A Lesley Gore song played loudly enough that the car it was coming from hummed. The security guard at Jenks storage facility was used to seeing strange people show up, but only one of them ever blasted cheesy 60's pop music that loud. And for a person who was supposed to be keeping a low profile, Cyrus Mossberg had no hesitation about playing his music loud. He stepped out of his car with a confidence few men in the world could possess, and headed inside the storage unit, slipping the guard an envelope on the way in.

The guard in question didn't have to be told what was in said envelope. He just tucked it in his jacket pocket and flicked off the security cameras. Some men might have had issues with taking bribes from shady guys, but he didn't care. Whoever this man was, he paid well and didn't bother talking. That was fine by the guard. Small talk was more painful than the boredom of his job.

As the guard opened up a magazine and kicked his feet up, Cyrus stopped outside a storage locker. He knew the cameras were out, and would remain that way until he left, but he still tucked his baseball cap down a little further to hide his face. The last thing he needed was his green eyes to get this place on the police's watchlist. And if he was recognized, then the locker definitely would be. Cyrus was notorious in his hometown, and a mere legend in Jenks. Drug kingpin, gang leader, ruler of the Kansas blackmarket; there were a lot of titles associated with the blond man, and most of them were not only well-earned, but heavily accurate. Cyrus unlocked the door to the storage locker and stepped inside, making sure to roll the door down behind him. He was left in darkness for a moment before clicking on the locker's overhead light and illuminating its contents. Six large gun safes greeted him, three on either side of the locker. They were all individually sealed with a code, just in case someone happened to break in. Not that anyone would dare to. Cyrus may not have been a killer, but he was high enough in the ranks of the underworld that everyone knew he was not a man to be messed with. There were very few people who outranked him, and most only maintained that position because he allowed them to.

Speaking of positions, Cyrus headed for the desk at the back of the locker. This wasn't just his normal office after all; it was a powerful workplace. Only dumb gangsters, he thought, kept their books and money in their headquarters. The second that place was compromised, you were done for. It was better to spread everything out. That way, the second one spot went down, you could relocate and start up again. Cyrus was clever like that, and he supposed it was a trait that pissed off the detectives researching him. They could never trap him, and could never find solid evidence against him. Cyrus Mossberg, always two steps ahead, was untouchable, untraceable and uncatchable. Just the way he wanted it.

There was only one chair in the storage locker, a fact that made sense to Cyrus. Only one other person knew the location of the locker, so he never expected visitors and never needed another place to sit. He was fine in his leather rolling chair. Taking a large ledger out of one of the desk's drawers, Cyrus glanced up at the bulletin board above him. A map of the state covered the board, locations carefully marked with colored push pins. Some marked safe houses and drug dens where his allies resided; others represented spots to avoid, for enemies are just as common in gangs as they are in school bake sales. The only two places of importance that weren't marked on the board were the ones Cyrus wanted to keep especially safe; his headquarters and his home. Most of his gang, the Hunters, didn't even know where he lived, and he was happy to keep it that way. The only giveaway of either of those things was the small picture tucked in the corner of the board. A simple candid photo of a smiling, dark haired man with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. A Mr. Theo Adler, to be exact. Cyrus knew every millimeter of that picture from spending long hours in the locker, but he knew the man in the photo better than the back of his own hand. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth because he couldn't help it. It was impossible for him to look at an image of his husband and not want to grin.

But enough of the staring. Cyrus had work to do here. Ignoring the other papers attached to the board, he opened the ledger to a fresh page and fished in the desk again for a stack of envelopes and a black pen. Then he slid his chair over toward the safes, sighing as he started his work.

Gang life was never easy, but one of the biggest concerns, in Cyrus's eyes, was the issue of loyalty. If the people who worked for you weren't loyal, then you weren't getting anywhere with a gang. Not when they would turn and betray and sell you out at the drop of a hat. So you had to gain loyalty. Had to gain trust. Cyrus was good at that. He was kind to the people who worked in the Hunters. He heard their problems, helped them where he could, and advised them where he couldn't. The people he worked with were his friends, and he dared to even call some of them family. But friendship was also fragile, easily broken. Anyone who thought differently clearly hadn't been to middle school. So Cyrus added an extra layer to his followers' loyalty. Money. Who could possibly turn down the stuff? He paid his people and he paid them well enough that they didn't take bribes, and didn't sell out. They got what they deserved for their work and effort, and if they needed more, all they had to do was ask. He didn't get mad at people for needing a little extra from time to time and he didn't hold it over their heads. Everybody had their ups and downs in life and financially; Cyrus got that. He trusted that his people wouldn't take advantage of the system, and his friends trusted him in return. A clean, loyal worker in the Hunters got paid more than any desperate FBI agent could offer in a bribe, and that was the strategy, Cyrus thought. If the people he hired were happy, then they'd keep working for him, and he wouldn't have any problems.

Of course, paying people meant you had to, well, pay people. Someone had to divide up and put together the money, especially since Cyrus paid in whatever denominations you wanted him to. Cyrus didn't trust someone to do that for him. Accountants asked too many questions; a shady one could start stealing cash on the side. You couldn't get robbed blind if you dealt out the money yourself, so that's what Cyrus did.

He double checked the locker before opening one of the safes, just in case. He knew it was a secure area, but if the guard had taken bribes from him, then there was no telling who else he got money from. Once he was confident that no cameras had been secretly installed since his last visit, he turned to the safe. 3-27-84. A special date for a special combination. He swung open the door to reveal stacks and stacks of twenty dollar bills, from the bottom to the very top of the safe. He had all different denominations in the safes. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds; there was even a small safe tucked under the desk that had euros, pesos, pounds, and yen. Not everybody wanted cash in hundreds, after all. It was unethical, and not useful. People were skeptical of hundred dollar bills. They were too easily counterfeit, so Cyrus paid out in tens and twenties most of the time. Nobody checked those. They were used too much. Cyrus often thought that if he ever did dive into the counterfeit side of the black market, he'd make one dollar bills. After all, who would be suspicious of a single dollar?

He opened all the safes eventually, counting out cash and stuffing it in envelopes, sealing them, marking them with a name, and then marking it in the book. The gang didn't know he had the books. They didn't ask where their money came from because they didn't care as long as they got it, but Cyrus cared. He kept the books simply because he thought the money he gave somebody said a lot about them.

Take, for instance, Martin.

Martin L. Welsh liked his money in ones, fives, and the occasional ten. And Cyrus, like the rest of the gang, knew exactly where he went after payday, and what he did with the money. Half of it would be in various strippers' underwear by tomorrow morning. He was a bit of a creep, in Cyrus's honest opinion, but skilled when it came to technology. If he needed a computer cracked, a camera hacked, or a phone tracked, Martin was the guy. The gang supposed living in his mother's basement had given him some skills, and while Martin did get a lot of fun poked at him for it, he was still a valuable asset and one Cyrus was glad to have, especially since everybody had a camera nowadays. But the fact that he liked his money in small bills said that he was, well, kind of a loser. He lived in his mother's basement, was a perv at strip clubs, and was cheap. Martin was one of those guys you could read like a book, and Cyrus wasn't sure if he liked or hated that quality. He liked being able to read Martin's thoughts about everything, but there were other people who he kinda liked not knowing what they were thinking. It added to the mystery of them.

Mystery. That was one thing Cyrus had always liked about his husband. You never knew what he was going to do next.

With Martin down and paid, Cyrus headed for the next guy on the list, making his way through all of them.

There was Kramer, the shady guy who ran a casino in town and was a general pain in the ass. A pudgy, penny pinching guy, he liked his bills big and the violence small. If Cyrus was a fan of mystery, then Kramer was the best person to him. Not even those closest to the cigar smoking gambler knew what the rest of his name was, let alone anything else he was involved in.

Then there was Felicia O'Connor, a strong fighter who had joined the gang to help pay for her mom's chemotherapy. She was Cyrus's star in their illegal boxing matches, and he often got the feeling that if her mom had never gotten sick, Felicia would be beating Rhonda Rousey's ass in the octagon as he worked. She still could be— her mother was better now, so Felicia had no ties left to the gang, but she just couldn't stay away. Whether it was for the thrill, the money, or the fact that Jordan was sweet on her, nobody knew. And they were all too afraid to ask. Felicia may have been the only girl in the Hunters, but she held her own better than half the guys.

Next up was Jordan A. Mills, the world's sweetest murderer. Jordan was the biggest guy in the gang, at a proud height of six foot five. He had biceps thick as Cyrus's head, but don't let the muscles fool you. Jordan may have been the man who did the Hunters dirty work; the rare killings and beatings that were required in gang life- but he was a softie at heart. When he wasn't doing a job for the Hunters, he was playing with kittens at the animal shelter or following Felicia around like a lovesick puppy. Jordan was the guy the detectives were most terrified of, and yet the only word Cyrus could think of to describe him was "adorable".

Then there was Marcus, the new guy who always thought his food was poisoned. Marcus had only been with the gang for six months, but Cyrus thought he was fitting in well enough. He was jumpier than the rest of them, seeing as he was less experienced, but that wouldn't last long. Marcus just had to be broken in a bit more, and then he'd be the new kid in the Hunter's tough and awkward little family.

Down the list Cyrus worked and filled envelopes, until he got to Benny.

Benny... Benny was different. As the most trustworthy gang member, and the one who had been there the longest, he was always paid last. And he got paid nearly twice as much as anybody else, but the rest of the Hunters didn't need to know that. Benny was the guy Cyrus trusted with his life, with his secrets, with his everything; even with his husband.

Benny was who Cyrus had started the Hunters with in the first place. The two had been best friends since high school. He'd been the best man at Cyrus's wedding, for crying out loud. There were very few secrets Cyrus had that Benny didn't know. Only three, actually, one of them being the contents of the room Cyrus sat in that very moment. Benny was the person Cyrus knew he could go to, no matter what else got screwed up. He didn't do the dirty work. He wasn't a hacker or a getaway driver. He didn't supervise drug operations or compete in fights, even though he was strong enough to. No, Benny had the most important job in the entirety of the Hunters, next to Cyrus's as a leader, and the rest of the gang only knew about half of it.

He made the food.

Benny was in charge of making sandwiches, dinners, whatever meal was needed for whoever needed it, free of charge. He was the gang's personal chef, and his skill was seconded only to the baking ability of Felicia's mother.

The other half of the job, known only to Cyrus, was that Benny fixed the problem, no matter what 'the problem' might be. If shit ever hit the fan in the Hunters, then Benny would be the one to clean it up. He was good like that. There wasn't a single situation they had encountered that Benny wasn't able to fix. He was the problem solver, the last resort fixer. The secret weapon. Cyrus used him rarely, and that was a good thing. Benny had a talent fixing bad problems, and Cyrus was thankful that he hadn't had many issues to send his way.

Benny was also the cover man, but the rest of the Hunters didn't need to know that either. He was a hidden member of the gang, one of the few who was completely unknown to the police. He could go out in public to any event whenever he wanted, and no one would know that he was a gang member. He stepped in for the events that Cyrus was too wanted to go out to, and Cyrus was wanted. There were posters with his face on them plastered around the whole tri-state area. He couldn't go just anywhere, to his dismay, so Benny stepped in from time to time. Just another thing he trusted about his best friend. And as Cyrus sealed the envelope with Benny's pay (twenties and fifties) in it, he couldn't help but glance back up at the bulletin board, his eyes settling on the photo of the smiling man in the corner. He couldn't help but smile at it, and wonder what his husband might be doing at that very moment.