The restaurant looks like every other mom-and-pop steakhouse you'd find in a small town: low-hanging wooden beams, red-checkered tablecloths, and walls plastered with photos of smiling families and outdated Americana. The kind of place you'd bring your grandparents for a Sunday dinner, not an elite team of criminals licking their wounds from a federal ambush.

But this isn't just any steakhouse. It's our steakhouse--or more accurately, the Kingdom's. Owned, staffed, and operated by people who know better than to ask questions when a bunch of bloodied strangers show up at 6 AM, demanding steak and silence.

Lancaster's waking up slowly, the sky just starting to lose its deep blue, but the place feels like it's in another world--quiet and tucked away from all the chaos we just barely escaped.

"Why do we own a steakhouse in Lancaster?" Fulcrum asks, stepping out of the van with her arms stretched above her head. She squints at the building, her energy as sharp as ever despite the long night. "I mean, really? Who's sitting around thinking, 'You know what the Kingdom needs? A fine dining establishment in Amish country.'"

Yellowjacket's the first to respond, naturally. He tosses his long hair over his shoulder like he's starring in a shampoo commercial. "Money laundering, obviously. Gotta wash the cash somehow, sweetheart."

Fulcrum gives him a deadpan look. "So why not a car wash? Or a laundromat? You know, places that make sense?"

Yellowjacket grins as he opens the door to the steakhouse, holding it theatrically wide for the rest of us. "Because steak is classy. And classy sells."

Mudslide groans as he drags himself out of the van, adjusting the paper bag on his head. "Classy sells? You can't even spell classy."

"I can spell steak," Yellowjacket shoots back, his grin unfazed. "And besides, it's not just about classy. Restaurants are cash-heavy businesses. Easy to fudge the numbers. You say you sold 500 steaks, but really you sold 50. Who's gonna check? Nobody, that's who."

Fulcrum rolls her eyes. "Yeah, until the IRS shows up asking questions."

"They don't ask questions here," Jellyjam cuts in, stepping out of the passenger seat and adjusting her pink blazer. "It's Lancaster. They don't even have phones."

"See?" Yellowjacket says, pointing at her like she's just proven his point. "This is why I'm in management. I understand these things."

"You're the only one who's even met Upper Management," Laceration points out, hopping down from the van with an easy grace. She adjusts her belt and glances at him, her tone casual but curious. "What's he like?"

The mood shifts a little, a subtle tension rolling through the group as everyone looks at Yellowjacket. He scratches his chin, genuinely thoughtful for once. "Intense," he finally says, his usual smirk replaced by something more serious. "Just... intense."

"That's it?" I grunt, following the group into the restaurant. My side still aches, the gash throbbing under my jacket, but I'll deal with that soon enough. "You can't give us more than that?"

Yellowjacket shrugs, leading the way into the dimly lit dining room. The place smells like wood smoke and garlic, the kind of smell that makes your stomach growl no matter how tired or beat up you are. "What do you want me to say, Blake? He told me to wear gloves and to speak at a low volume. He's got hair. He made me use hand sanitizer twice. You want something more interesting than that?"

"That's comforting," I mutter, sliding into one of the leather booths. The seat creaks under my weight, and I shift a little, trying not to tear the upholstery with my bulk. The rest of the crew filters in around me, filling the booth and the adjacent table. It's a tight squeeze, but we've had worse.

Jellyjam, ever the queen bee, takes charge. She claps her hands once, sharply, and the kitchen door swings open as if on cue. A server--a burly guy with a thick neck and the kind of expression that says he's seen too much--emerges with a tray of glasses filled with water. "Steaks are already on the grill," he says gruffly, setting the glasses down in front of us. "How do you want 'em?"

"Medium rare," Yellowjacket says immediately, leaning back in his seat with a self-satisfied grin. "And bring me a lobster tail while you're at it."

The server gives him a flat look but doesn't comment. "No. Anyone else?"

"Same for me," Fulcrum says, glancing at Yellowjacket with mock disdain. "Minus the lobster. I'm not that pretentious."

"Rare," Laceration says, her tone clipped. "And don't over-season it."

Jellyjam rolls her eyes. "Medium well. I don't trust any of you."

"Medium rare, please and thank you," Doppelganger says, a little too quietly.

I nod toward the server, trying not to wince as the movement pulls at my side. "Medium. And make it big."

Mudslide doesn't even look up from the menu he's pretending to read. "Whatever's cheapest. I'm not picky."

"Cheapest?" Jellyjam echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Muddy, we just pulled off one of the riskiest operations in our life, and you're going cheap?"

"I'm a man of principle," Mudslide replies, deadpan. "And my principle is not spending more than I have to."

"You're not even spending it," Jellyjam sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

The banter continues as the server heads back to the kitchen, and I lean back in the booth, closing my eyes for a moment. The adrenaline's finally wearing off, leaving me feeling every bruise, cut, and scrape from the night's chaos.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"So what's the bonus for this job, anyway?" Fulcrum asks, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. "We risked our necks for those two," she nods toward Mudslide and Nothing, who've been mostly silent since we arrived. "I assume we're getting more than just a steak dinner out of it."

"Zenith said something about hazard pay," Jellyjam replies, swirling her glass of water. "And a vacation fund."

"Vacation fund," I repeat, snorting. "Where are we gonna go? We're on every wanted list from here to DC."

"Somewhere quiet," Jellyjam says, her tone sharp. "And somewhere far away. Maybe the Bahamas. Or Iceland."

"Yeah, because nothing says 'lay low' like a bunch of supervillains hanging out in Iceland," Fulcrum says, rolling her eyes.

"We could go to Paris," Yellowjacket offers, grinning. "I hear the steak's better there."

"Kings eat steak in Paris," Mudslide mutters, his voice low but audible. "We eat it in Lancaster."

That earns a chuckle from the table, and for a moment, the tension eases. The sound of sizzling meat drifts in from the kitchen, and the smell of smoke and spices fills the air.

Nothing doesn't say anything. He stares at the table, blinking a couple of times behind his sunglasses. You almost forget he's there. And tonight, I don't feel like provoking him.

"Think they'll come after us?" I ask, breaking the lull in conversation.

"They always come after us," Doppelganger replies, her voice calm and steady. "The question is, how long before they do? And how close to they get?"

"Long enough for us to enjoy this steak," Yellowjacket says, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To surviving."

"To surviving," I echo, clinking my glass against his.

The steaks arrive not long after, sizzling on cast iron plates that hiss and pop as they're set down in front of us. They're big, thick cuts of meat, cooked perfectly, with sides of roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. For a moment, the table goes quiet as everyone digs in, the sound of forks and knives replacing the usual chatter.

It's good. Better than good, actually. The kind of meal that makes you forget, just for a second, that you're a wanted fugitive eating in a steakhouse owned by a criminal syndicate.

"Not bad," I say around a mouthful of steak, glancing at Yellowjacket. "You might've been onto something with this whole 'classy sells' thing."

"See?" he says, pointing at me with his fork. "I told you. Trust the process."

Fulcrum snorts. "The process of turning crime into fine dining. Yeah, real classy."

"Hey," Jellyjam cuts in, her tone sharp but playful. "Less talking, more eating. We've got a long day ahead."

"Why?" Mudslide asks, glancing up from his plate. "Aren't we laying low?"

"We are," she replies, her eyes flicking toward the window. "But laying low doesn't mean sitting around. We've got cleanup to do. Loose ends to tie up."

"And by 'we,' you mean us," I mutter, taking another bite of steak. "You're just here for the lobster."

"Allergic to shellfish, buddy," Jellyjam replies.

"Where'd you even get 'Jellyjam' from, anyway? Did Upper Management pick that one for you?" I ask, trying not to talk with my mouth full. I ignore the pointed glance Yellowjacket and Jellyjam share with each other - the two Baltimoreys. A sort of not-this-fucking-question-again look.

"It's from a Goosebumps book," she says at last, her tone casual but clipped, like she's daring me to question her. "I read it when I was a kid."

Mudslide blinks from behind his paper bag. "Wait, isn't Goosebumps for kids?"

Jellyjam sighs deeply, dragging a hand across her face. "Yes, dipshit, that's why I said I read it as a kid. Were you paying attention?"

"Hang on," Fulcrum interjects, leaning forward on her elbows. "Which Goosebumps book are we talking about? Wasn't that the series by the guy who got in a car accident? What was his name--Stephen King?"

"No, no, Stephen King's the one who died in that airplane crash," Yellowjacket says with absolute confidence, leaning back in his chair like he's just dropped some profound literary knowledge.

"Stephen King didn't die in a plane crash," Laceration cuts in, finally looking up from her plate. "He's alive. He's still writing."

"Then who am I thinking of?" Yellowjacket muses, scratching his chin.

"I think you're mixing him up with someone else," Fulcrum says, picking at her steak. "Maybe John Grisham?"

"Says here Stephen King got in a plane crash, it just didn't kill him," Yellowjacket notes, pointing on his phone but not showing anyone. I think he's too stupid to lie to people, but I don't say that out loud.

Mudslide's voice cuts through, muffled but firm. "John Grisham didn't write Goosebumps. Come on, you idiots. That was R.L. Stine."

"Thank you!" Jellyjam exclaims, throwing her hands up. "Finally, someone who knows how to use their brain."

"What's the book about, then?" I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "The one you got your name from."

"It's called The Monster at Camp Jellyjam," she says, her voice dropping into the kind of ominous tone you'd hear on a campfire ghost story. "It's about an evil summer camp blob monster. I was told when I joined I needed a J name, and it came to me. You'd love my original, what's the word, nom du crime?"

Mudslide leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So... your supervillain name is based on a kids' horror book about a blob monster?"

"Nom de crime," Fulcrum corrects, in accurate sounding Italian.

"Yeah," Jellyjam says, unapologetic. "What of it?"

Mudslide shrugs. "Just saying. Kind of a weird choice for a name."

"Better than 'Mudslide,'" Fulcrum quips, smirking. "What are you, a natural disaster or a dessert?"

"Hey!" Mudslide snaps, pointing a finger at her. "My name's symbolic. We went over this in the van! I didn't even have to change it, you guys had M open."

Nothing snorts quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, the whole 'scrappy underdog' thing," Laceration says, waving him off. "Can we get back to the money laundering? I was actually interested in that. I don't want to hear about children's horror novels."

"Not even a novel. Like, 150 pages tops," Fulcrum snipes.

Yellowjacket perks up immediately, ready to slide back into the spotlight. "Ah, yes. Money laundering. Where was I?"

"You said restaurants are good for fudging numbers," Laceration says, cutting into her steak with precise, surgical strokes. "Keep going."

"Right," Yellowjacket says, sitting up straighter. "So here's the thing about cash-heavy businesses like this one. You take the dirty money from, say, a heist or some other job, and you mix it in with the clean money from the legit sales. You claim you sold more steaks than you actually did, and boom--your dirty cash is now clean."

"And nobody notices?" Fulcrum asks skeptically, her fork poised mid-air.

"Well," Yellowjacket admits, "it's not foolproof. You gotta keep your numbers realistic, or the tax people start asking questions. But with a good accountant--someone on the inside--you can make it work."

Laceration nods, her expression thoughtful. "Huh. Makes sense. And that's why we own this place?"

"Exactly," Yellowjacket says, flashing his signature grin. "It's all about diversifying. You got your drug trade, your weapons deals, your extortion rackets--and then you've got your steakhouses. Keeps the feds on their toes."

"Sounds like a lot of work," I say, leaning back in my seat. "Why not just stash the cash in a safe and call it a day?"

"Because," Yellowjacket says, leaning forward like he's explaining to a child, "if you don't launder the money, you can't spend it without raising red flags. Try buying a house with a duffel bag full of unmarked bills and see how far that gets you."

"I'd just buy a house with cash," I say with a shrug.

"You would," Jellyjam mutters, shaking her head. "And then you'd wonder why the IRS is banging down your door."

"I'd eat 'em," I retort, grinning as I bite into another piece of steak. "Problem solved."

Yellowjacket rolls his eyes. "God, you're such a dinosaur."

Scattered chuckles around the room.