Chapter 10: Silent reckoning
The rain had not stopped since midnight. It drummed softly on the warehouse roof like a lullaby for broken men. Inside, the light from an old oil lamp flickered uncertainly, casting long shadows on the walls. The gang was quiet for once, the usual noise of laughter, clinking bottles, and crude jokes absent.
Henry sat on a crate near the window, staring into the downpour, the liquor in his glass untouched. He hadn't spoken in hours.
"Guy gets one successful run and suddenly turns into a philosopher," Jerry muttered, half-sober, leaning against the far wall with his boots kicked up.
Smith ignored him. He was cleaning his revolver at the table, his movements slow and deliberate. Beside him sat Alex, chain-smoking in silence, while Billy nursed a bottle of rum, his foot tapping nervously against the leg of his chair.
"What's eating you, Henry?" Billy finally asked, trying to pierce the silence. "You've got your cut, we're rich till next week, and no one's bleeding. That's rare, ain't it?"
Henry blinked, his voice low. "I just keep thinking about the house."
"What about it?" Jerry scoffed. "It was empty. No mess, no screams. Easy pickings."
"There were children's drawings on the fridge," Henry said. "Toys still in the living room. A photo of a kid's birthday party—balloons, a cake with a '6' candle."
Billy shrugged. "So?"
"They're not dead," Henry said. "They'll come back. And what we took? That was theirs."
Jerry slammed his bottle on the table. "Are we doing this now? The guilt parade? You wanna send 'em a damn apology note with their stolen cash?"
Smith didn't raise his eyes. "Let him speak."
Jerry sneered, turning his gaze to Henry. "This ain't the orphanage, mate. This is the real world. They've got insurance. They'll cry for a week, then replace everything. That's how it works."
Henry met his eyes calmly. "You keep telling yourself that."
Billy tried to laugh it off. "Come on, man. Don't do this to yourself. We all came from hell. You think any of us would last five minutes in a normal life?"
Alex finally spoke, voice low and dry. "We used to last more than that."
Smith looked up, his voice steady. "We don't do this for joy. We do it because we're not allowed anywhere else."
Jerry snorted. "Speak for yourself. I enjoy it."
"Of course you do," Alex muttered, exhaling smoke. "You'd burn down a hospital if you thought someone owed you ten bucks."
Jerry grinned. "You know what? Maybe I would."
The group fell back into silence. The rain persisted, like it knew what none of them would say aloud.
Henry turned to Smith. "How long have you been doing this?"
Smith didn't look at him. "Long enough to stop counting."
"Ever think about stopping?"
There was a pause before Smith answered. "Sometimes. Then I wake up and remember what it felt like behind bars. Or the days before, when I starved on the streets. It keeps me sharp."
Billy sipped his rum. "Man, I was sixteen when I first lifted a wallet. Thought I was slick. Got caught. Policeman laughed and let me go."
Jerry rolled his eyes. "Let me guess—you cried and promised to be a good boy?"
Billy laughed. "Damn right I did. But two days later, I swiped his sister's necklace."
Alex chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
Henry leaned forward. "And you, Alex? You always been like this?"
Alex flicked ash into a tin. "Not always. I used to fix clocks. Back when people gave a damn about time."
Henry raised a brow. "Really?"
"Really," Alex said, looking him in the eye. "I liked the quiet. The precision. Everything had a place, a rhythm. One gear out of step, and it all stopped."
Jerry grunted. "Sounds like hell."
"It was peace," Alex said simply. "Until my shop burned. I couldn't afford a new one. So I started breaking locks instead of fixing them."
Smith finally stood, holstering his revolver. "We all came from something. Doesn't mean we can go back."
Henry nodded slowly. "But what if we could?"
Smith glanced at him. "Could you? After everything?"
Henry didn't answer.
They sat with that question a while. The rain, relentless, offered no reply.
Later that night, as the others drifted into sleep or silence, Henry remained awake. He found himself walking the warehouse, past crates of stolen electronics, jewelry, old safe boxes, and bags stuffed with cash. It wasn't guilt that stalked him , it was emptiness. Everything he had now—money, drink, a place in the crew was hollow. The more he got, the less it meant.
He ended up outside, where the cold air and the sound of rain washed over him like a baptism. Under the overhang, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the rusted wall. Minutes passed before he heard the door creak open behind him.
Smith stepped out, arms folded, a cigarette between his lips.
"Thought I'd find you here," Smith said.
Henry looked at him. "Can't sleep."
Smith nodded. "The first ones always stay with you."
"I didn't even see them," Henry said. "But I saw what they left behind. I keep picturing the kid coming home to find his house stripped."
Smith was quiet for a moment. "Do you want to quit?"
Henry exhaled smoke, his hands trembling just slightly. "I don't know."
"You're asking the wrong question," Smith replied. "The question is: do you have anywhere to go if you do?"
Henry didn't answer. Because he didn't. He had no home, no family, no friends outside the ones who called him useful. Leaving this would mean returning to nothing.
Smith took a slow drag. "You're different from the rest. That's good. It means you haven't gone too far yet. But it also means this life will burn you faster."
"You sound like you care," Henry said.
Smith gave him a long look. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be talking to you."
Henry's breath caught in his chest.
Smith nodded toward the door. "Get some rest. Big job coming in two days. High profile. We'll need you sharp."
Two days later, the gang gathered around the blueprint of a large estate on the edge of the city.
"Old money," Smith explained. "Security's tight, but they're attending a gala downtown. Four-hour window. We go in, take what we can, and vanish."
Jerry grinned. "Now that's more like it."
Billy rubbed his hands together. "What are we talking? Gold? Paintings?"
Smith pointed at the vault location. "Cash. Family heirlooms. Word is the owner's got a collection of vintage bonds and rare diamonds."
Alex nodded. "I'll handle the alarms."
Smith turned to Henry. "You'll lead the inside sweep with Billy. Jerry watches the perimeter. I'll manage extraction."
Henry swallowed, then nodded. "I'm in."
Jerry raised an eyebrow. "You sure he's stable enough for this?"
Smith's voice sharpened. "I trust him."
That silenced Jerry, but not the look in his eyes.
The estate was everything they'd expected opulent, sprawling, filled with the ghosts of generational wealth. The job went smoothly at first. Alarms were disabled, entry was clean, and Henry and Billy moved like shadows through the halls.
"This place is like a museum," Billy whispered, staring at a suit of armor in the corridor. "Bet it costs more than our whole cut."
Henry found the vault room and waved Billy over. "Start bagging the jewelry. I'll check the drawers."
They worked fast, their bags filling with glittering trophies. Henry opened one drawer and paused. Inside was a locket. Gold. Worn. Inside, a faded photo of a young woman holding a baby.
Something inside him shifted. He stared at it longer than he should've.
"Henry," Billy whispered. "You good?"
Henry snapped the locket shut and tossed it aside. "Yeah. Let's go."
Minutes later, they regrouped with the others at the van. The job had gone perfectly.
"Cleanest hit yet," Smith said, as the engine roared to life.
But inside, Henry was unraveling
That night, back at the warehouse, the mood was electric. Jerry was already planning how to spend his cut, Billy danced with a bottle in hand, and even Alex cracked a rare smile.
But Henry sat apart, silent.
"You didn't keep the locket," Alex said, approaching him quietly.
Henry looked up. "You saw that?"
Alex nodded. "You hesitated."
Henry rubbed his face. "It felt wrong."
Alex lit a cigarette. "The day it stops feeling wrong... that's the day you're lost."
Henry looked at him. "Are you lost?"
Alex exhaled. "I'm not sure I ever found myself."
Near dawn, Henry approached Smith, who was seated alone at the back, counting cash.
"I'm thinking of walking," Henry said.
Smith looked up. "Where to?"
"I don't know."
Smith studied him. "You're not like us, Henry. You never were. But if you leave, leave for something."
Henry nodded. "Thanks. For everything."
Smith extended his hand. Henry took it.
"Don't come back," Smith said. "You won't survive the second time."
Henry left the warehouse before sunrise, walking into the mist of the breaking dawn. The rain had stopped. The streets were empty.
He didn't know where he was going.
But for the first time in a long while, he knew he had to try.