Several small crime families had reared their heads with displays of power in the wake of what happened with the Santinis. Len had even bankrolled a few, just to stir things up, see who came out on top, who had the potential to keep things fun. Len preferred having a hand in everything that went on in his city.

But some people…some people never learned. Some people took one look at Len and Lisa Snart, even if Mick was looming beside them, and thought they could be dismissed, all talk, just two pretty faces with grand words and gestures that weren't to be taken seriously—like they were laughable.

Len always laughed along…right up until he shot someone in the face.

So it wasn't surprising that some of those families that owed him for their current rise to power in certain neighborhoods had gotten cocky, thinking maybe they didn't need to pay him back, keep him looped in to what they were doing, who they were hitting, or how much money they were pulling. Just bad sportsmanship, really.

The Mendozas were the mark Len decided on though. He didn't like the way the oldest son had eyed Lisa the last time they were in the family's company. Apparently he'd informed Lisa while Len was…away the past few days that if she wanted their money she'd have to come in person to claim it. Len intended to take up that challenge.

Len, Lisa, and Mick against a two story building—garage for dismantling hot cars on the bottom, and offices and storerooms for gun trafficking at the top—with a good dozen men inside, all armed. It was Len's kind of fun, and his favorite odds; he liked to spread the love around.

And just their luck, there were only three exits on the bottom floor, so the men unlucky enough to be downstairs had nowhere to run when they entered all at once from all sides.

They had exactly nine minutes, forty-five seconds to take the building before CCPD would be on their way once fire started spreading—and it would. A fire station was only a few blocks down, and this was not the kind of neighborhood that sort of thing went unchecked, especially in the middle of the day.

Len iced the arm of the first man who pulled a gun—he screamed. Glorious.

"I'm here to see your boss," Len announced as he trained his cold gun on the next guy over, the one he'd shot falling to his knees in agony, while two others raised their hands in the air at the sight of Lisa and Mick. "I heard he's planning to keep all my cold hard cash for himself. Now I just think that's a little frigid, don't you?" he smirked. God, he'd missed this.

The idiot in Mick's sights tried to run for it. Bad idea. Mick roared and set him ablaze in seconds. The sight of the man on fire, whirling about wildly in attempts to save himself…settled something oddly sour in Len's stomach. He iced the guy to put him out. Wouldn't want to risk him setting any of them on fire, after all.

"Anyone else?" Len asked, raising an eyebrow that only just arched above his shades. He couldn't wear the goggles until his stitches dissolved, but the blue-tinted sunglasses looked better with his suit and trench anyway.

The last two men remained stationary, eyeing the Rogues warily. Finally, one of them shouted, "Upstairs! Last door on the left!"

"Much obliged," Len called, and made to ice the man's legs.

Lisa fired first, turning him into a hardened statue. Len's gut clenched.

The final man sprinted toward him, apparently deciding that his gun was the lesser of three evils. Len fired at the floor, causing the man to slip and tumble, and as he slid swiftly closer, Len sidestepped and kicked him in the face on his way past, knocking him out cold. Then Len marched around the patch of ice he'd left behind and jabbed the butt of his gun into the face of the man still howling over his frozen arm.

When Len looked up at Mick and Lisa, they were eyeing each other curiously.

"Come on," Len snarled, storming past them for the stairs. "Seven minutes, fifteen seconds. I'm saving the real fun for Mendoza."

A small part of Len feared that his hands would start to shake even while holding his cold gun, as he stomped up the stairs, fully expecting those on the floor above to have heard the commotion and be ready with weapons aimed at the door. But the tremors didn't appear, and as long as they stayed gone, he clung to the thrill of that icy jolt up his arms. Even if his chest felt hollow.

He pressed himself to the side of the door, which remained closed, the kind that opened inward, while Lisa mirrored him on the other side, and Mick stood in the center, preparing to kick it in and unleash Hell. Len nodded to him.

Mick's heavy boot smashed into the door, tearing it open, as he fired his gun with a howl and walked forward, daring anyone to be in his path. Len and Lisa followed closely behind. There was a wall to their right all the way along the side of the building, their left opening up into a larger space, with a hallway and several doors across the room.

Len took quick stock of two men already burning, their guns clattered to the floor, as he and the others made for the hallway. Nothing incriminating in the larger room in case any unwanted police or feds stopped by. The guns would be in the back, meaning the remaining men would be even better armed.

Six minutes.

Last door on the left, the man downstairs had said. Len believed his fear to have offered up the truth, and told Lisa to gold the other doors as they moved down the hallway behind Mick, who had since stopped firing, saving his next shot for something breathing.

There were doors on either side of the hallway, and as they neared the last, Len glanced back at the room they had left, seeing the men Mick had ignited, twitching and smoldering on the floor. Len felt his breath catch, but clenched his teeth. He had to keep his head in the game.

He turned back, nodding to Lisa to gold the last door on the right as they turned for the left where Mendoza Junior should be waiting, but before she could fire, the door on the right burst open with a spray of bullets into the wall, just barely missing her. Mick's meaty hand jerked out to grab Lisa by the scruff of her leather jacket and pulled her back with them out of the line of fire.

Len raised his gun in anger to ice whoever had dared shoot his sister, but when Mick, in front of him still, blazed through the entrance with his fire, Len found himself almost calling out for him to stop. It was the smell, the screams—it called too much attention, he told himself, but then he had been the one who said Mick wouldn't have to hold back today, who'd planned out their timing based on fire spreading through the building.

"Lenny," Lisa hissed at him, breathing hard after the shootout and glaring down at the shoulder of her jacket that had a tear from a glancing bullet.

Len was just standing there. He'd frozen in place while Mick enacted vengeance on his behalf. Not that Mick hadn't done that before, barrel on ahead before Len could give the okay, but this was different; Len wasn't thinking straight. It all seemed well and good when he was icing someone, but Mick and Lisa's guns were still…

Still lethal. Fuck.

Four minutes, twenty seconds.

Mick returned from the room on the right with a manic expression, ready for more, practically huffing in elation, the screams already dying from inside as the room spread with flames. They didn't have much time before the building would be dangerous—and bringing Central City's finest.

Len steeled himself. "Mendoza's mine," he said, and readied his gun, indicating for Lisa to throw the door open.

Whatever bodyguard was waiting when she turned the knob, he got a chest full of ice for his troubles. Len pressed on inside, eyes keenly surveying the room, taking stock in moments of how many opponents, how they were armed, and blasting them with ice before a single shot could be fired. Medoza's men had semi-automatics, but it didn't mean a damn thing against Captain Cold.

The man himself pressed back into the corner of the room, a custom Beretta too pretty to have been used as much as the man probably pretended, aimed at Len's head.

"I guess the real question is whether or not you want to lose that arm, friend?" Len nodded at the Beretta, cold gun raised, feeling Mick and Lisa enter behind him and take positions on either side.

Medoza's men were moaning and whimpering on the floor, with their various ice wounds, but still alive. Len found himself watching Mick and Lisa in his periphery, wondering if they'd put the guys out of their misery, and his chest burned a little that he hoped they didn't.

Len put the focus back on Mendoza who looked torn between firing and throwing himself to the floor. "Don't give me the cold shoulder now," Len took a step forward, pointing with his gun, "lose the piece."

With a huff, Mendoza threw it to the floor. "My father—" he started.

"Will probably consider this the icing on the cake after the last neighborhood you lost him," Len interrupted. "I doubt he'll shed a tear."

Mendoza darted for the window at his left, probably thinking he could risk the two story fall if only he could reach it. His feet getting frozen to the floor prevented that and he let out a sharp cry as he toppled over from the momentum.

The smell of smoke was strong now, the faint sound of sirens in the distance. One hundred and nineteen seconds.

Len's stomach plummeted after checking his watch and seeing that particular number.

He shook his head, approaching Mendoza steadily. "If you wanted to break the ice with my sister, you should have thought of a nicer way," he said, crouching on the floor beside the man, but careful not to scuff his dress pants; he liked this suit. He pointed the cold gun in Mendoza's face. "You also should have given me my money."

The whir of Len's gun was sweet music, but being this close, about to ice the guy in the face, that even if it didn't kill him instantly, would still make him dead before the police or firefighters could do anything about it…didn't fill Len with the euphoria he wanted. He felt numb and strange, and in his moment of hesitation, Mendoza batted the cold gun from his hands.

Len had never been disarmed that easily in his life. He snarled, snatching up the man's own Berretta from the floor and standing to fire point blank between Mendoza's eyes. Len's left hand immediately started shaking.

"Lenny," Lisa hissed, only this time it was with worry, not accusation, as her hand slipped into his, stilling his tremors. "We're out of time."

They were. Thirty seconds. They had to get out of the building.

Len picked his cold gun up off the floor, decided to keep the Berretta—it was covered in his fingerprints anyway—and tucked it into his trench. His expression was stone, ice, as they made their way swiftly back through the hallway, through the main room sparking with the remains of the men there, and down the stairs to the bodies of the others—a few, at least, that would get to wake up.

But as they burst out of the door to the back alley to follow the escape route they'd planned, Mick turned and ignited the building behind them.

"No!" Len called before he knew what he was doing.

Mick didn't hear him over the roar of the flames, but Lisa did, right there beside him, arms circling around his elbow to hold him back from…from what? Stopping Mick? These lowlifes didn't mean anything to Len, what did he care if the rest of them burned? He'd done things like this a million times. It wasn't supposed to matter. It shouldn't matter.

But all Len could think as he watched the building burn, as Lisa tugged him down the alley, the pair of them with Mick, racing away from the sirens…

Was how much Barry would be disappointed in him.

All the way back to the safe house Barry's smile swam in Len's mind, his blushes, and sweet downturned eyebrows. The way he rambled, and stuttered, and constantly, constantly rubbed the back of his head and neck when he was nervous. The kid was trusting, and caring, and so damn forgiving. All he wanted was for Len to stop killing, stop letting innocent people get hurt…because he was better than that, wasn't he? Not just more talented and clever—he was better than that.

But he wasn't. Talented and clever enough to avoid it, absolutely. Len got no pleasure from hurting innocents going about their daily lives, not unless they got in his way. But some people, some people he should be able to ice until they couldn't breathe, or make them eat a bullet, and not flinch.

Barry made Len flinch. Barry made him tremble and gasp and feel like the walls were closing in, when before now Len had always felt free.

So Barry was the one who needed to be taught a lesson.

Len was seething when they got back to the safe house. He shouldered in front of Mick and Lisa, and stalked across the room to set his cold gun, the Berretta, and sunglasses on the table with the rest of his normal gear, shaking for a different reason now.

He was angry, so angry, he wanted to hurt something precious, and putting a bullet in that asshole's head hadn't been enough. He needed to hold onto his rage, not swallow it back and keep it in place, well-contained like he usually did. He needed to use this fury. He needed Barry Allen to bend and break beneath him before any of this would feel the way it should.

"What's up with you?" Mick barked from across the room. "We got what we wanted."

Len took a breath, letting the anger settle low in his gut where it smoldered and burned like dry ice. He turned around to face the others and grinned. Mick's returned expression was a curious head tilt; Lisa pouted and crossed her arms.

"We're taking the rest of today and tonight to plan," Len said.

"Plan what?" Lisa shot back.

"A heist, Lisa. A real heist. 1st National's sister bank on 43rd, downtown."

"Another bank?" she sputtered. It wasn't like Len to hit the same place, or even the same type of mark so close together. He preferred variety for a real challenge.

This task required something familiar, however, to drive the point home for The Flash when Len faced him again. "Exactly as I said. You in?" He eyed them both critically.

Lisa bit her lip, her brows furrowed tight in hesitation that Len didn't usually expect from her, but under his continued scrutiny, she caved, sighed and dropped her arms. "Of course I'm in, Lenny. Always."

Mick huffed as he raised his weapon to his shoulder. "Just tell me where to point my gun."

Barry had stayed in bed most of the day, his cell phone on his nightstand in case Cisco, Caitlin, or anyone else called. He didn't think he'd be up for stopping any crimes, but it was his responsibility to be at the ready. The only thing that popped up was a brief mention from Cisco of a fire, but police and firemen were already on the scene; there was nothing he could do, so he stayed where he was.

When it was getting close to when Joe would be home for the night, Barry pulled himself from his stupor, showered, changed, and went downstairs to make dinner. Enchiladas sounded good. Comfort food. As many as he could make—and eat—with several set aside for Joe. He felt a little like eating out the tub of ice cream from the freezer while he waited for the enchiladas to finish, but damn, was he really that much of a cliché?

Three days. One night. It shouldn't hurt this much.

Joe was too good to him when he got home. He didn't bring up Cold once. Instead he praised Barry's cooking and went on about the day's cases. The fire that had taken out nearly all of the Mendoza family's gun trafficking, leaving no one left alive—rival gang, they figured. Barry wasn't really listening, but he softened when Joe cuffed his jaw just slightly to get his attention.

"How about a movie, kiddo? Or a Netflix marathon. There's gotta be another Original we haven't caught up on yet."

The heaviness in Barry's heart lessened in the wake of his father's affection. "Thanks, Joe."

They ended up watching most of the newest season of Clone Wars before Barry started drifting. He made an abortive jerk toward Joe when he got up to head upstairs for bed. He hadn't felt the urge to hug Joe goodnight since he was thirteen. But when Joe stood, just there in front of him, close and sympathetic looking, Barry decided not to fight it.

He squeezed his father as hard as he could.

"It'll be okay, Barr," Joe whispered.

"Yeah," Barry said. He didn't believe it, but it helped that Joe did.

The next morning, he did everything he could to feel like things were normal. Aside from running ahead of schedule, but that just made it easier to meet Iris for coffee at Jitters before work. He needed the caffeine, for all the few seconds it actually worked on him, but it was mostly mental anyway.

A large Depth Charge, still with his usual extra cream and sugar combo would at least give him an initial rush. He was already halfway through it when Iris joined him with her caramel macchiato. She didn't even chide him for not waiting before making his order and downing most of it, just stared with that telling frowning smile she had whenever she felt sorry for someone.

Shit.

"Joe told you," Barry stated more than asked as she sat down beside him.

The frowning smile intensified. "He called yesterday."

"Oh god." Barry wanted to bury his head in his hands, but they were cupped around his coffee, so he only managed to drop his head to the table. Then he snapped up as he realized, "Wait…how much did he tell you?"

Finally Iris's expression turned into a full frown. "That Snart iced the labs and was gone in the morning. He didn't hurt you, did he? Dad didn't mention—"

"No," Barry said quickly, leaning closer to keep this conversation as private as possible. "No. I mean…not physically, though he might as well have. Felt like a punch to the gut when I woke up and found that…note." He glanced away from her.

"What did the note say?"

Nope. Barry was not ready to divulge the full tale to Iris just yet. "Just mean for being mean's sake," he said, sighing into his coffee. The buzz was already gone, but if he chugged the rest he might get a bit of it back for a moment. He fingered the cup noncommittally.

"I'm sorry, Barr," Iris said. "I know you really thought you were making a difference with him. Maybe you did, and he just…didn't know how to handle things with his memories back. He might have a change of heart after a few days."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Barry snorted. "On the camera footage, when he left, he…" he paused, wondering if this was giving away too much, but he wanted to share something with Iris, and somehow this moment had stung the worst, "he gave the camera this little…salute." Barry mimicked it with a sneer. "And this smirk on his face like…like it was all in fun, haha, poor, dumb Barry, butt of the joke again. Urg," he groaned, feeling sick to his stomach just thinking about it.

He heard Iris sigh and glanced up to see her expression betraying some of that anger Cisco had displayed yesterday, righteous indignation for his sake. "Want me to beat him up?" she deadpanned.

It had the desired reaction of prompting a laugh from Barry, and Iris smiled. "If anyone could, it would be you," he chuckled. "You fight dirty."

"You bet your ass I do." Iris poked him in the arm, then down his side searching for his ticklish spots, all of which she knew far too well. He squirmed the appropriate amount before holding up his hands for a reprieve.

"Okay! I get it," he laughed. She really was the best sister he could ask for. It still hurt sometimes, looking at her, knowing that she'd never be a part of his life the way he'd once thought he wanted, but it didn't sting in quite the same way. That ache belonged to someone else now, who had done him one worse, and made him feel wanted before rejecting him.

"Barry," Iris said, her voice thick with emotion, picking up on his shift from humored to devastated once again. "I'm so sorry. You thought you were making a friend, helping to make someone a better person, and he betrayed that." She took his hand and held it on the table. Then her keen eyes analyzed him and seemed to come to some sort of realization. "But why do I find this face so much more familiar than I wish I did…"

Uh oh. Barry tried to pull his hand back, shrug off the angry butterflies swirling in his stomach, and move past this, but she'd already seen—she knew. She gripped his hand tight and looked, shit, even more righteously indignant, and suddenly Barry wondered if she really would hunt Cold down.

"Barry Allen, did he do more than break your trust," she said sternly, "because I'm starting to wonder if he broke your—"

Bless Barry's phone for going off. He managed to untangle his hand from Iris's grip, nearly knocking his remaining coffee over as he fumbled to find it in his pockets.

"Hello?" he asked without checking the caller ID, trying instead to avoid Iris's stare.

"Barry, it's Cisco. Where are you?"

"Uhh…at Jitters with Iris. I was on my way to work."

"Detour," Cisco said, "if you're up for it. Not that you have to…"

Now Barry was getting worried. "What's going on?"

"Someone called in an anonymous tip about spotting Captain Cold at 1st National. The other 1st National, across town."

Barry sat up straighter as his veins filled with ice. So soon? He hadn't thought—

"No alarms have been tripped, but the call was only a couple minutes ago, and we think…we think he's expecting you to show up."

Barry shivered. Why just thinking of Cold made him feel chilly was so unfair. "Why do you think that?"

"Because the call was to Joe's desk, not the precinct directly. Joe called us at the labs wondering if you were stopping here this morning, so I told him I'd let you know. Barry…" Cisco's tone held something like a warning, like he shouldn't have to go and face Cold if he didn't want to, like maybe he should let this one go.

"I have to check it out, Cisco. You know he'll really rob that bank, and who knows what he'll do if I don't show."

Iris's eyes widened across from him before her face hardened into an angry mask. "Barry…"

"I'm coming to get the suit, Cisco. It's still at the labs. Have it ready for me." He hung up before Cisco could respond.

"Barry," Iris stood from the table with him as he got up to go, "you don't have to do this. It's Snart, right?" she asked, though she didn't wait for him to confirm. "He's obviously baiting you. Unless it's some twisted way to get to talk to you again…" she trailed at the thought.

Barry shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It just proves what I already knew. It was all a game to him, just for show. And now I have to play my part." He looked at his coffee, took two seconds to knock it back, set it on the table, and looked at Iris. "I have to go."

"Barry!" she grabbed him before he could dart out of Jitters. He couldn't turn to look at her, he couldn't handle sympathy right now, not when he had to face Len while he was still mourning the bastard. "Be careful, okay?" she said.

Barry paused, but didn't respond before he pulled out of her grasp and slipped from the coffee shop to the alley where he could flash the rest of the way to S.T.A.R. Labs.

Cisco and Caitlin both tried to talk him out of going for the few minutes he was actually there. He changed, told them he'd be fine, told them to just be ready on the coms, and got out of there before they could say anything to stop him.

This 1st National was nearly identical to the one across town. Barry didn't have to wonder if that was on purpose. He almost expected Cold to be standing in the mirrored spot where Barry had whisked him away the last time they'd met like this, but he wasn't. He didn't appear to be anywhere obvious, because when Barry flashed onto the scene, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Other than The Flash suddenly standing amidst all of the people at the bank for their morning withdrawals. Crap.

Gasps and open stares, a few calls of his name, and several whipped out cell phones greeted him…but no Cold. No robbery seemed to be happening at all. Was it a diversion, some lame trick, an actual bogus anonymous tip that just happened to go to Joe?

Barry smiled weakly at all of the attention. Usually he was in and out so fast, people didn't really get a good look at him. He wasn't sure what to do. He opened his mouth to act as if he was just a concerned citizen, checking to make sure nothing was wrong after the other 1st National had been robbed so recently, when a familiar, sardonic voice spoke calmly from behind him.

"Well, well, if it isn't Central City's Scarlet Speedster."

The chill Barry had felt in his veins before turned to piercing frost bite.

Slowly, he turned around…and there was Cold. The sight of him was so jarring, Barry almost tipped back. He had seen Cold like this before, dressed to the nines rather than in his parka and goggles, but never in quite this striking of a style.

He wore a trim suit and tie, and a mid-length trench coat, but rather than in shades of blue it was all black. The trench was left open, double breasted, the tie with a slight shine to it that showed off its slanted stripes. Cold's eyes looked so blue against all that black. His brow tight, drawn, with a predatory twist at his lips.

Barry clenched his hands into fists.

TBC..