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In the air, I had a nap. Changing Victor had taken more out of me than I'd thought, and understandably so. By the time I awoke, we were already in another vehicle entirely, on a bumpy road into Boston's city center. Brandon was driving, so I assumed that Victor was back at the airfield. The former saw me rise in the back seat and smiled, adjusting the rear view mirror a bit as he drove.

"Welcome back, sleepyhead. Did you know you weigh a bloody ton?"

"No I did not know that, Brandon."

"Well you do, ya git, maybe you should start losing weight when we get back to New York."

"Ha ha ha very funny."

I scowled and he laughed as I buckled myself in.

"How long was I out?"

"Better part of a few hours, mate. You were so zonked out, I carried you like a wee baby and you didn't even budge. Me and Victor had to bundle you into the car too, you better bloody thank the guy later."

"Yeah, speaking of, where is he?"

"At the airport, waiting. I reckon he's gonna sleep off what you did to him."

I nodded and sat back. Transformations did knock out the transformee for a few hours after, as I'd witnessed with Max, Con and Brandon. Victor being up mere seconds after I'd changed him was a first. Maybe it was because he was so near death that it constituted as the knock-out period? I don't know. Whatever the case, I'd later learned how draining it was when I set foot on the plane, took a seat, and instantly fell asleep. I only remembered waking up in the car after that, which was where we were now. I leaned forward between the two front seats.

"How long?"

"Until we reach their place? A few more minutes, if we can get past this bloody traffic jam."

He gestured forward at the crowded highway. Traffic was indeed thick, as the lines of cars ahead of us barely moved. I looked at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was the early afternoon. It didn't exactly justify a jam as bad as this, but then again things like this weren't exactly predictable. I leaned out the window to get a better look, and true enough the jam stretched all the way down to the street junction that was the start of the city area. I couldn't even see the cause of the jam, but as we inched forward it became clear. There were roadworks going on further down the expressway, and it was blocking most of the street, funneling traffic into a mere lane's worth of cars. No wonder the going was slow, but at least we were going. I could barely see one of the workers in his safety vest with the flashy stripes slowly waving cars and buses and taxis along while his colleagues worked on the road behind him, covering a hole or some other form of work. Routine stuff, I figured, though sadly the inconvenience it caused people was hard to ignore. I sat back in the car and wound up the window as Brandon swore at the jam under his breath. At this rate we'd be in the city by dinner time, or later.

To ease the tension a little, I leaned forward and turned on the radio. A tune drifted through the car as we idled along. It seemed like days, but only an hour had gone by and we were no closer to exiting the freeway than the other two hundred cars behind us. We were getting there though, because the roadworks were closer now, and I could even see the faces of the men at work. The sun wasn't out, cloaked behind a sea of clouds that dominated the sky, so I didn't even see them perspire as they tore up the ground and dug with jackhammers and diggers, carting away loose asphalt in wheelbarrows. The largest machine there was one of those groundlayers, a huge thing that I knew laid out new asphalt on roads, though I didn't know its exact name.

Just then the news came onto the radio. The usual drab came along; ISIS terrorising the Middle East, more of the usual bull between China and Japan, the protests in Hong Kong, the US trying their hardest to pass that spending bill that would close the government if it weren't passed again, same old same old. Then the traffic segment came on and I heard the report on the jam on the freeway, being caused by unscheduled roadworks further along near the mouth of the freeway in question.

Unscheduled? That set a bell ringing in my head, but I paid it no mind. Town council must've forgotten to inform motorists. Simple problem, happened sometimes.

Then I saw a commotion up ahead. The worker that was waving the traffic ahead was in a heated argument with a guy in a uniform and baseball cap. The back of the latter's shirt was emblazoned with no logos, only the word 'Security'. I leaned forward and pointed it out to Brandon.

"Look."

"Huh. Security guy, eh? They must be escorting something on a schedule. Maybe to a bank or something?"

"Yeah maybe. Or he's just on an empty detail and wants to get home."

Whatever the case, the argument was getting hotter. The security guy was gesturing angrily at his truck, which was only several car lengths ahead of us. The passenger side door was open but not the driver's side, so obviously they had a driver. I could barely hear them arguing over the sound of idling engines and frustrated car horns, but the worker looked absolutely fed up with the security guy. He was shaking his head with his face in his palm while the the latter ranted on and on about how he must absolutely positively be past this obstruction before the timer on his phone went off because he had a roast in the oven at home that he'd forgotten to turn off or some other stupid reason.

Then the worker reached behind him, pulled a pistol out from his jeans and blew the guy's face off.

I got a shock as a jolt ran down my spine.

"Shit!"

Brandon saw it too and he was just as stunned as I was. The worker pulled a mask from inside his shirt and put it on as he discarded his helmet. In seconds his face was completely hidden by a black balaclava with a crude face painted in white on its front of half of a man's face that was pointed upward, with the bottom half of a skull. He made a mad dash towards the truck, vaulting and leaping and tumbling over the cars in his way like an acrobat. The driver of the truck popped his door open and clambered out, yelling into his radio as he pulled a service revolver, but his report was cut short by two bullets slamming into his chest, driving him against the side of the truck as the gunman vaulted over his corpse and into the truck, closing the door in one smooth motion. I turned my attention back to the worksite and the other workers were scrambling, not for cover, but for their own weapons that they pulled from various hiding places, like from inside a barrel and from behind several sheets of plywood. Within seconds the road workers had turned into an assortment of heavily armed robbers that swiftly advanced towards the truck. The man in the driver's seat gunned the engine and pushed forward, shoving his way through the traffic and towards the dig site, where he picked up the rest of his companions and they made off past the construction area and into the smoother traffic that led into the city. In moments they were gone.

We'd just witnessed one of the most brazen armoured truck robberies and couldn't do a thing to stop it.

Brandon slammed his hand against the dashboard as news came through the radio of an armoured truck hijacking on the freeway. He turned the radio off and sighed in frustration.

"Damnit!"

"We couldn't do anything, Brandon."

"Yeah we could, if this bloody traffic weren't so thick!"

"That's what they wanted, Brandon, to make sure they could get away without interference from any law enforcement behind the line."

He cursed and sat back. I shared his frustration but there wasn't anything we could do.

We went the rest of the journey in silence.

---

We reached the dojo just before dinner, and since the siblings were home we had our meal with them at a fast food joint nearby. As I dug into my burger Dylan updated me on what happened since we'd left: the dojo was alright and financially stable again after the wreck that was the gang war. They'd replaced the windows with stronger, shatter-proof glass and taken the hint and put their monthly takes in their apartment instead of downstairs. Their business was still returning, slowly but surely. Dylan didn't receive any commendations, but several days after everything settled down the FBI had sent him a small paycheck and a note of thanks as compensation for the whole thing. They were surviving and I was glad that they were. I brought up the incident on the freeway.

"Did you hear about the robbery on the freeway today, man?"

He nodded.

"Yeah I did bro. Wicked stuff. People still do that nowadays, huh?"

"Wicked people will do anything to get rich. Speaking of, I saw something that might interest you."

"Go ahead bro, I'm listening."

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered my voice.

"One of the robbers was wearing a balaclava with a face painted on the front. Make any sense to you? You've been here forever."

He paled almost visibly. His hands started to shake and he leaned back in his seat.

"No way man... Did you see it clearly? It might've been something else."

I shook my head.

"I know what I saw, Dylan. You know something about them?"

Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Yeah. The man you saw... His name is Icarus. I knew him once."

And so began a long spiel from him, a story of a misguided youth, a falling in with a group of thugs and a job that cost lives. A story that he'd obviously kept to himself, by the end he was almost in tears.

"Those guys were the only friends I ever had after I came back to Boston. I thought they were all gone forever, but now that you said you saw Icarus... They must've reformed the Ghosts again."

"But if they're really back, then why are they suddenly up to robbing armoured trucks?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know, Dan, but what I do know is that I need to talk to them."

"Right. Do you know how to contact them though?"

He nodded.

"There's a small garage and chop shop downtown that we used to use as a base. They might still be using it."

"Alright. Do you need us to come with?"

He hesitated, but after a while he nodded.

"Sure. You'll have to invent some sort of cover though. I don't think they'd like it if a cop visited them."

---

We reached the garage by early evening. The sun was just starting to set as the taxi dropped us off. I paid the driver and waved him off as Dylan went ahead to check out the place first. I took the opportunity to take a look around. Not much had changed since we last were here, even though it wasn't in this part of town. Remnants of the war still remained; graffiti, broken windows and abandoned shop units, but otherwise the place was slowly recovering. Dylan approached us.

"They're here, guys."

Both Brandon and I nodded. Dylan led the way as we entered the garage. What I saw set me off but I kept my anger and disbelief in check. The Ghosts had apparently managed to drive the huge armoured truck all the way here without arousing suspicion, where they had them given it a brand new paint job to cover the bank logo that was supposed to be emblazoned on the side. A bunch of electronics sat in a pile nearby, which I guessed was the radio and vehicle tracker that were inbuilt into the interior. Bundles of money sat on a table nearby, still neatly wrapped in the paper packages that new notes always came in. The gang were scattered about the place, either busy counting their take or doing other things that occupied their time. One of them, which I assumed was their de facto leader, stood and walked towards us as we approached.

"Woah there partner. You know what you're walking into? If you do, I suggest you turn around and walk away, 'fore I have to get angry."

"Whatever, new guy."

Dylan waved him off and ignored his protests as he walked past him, instead going to one person in particular, a lanky individual that was busy sharpening a knife.

"Icarus."

The man looked up and recognition danced across his features. With a sombre smile he stood and gently placed a hand on Dylan's shoulder.

"Booker. Long time no see. I'm sorry about leaving. I didn't have much of a choice."

"Yeah, whatever. Look, I got word that you were the ones that pulled the truck heist on the freeway today."

Icarus nodded and gestured to the other men, and one woman, curiously, that were present.

"Yep. The fine work of my crew."

"You lead the Ghosts now?"

He nodded again.

"Yep. After Rock...well...I decided it would've been good to lay low for a while. V was still in the hospital and you were back at home, and it was obvious you didn't want to know us any more. After a while I decided it would be a good time to bring back the Ghosts, so I got together a crew, both old and new."

First he gestured to a man across from us, plans and charts spread across his table.

"That there's Bishop. He's our planner and our control for our ops."

Next he pointed to the lady that stood near the truck. She was fiddling with whatever lay in its engine compartment, but she raised her head and waved when he spoke again.

"She's Grease, our resident grease monkey, thus the name. She's the one that fools around with all the vehicles we take."

Vehicles? Plural? Jesus how many heists had these guys pulled? Next he gestured to a man in the far corner, bent over a miniature safe that he was slowly picking by hand.

"You know him already, Booker. V, Booker's back."

The man stood and gave him a wave. Lastly he pointed to the man right behind us.

"And that's Wilhelm. Named that way cause he's got a fake arm. Show 'em, Will."

The man nodded and rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt, exposing the prosthesis underneath. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before, almost lifelike in its precision, and very well articulated as well. When he lowered his sleeve and put down his arm, it was like a real arm instead of a fake one. Briefly I wondered about the maker of such a prosthesis, but the here and now called me back.

"So, Booker, who are these guys?"

Dylan gestured to me first.

"He's Civic. Shooter."

Then he waved a hand at Brandon.

"And that's Riley. Spotter."

Icarus grinned and set hands on both our shoulders.

"New meat, eh? Well you're more than welcome to join the Ghosts, you two. All you'll need are matching masks. Grease'll sort those out for you."

She nodded as she closed the hood of the truck.

"Icky, the ride's all tooled up."

"Perfect. And I thought I told you never to call me that."

She sidled up to him and wiped a greasy finger on his cheek.

"You did, but I don't really care."

Smiling, she walked away, while Icarus wiped his cheek and sighed

"She's always like that. Now, what can I do for you all?"

Dylan looked at us, then back to him.

"We'd like to hear about your next heist, Icarus. Let these two get up to speed."

He nodded and spread his hands.

"Why not? We're preparing for something real fierce, and all this hard work is for that one payoff. All we need now is a couple more things and we'll be set!"

"What sorta thing, Icarus?"

He led us to where Bishop was and gestured to the papers scattered about the desk.

"We're planning a heist on a chemical plant. Not to steal money, mind you, but to steal a person."

"A person?"

I voiced my confusion. I didn't fully understand this plan. Icarus saw my confusion and explained.

"We have a plant in there, guy by the name of Wicker. He's supposed to be our chems and explosives man, but he's been stuck at work due to his abusive boss. This is a small heist, mainly to extract our man and to teach that asshole a lesson. Once we've got Wicker, then we'll move onto the next step."

Well this was a pretty complicated plan for a little break and rescue. To that end, Icarus pointed to both me and Brandon.

"You two. Since it's your first time here, I want to see how you handle yourselves. I'll go with you on the heist and I'll bring Booker as backup. "

I merely nodded and so did Brandon.

"Give me a gun, Icarus, and I'll do more with one than without."

He grinned and patted my shoulder.

"That's the spirit. I'll see you then. We have quite a bit of preparation to do."