Number 06 │ A Leverage Fanfiction

The Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho Job | Part 2

Back at the mall, the air was tight with tension as we stood still.

"Hello, Chaos," Nate said coolly. "I thought we left you rotting in a federal prison."

Nearby, Hardison hunched down beside one of the donation buckets, a cable in hand. He connected his phone to the innocent-looking card reader, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The voice that responded through Sophie's comm was unmistakably smug. "Oh, come on," Chaos said, voice crackling over the line. "Those places are made to be broken out of. You of all people know that, Nate. Especially when they're running on an unencrypted operating system, am I right, Hardison?"

There was a beat.

"And Six, it's so good to see you again, looking good as always. Still waiting on that call."

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my brain. "In your dreams, Bitch Boy" I muttered.

Chaos didn't miss a beat. "Ouch. Oh well I'll get over it. Parker?" His voice dipped into a disgustingly sleazy tone. "You look yummy in that elf costume."

While Chaos continued on with his smug ass rant, we all looked around sharply. Eyes flicked up to balconies, down to escalators, scanning every Santa and shopper in sight.

Except... there weren't any Santas in sight.

"Hey," I called to the team, "The Santas."

All of them—the ones posted with the buckets, ringing bells, smiling wide—were gone. Every single one.

<>

Eliot shoved the break room door open, eyes scanning the room as he stormed in.

"They're gone," he growled.

His boots thudded dully on the tiled floor as he made his way to the staff table. He picked up one of the mugs—steam still rising from the cocoa.

Chaos's voice chimed in again, dripping with glee. "Hey, guys. Their cocoa's still warm. They can't be far... Y'all." His terrible fake Texas drawl echoing in our ears. I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

"Damn it, Hardison." Chaos laughed, still imitating Eliot. He sighed, "Don't bother trying to chase us. All the pieces are already in place for my beautiful credit-card catastrophe. And there's nothing—nothing—you or that waste of painkillers Eben Dooley can do to stop it."

A metallic clang rang out through the comm line. Then Chaos let out an exaggerated whistle.

"Oh, and Hardison?" he cooed. "This is a nice gun."

Hardison's face drained. "Oh no."

"I mean, maybe if I'm real good, Santa'll bring me one of these EMP babies next year."

Hardison and I broke into a run and burst out into the garage, boots echoing on concrete, just in time to see a sleek black van pulling away—Chaos at the wheel, eyes wild, grinning like a demon in red velvet. The rear doors swung open.

In his hands: Hardison's EMP cannon.

"No—No, no, no!" Hardison shouted. "Lucille Two!"

A blast of white light erupted, followed by a sudden, horrifying FWOOMPH as the side of our van lit up in flames—smoke curling out like a dying breath.

Inside, the circuitry sparked and hissed, and then the entire interior caught fire.

"Ho, ho, hoooo!" Chaos shouted as he vanished down the ramp, laughter trailing behind him.