rust and finally Duke. They were the one intending to take the Oval Office by storm, they would be fighting through the stalwart defenses of Murkywater (even more so now, when a string of emergencies, coupled with a "surprising" disappearance of the POTUS himself, had triggered a lockdown on pretty much all government objects within the state, practically giving the damned PMC free reign – it needed not be said whose plan this was), they were the ones carrying this mission into success, or oblivion.
No pressure. No pressure at all.
The plan was a rather classic Trojan Horse play: calling the very last of his favors within the few contacts in Murkywater bearing some loyalty (or being indebted) to him, Locke managed to cheat his way into the White House, having one the crews be "reassigned" and later most likely sent against the rising heat in the city, and the stolen armor sets be given new, false identities. To the Murky personnel, it would look like an ordinary supply run, with the crew on-board handing off several boxes of military-grade hardware to those within the facility, then moving on to patrols and sentry duty. What hopefully would not be discovered (for some time, at least) was how the crew members were 6 of the most wanted criminals within the United States, or how one of the crates, instead of having belts and boxes of 5.56x45mm ammunition instead contained the 7th.
So this was where Houston was – stuck inside a wooden ammo-coffin with armaments of his own and an oxygen tank to ensure he wouldn't have a problem, listening to the nervous chatter between six of his comrades, Locke and Bain, trying to calm himself as well. This wasn't just some run-of-the-mill warehouse looting. Houston, as the gang's resident Ghost been given perhaps the hardest task of all: quietly infiltrate the interior of the White House, scout the premises and look for a way into the PEOC. What made his job even harder was the fact that he'd actually have to stay invisible – guards inside had their own uniforms with their own identity tags and would instantly be put on alert if they found some Murky grunt in generic grunt armor waddling about; not to mention, per Locke's information, those inside were some of the most skilled and trustworthy operators the company had to offer, so even with a registered uniform, blending in would be nigh-impossible.
Thus, the only option left on the table was being undetected completely. Houston knew what he was in for: he'd have to find a way into the PEOC (Oval Office was the most likely candidate to have some sort of info on how to accomplish that) and open it. PEOC, besides being an impenetrable bunker, contained a vault full of presidential pardons, all pre-signed – a literal get-out-of-jail-free card. They were an additional part of this mess of a plan. In an ideal world, Houston would be able to open both the bunker and the vault, make his way outside, change into another Murkywater uniform hidden in the very same box he'd come in and play his role of a soldier-for-hire, waiting for Locke to bring yet another chopper full of "supplies" - this time with Bain among them.
That's right – the Big Boss himself was part of this job: in his incapacitated state, he would somehow have to be transported into the ancient catacombs below the White House, into some sort of a magical chamber, where, as Sydney herself very eloquently put it, "retarded magical shit" would happen. Being stuck in a box with nothing but his own breathing and faint voices of his comrades from outside, the Ghost could only ponder at the sheer scale of what they were doing. The ancient magical device underground – the only one of its kind left, apparently, granted the ability to relocate the human conscience – spirit, in a way – from one body to another. In layman's terms, if you were dying of old age, you could effectively cheat death by leaving your old, frail body behind, instead embracing new, hopefully healthy one – avoiding the Reaper for as long as you could both get to the resurrection chamber AND had some magic-imbued Mayan Gold to power the device.
The same device Mr. Dentist – one of the men behind the shady society – used to resurrect himself over and over for centuries; the same device Bain hoped to use to "assume" the mantle of the currently missing POTUS – Dentist's obvious next target for reincarnation as well.
They were planning to steal an entire country; not just a country, but a powerhouse on the global scene. Truly, the greatest heist of all.
But of course, all of that was planned if Houston was to remain undetected throughout the entire ordeal. That was the best case scenario, a.k.a something that would never happen. Nobody really expected the man to be able to pull this off through to the end; there were just too many unknown variables and complications in the way for that. Perhaps it would be possible, Houston thought, with the help of Clover, a fellow stealth and subterfuge artist (and overall a pleasant company), but it wasn't meant to be. A solid 50% of the Plan B would be improvisation – a deadly affair in this kind of business.
"Oi, twat? Ye still alive in that little fuckbox?"
Hoxton's voice interrupted Houston's internal debate, and he gave a single thump to indicate that he was conscious and well. His original line of thinking interrupted, Houston's thoughts went to the very person who'd interrupted them.
Jim "Hoxton" Hoxworth, 34 years old. Street-smart, great shot, great brawler and an absolute pain in Houston's ass ever since the Breakout. The Original Trio said that the circumstances of his arrest, and his incarceration had made him, in a single word, "salty"; Houston thought "whiny prison wife" was a much more accurate description, but to each their own. While their teamwork on the occasions they ended up being parts of the same crew was excellent – it had to be - their relationship outside of combat was anything but. Their rivalry and absolute disdain for each other had become somewhat of a joke within the PAYDAY gang (much to the dismay of Dallas, who'd tried to act as a mediator on several occasions, failing each time), and it was practically a rite of passage for any newbie joining the crew to witness one of the more "explosive" disputes between the two.
Those came to an end when finally, after the damned Reservoir Dogs job, with tensions running sky high, Houston finally cracked and broke his rival's jaw with one swift karate jab. Hoxton wasn't speaking for a week, and when he was finally able to, Dallas had practically forced them to talk "like adults and not oversized monkeys throwing shit piles at each other". He had barely left the room when the Brit had dropped into a boxer's stance and told Houston to try socking him in the jaw again. Their brawl, obviously captured on cameras by Clover's keen eyes, ended when neither could keep standing; Houston felt like he had been body-slammed by a fucking squad of Bulldozers, while Hoxton had been seriously afraid of having his jaw broken for a second time so quickly. After that bout, Brit's insults, while not stopping, lacked their usual bite, so Houston thought it only fair to tone down button-pushing from his side as well. Dallas had been pretty pissed off his offered method of talking things through wasn't taken, but he really should've known better.
Ah yes. Dallas, the man himself, The American Clown, the mask that everybody fears. The face of PAYDAY gang…and Houston's big brother. Within the crew, they were the only ones to be related by blood. It was said that familial bonds could be as much a curse on the battlefield as they could be a blessing off it; such a shame, then, that the "blessing" wore the face of deeply dividing mistrust between the two. Mistrust caused by the older sibling.
You see, before Dallas and Houston, there were Nathan and Derek Steele - happy-go-lucky brothers, pride of their parents, a decorated soldier and an honest, hard-working woman. The picturesque American Family, living the American Dream. Too bad dreams had a nasty habit of turning into nightmares in an instant. In the Steele family's case, the turning point was when the head of the family came back from his tour of duty in the Middle East in a coffin.
All it took was one bad day for Mrs. Steele to go from a married woman to a grieving widow, now with the added struggles to keep herself and her two children above proverbial waters of life. Struggles that had only gotten worse when Nathan - the eldest brother, next in line for being "head" of the family - suddenly disappeared, having left his hometown and his poor family behind in hopes of making it big in the city of Chicago, where his criminal mastermind would be born.
That just left Derek and his mom. Nathan's sudden departure had hit both of them hard, and poor young Derek was forced to step up his game, both to keep the family floating, and to keep indulging in the spoiled lifestyle he'd become so accustomed to. Jobs hadn't worked out: he was either too inexperienced, or expected a much bigger pay. They had given way to loans and loansharks, but it was as temporary of a reprieve as one could be: a moment of reaching cloud-high on a pile of cash, only to hit rock bottom as the pile burned away.
Backed into a corner by ever-increasing debts, Derek was left with one last option: crime. What started as a streak of meticulously planned (and much less perfectly executed) muggings and burglaries culminated in his first major felony: a successful break-in and theft of a large amount of Giovanni jewels from a local store, along with his first ever instance of murder. That put him on the radar of both the police and local criminals; it wasn't often somebody pulled a heist of that magnitude while riding solo.
He was 24 back then, and the stakes had gotten bigger ever since. Playing in the big leagues, you had to learn the rules and do it fast; lucky for him, Derek was a really good learner when he put his mind to it. These lessons would help him get away with quite a lot of jobs over the next several years - even occasional armed standoffs with the police, where several layers of contingencies for every occassion helped to keep him safe.
People often speak of perfectionism as a curse, a flawed trait of character. In Derek's chosen field of work? It was nothing but a blessing.
His "work" throughout the state of Texas continued uninterrupted for several years; strings of robberies and (mostly) low-profile thefts and long periods of lying low and enjoying the rather luxurious lifestyle along with his mother. Mrs. Steele had passed away in that time period, and while Derek was undoubtedly sad, he was at least glad that his Mom could at last relax from years of stress and heartbreak. Her quietly leaving him behind so much better than the shock of finding out that her son was a criminal.
Not long after, he'd gotten an email from someone called "Bain" - stating that he was looking for someone with experience in "waste retrieval and disposal". He'd decided to get in contact, well aware that this could be a set-up.
But no. This was his ticket into the PAYDAY gang - a crew of masked clown robbers making a name for themselves with a string on high-profile, high-octane robberies. They'd lost a member and were looking for both a replacement and an infiltration specialist for future jobs. Houston fit both of those criteria to join the crew perfectly.
Imagine his surprise when the leader of said crew, Dallas, was none other than his long-lost brother Nathan. Imagine his shock when his older brother refused to acknowledge that he'd done anything wrong, stating that "he'd come back with boat loads of cash"...eventually.
How could someone so criminally smart be so deluded at the same time?
It didn't matter that much in the end. Derek was accepted into the crew (even with natural mistrust from the other two members), and on that night the that day he became Hoxton, until the original one returned, where he promptly chose his hometown as new alias.
The Steele family was effectively no more. There were only Dallas, Chains, Hoxton and Wolf.
(Houston found it hypocritical, ironic, funny - all of them at the same time, really - that Dallas, of all people had started slowly getting regretful of his chosen lifestyle over time, and even had sheer audacity to start subtly trying to talk Houston out of it. Did he really expect his words to carry any weight, after what he'd done? Besides Houston, not being an idiot or an easily recognizable British chump, was able to make the most of his fortune inbetween the heists - all with very little heat. There simply wasn't any reason to stop.)
Right before this job, Dallas had pulled Houston aside, to try and finally apologize for his past mistakes. Understandable, given the fact that this may very well have been the last time they would talk as brothers, not as partners-in-crime, but ultimately worthless - the damage has been dealt; the wound had healed, but the scars were to stay. The sentiment had been nice, if anything.
Houston would probably continue to think like that, uninterrupted, if not for sudden turbulence shaking the helicopter, bringing him back. Didn't take long for the usual on-board banter between all crew members (bar him) to come back; that is, until Rust, rather quiet until this moment, spoke up:
"Alright you fucks, I get the general shape of our plan. But what's gonna happen if Wonder Boy here doesn't pull off the entire staying quiet scenario out of his ass? I would fucking love to clarify that before we land."
"Relax, Rust," Locke piped in. "The plan doesn't change too much, just that there'll be a lot more shooting and a lot less sneaking involved. You four," he pointed in the approximate direction of Dallas, Hoxton, Chains and Wolf, "will have to make a lot of noise. Make sure Murkies keep their eyes on you, yeah? You'll probably have to break into the PEOC and make a show of stealing presidential pardons inside the vault there - divert their attention from our real intentions, at least for a little while. I guarantee Murkywater's got some sort of anti-air defense system set up and ready in case of an alarm, so you'll have to take care of that too, then escort me and Bain while we get to the underground facility below the bunker. This won't be easy of and when it goes loud."
"When's it ever been easy?" Bain's weak voice could be heard. "I would say I'm sorry for *cough* dragging you guys into this mess, but I'm not - I'm just sorry it's gotten this bad.."
"Ah, don't worry about it Bain. There's still a real chance to salvage this. Now, you friends," he started, pointing to where Duke and Rust were sitting, "you'll be playing the "wolves among sheep" part. If the alarm gets set off, do your best to keep your cover, ok? You gotta look like you belong there. I'm not saying to start firing on the main crew," he gestured vaguely in the direction of said crew again, "but make sure you're not under suspicion; and while you're at it, try and see if you can sabotage Murkywater efforts in some way, like, say, "accidentally" driving a Humvee into an entrance to cut the reinforcements off. Small things like that, yeah?"
After getting affirmative grunts from all over, he continued. "Only drop your cover if you think you've been made, or if the main crew is having some serious trouble. Also, while they're doing the whole "red herring" act, you'll need to get into PEOC as well and see if you can get access to the resurrection device ahead of time. I was told accessing it can potentially take a lot of time, so it's imperative we move fast."
"Now, Hous-" Locke suddenly stopped talking. "Friend, are you okay in there? That box doesn't look comfortable." The tiny amount of mirth in his voice betrayed the fact that the ex-Murky wasn't serious in his concern.
Fucking hell, they were going crack jokes at his expense now? Houston hoped his "fuck you" was a good enough indicator that he was alive, well and not very pleased with the path their conversation was currently taking; judging by the sounds of muffled laughter, that was the case.
"Glad to hear you're still with us," Locke continued unaffected. "I've got an update for all of you: Joy's managed to fish out an extra bit of info; apparently, the access to PEOC requires a keycard of some sorts. Betting my underwear it's being kept somewhere in the Oval Office, so that's where you'll need to check first. That applies to all of you, in case shit hits the fan fast.
"If you manage to get into the bunker undetected, make sure to get some C4 on the catacombs entrance." Houston listened attentively as Locke kept going. "The blueprints Bain showed me indicate there's supposed to be a walled up entrance somewhere in the briefing room on the first floor, so be sure to check that out. Oh, and while you're down there, see if you can find any way to open the vault; might make the distraction crew's job easier. Y' got it, friend?"
"I'm good."
"You better be, Houston, we can't muck this kak up." There was a pause, before the chopper suddenly jerked and started slowing down - they were landing. "I'm setting us down near the South Portico. Remember gents: act like you belong here, and may the God help us just this once".
A divine intervention was just about the thing they needed right now, indeed.
Started writing this story lasy year's October, back when I was super hot on playing PAYDAY (especially trying to beat the Lag House solo). It was supposed to make sense of the pretty dumb plan that is in the actual heist, but I had completely lost the thread to that along the way, dropping this for a good 5 months. However, I'm actually really pleased with how this first part turned out, so I might as well publish it as a stand-alone.
It's like a finished unfinished work.