When Karen pushed open the Gallagher back door, the scene inside stopped her cold.
Frank Gallagher was sprawled on the living-room couch like he owned the place, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers.
Debbie and Carl were perched on little stools right across from him, both talking over each other at once. Debbie's cheeks were still wet with tears.
"Shane was really mad," Debbie sniffled. "Like, super super mad."
"They were dressed like robots—black everything, with helmets," Carl added, waving his arms. His eyes were wide with fear… and a weird little spark of excitement.
"Van… laptop… impound lot…" Random words kept tumbling out.
Frank sat there with his legs crossed, wearing the most saintly, fatherly smile you'd ever seen.
He'd actually beaten Karen there. He'd crept back around nine, because Debbie and Carl still hadn't given him any solid intel on the home front, and last night Clive had started getting handsy again—way too handsy. Frank figured his free ride was about to turn into a toll road.
So tonight he'd decided to come home and sniff out the vibe.
He never expected to walk straight into World War Gallagher.
The old wooden house had shit insulation; even from the backyard he'd heard the shouting and the crying loud and clear. He couldn't make out every word, but he didn't need to. He knew trouble when he smelled it.
Then he'd hidden in the shadows for hours and watched three figures in full tactical riding gear slip out the back door. He recognized the walk instantly—those were his kids.
Once they were gone, Frank had strolled inside, poured himself a drink, and squeezed the whole story out of the terrified little ones:
The van got towed. The laptop was still inside it. Shane lost his shit. And now the three of them were heading to the city impound lot to steal it back.
The bigger the story got, the brighter Frank's smile became.
Opportunity.
This was God dropping a golden ticket straight into his lap—a way to march back into the house as the hero.
"Hey, Karen?" Carl spotted her first.
Frank turned, saw her standing in the doorway, and didn't miss a beat. He spread his arms like a king on his throne.
"Well, well, if it isn't Karen! Come in, sweetheart, come in! Perfect timing—we're having a family strategy meeting!"
Karen ignored him. She walked straight to Debbie and Carl, crouched down, and asked gently, "Debbie, Carl, tell me exactly what Shane and the others are doing. Why are they dressed like that?"
Debbie spilled everything again, voice shaky.
Karen's stomach sank deeper with every word.
Stealing from a city impound lot? Had Shane lost his mind, or had Lip and Fiona finally driven him insane?
"I get it," she said quietly, standing up.
Then she turned to Frank.
"So you heard everything. What now? Gonna call the cops for the reward, or just sit here waiting to laugh when they fuck it up?"
"Call the cops?" Frank looked genuinely offended. "Karen, darling, what kind of monster do you take me for?" He took a dramatic swig of whiskey. "I'm their father. I'm worried—deeply, painfully worried."
He set the bottle down and opened his arms, the picture of a heartbroken dad.
"Look at them—Fiona, Lip, and Shane. My brilliant but impulsive children. They think throwing on some silly motorcycle outfits and grabbing a couple tools makes them ready for a midnight Mission: Impossible at a city facility? Naïve. So naïve."
He stood up and started pacing like a general.
"I've been inside those impound lots more times than I can count. I know where every camera is, when the guards take their coffee breaks, which stretch of fence is rusted through, where the backup generator sits. That kind of knowledge comes from experience, sweetheart—from a grown man who's actually survived the streets of Chicago!"
He tapped his temple.
"They'll screw it up. And when they do… well, I don't even want to think about the consequences. But if I, Frank Gallagher, lend my expertise from the shadows, their chances skyrocket."
He leaned in, eyes twinkling. "Back in my debt-dodging days I knew every brick in this city. Need a car? That parking lot on Seventh Street? I could pick one blindfolded that's even more invisible than whatever Shane's planning. Tonight, let them see what real professional skill—and fatherly love—looks like."
Karen gave him the blankest stare imaginable.
Frank saw it and doubled down. "This is also my golden chance to come home and make up for a few… minor past mistakes. They need me. They just don't know it yet—or they're too proud to admit it."
Karen didn't believe a single word. Not one.
But he was right about one thing: the risk was insane.
And there was no way she was getting left out.
If Shane was walking into hell tonight, Karen Jackson was walking right beside him.
Even if he ended up screaming at her later.
"I'm coming too," she said flatly.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "You, sweetheart? This isn't a high-school party—"
"I'm calling Shane right now." Karen pulled out her iPhone 4, thumb already hovering. "The message is already written in my head: 'Your dad is at the house drinking your whiskey and planning how to crash your operation so he can play savior.' Think he'll come back and beat your ass first, or just cancel the whole thing?"
Frank's saintly smile froze. He threw up his hands. "Fine, fine! Family unity forever! Come along, princess. Extra hands never hurt, and you do seem a little sharper than Fiona."
That's when Carl reached behind the TV cabinet and pulled something out.
"Here, Frank. Take this!"
It was the taser—except Carl had "upgraded" it himself. Extra battery packs were duct-taped on, wires hanging everywhere. It looked like it might explode.
Frank let out a high-pitched "What the fuck!" and jumped backward so fast he almost tripped over the couch.
"Carl! Put that goddamn thing away! Get it away from me—shit!"
The memory of Shane's electroshock "therapy" was burned into Frank's soul. Just seeing anything that sparked made him smell his own shit and burnt skin again.
Carl looked hurt. "But… it knocks cats out way longer now." (It actually killed them.) "I wanted to help…"
"You're helping by keeping that nightmare away from me—forever! Especially away from your dear old dad!"
Frank clutched his chest, staying well clear of the kid.
Debbie spoke up softly. "Shane told us to watch the house. So… we're staying."
She remembered the cold look on Shane's face and his warning that the whole family could fall apart. Her little face was tight with fear.
Frank seized the excuse. "Exactly! You two stay here and guard the fort—that's the most important job. Daddy Frank and big sister Karen will bring your siblings and that precious laptop home safe."
He straightened his stolen suit jacket, gave Karen a cocky chin tilt, and—because he couldn't help himself—wiped away an imaginary tear.
Karen was done wasting breath on him. She ruffled Debbie's hair, then followed Frank out the back door.
Two more shadows moved through the South Side night, heading toward Seventh Street.
Team B was officially in play.