Shane squatted on the floor, picking up each piece of Lip's pathetic gear one by one with his fingers: the knit cap with holes cut in it, the tangled mess of wires, the tiny pliers, and that sad little lock-picking kit that looked like it came from a dollar store.
He stared at the pile in silence for a long few seconds.
"This is your whole setup?"
Lip stayed on the floor, not answering, but his face flushed red with shame.
"The plan at least looks like a plan," Shane muttered, eyeing the junk. The only thing even halfway useful was the OBDII editor—basically a universal car key.
"You scoped the place, found the gap in the fence, timed the patrols—brain's working overtime. But actual gear? Zero. Just praying luck and hoping the other side is dumber than you."
Classic Gallagher plan.
"Wait here," Shane said, standing up. "Nobody leaves this house. No more stupid shit. Fiona, get him a glass of hot water before he shakes himself apart." He didn't name who "him" was. He didn't have to.
He didn't say where he was going or what he was doing, but thirty minutes later he was back, dropping a big, bulging backpack on the floor with a heavy thud.
He yanked the zipper open.
Out came two full-face motorcycle helmets—matte gray, thick, serious.
Then two armored riding jackets, black, reinforced at every joint.
Next, a pair of short riding gloves with hard knuckle protection.
Finally, a hydraulic cutter and a professional lock-defeating airbag tool—the kind you slide into a gap and inflate to pry doors open.
The contrast between this real gear and Lip's dumpster-diver collection was brutal.
"That little pliers of yours probably couldn't cut through decent fence wire," Shane said, snipping the air with the hydraulic cutter—snap-snap. "Mine treats chain-link like overcooked spaghetti. Helmets and jackets on."
He pushed the gear toward them.
He wasn't going alone to fix their mess. No way in hell. If they were stealing the laptop, both of them were coming. Even if security spotted them later, Shane knew he could outrun anybody with his build. The other two… good luck. If they got caught, Lip would land in juvie, Fiona might get detained. Maybe a night in lockup would actually teach them something.
"I'm not dressing you up for style points. Helmets hide your faces from cameras. Jackets stop scrapes. Dressed like this in the middle of the night, even street thugs or cracked-out homeless guys will think twice before fucking with us."
In the South Side, full riding gear at midnight usually meant someone was about to steal something—or stab someone. Very effective.
Shane locked eyes with both of them and started giving orders.
He'd learned the hard way: nice talk didn't work with these two. Commands and curses did.
"Midnight we roll. Back alleys only—no main-road cameras. Twenty-minute walk to the parking lot on Seventh Street. We 'borrow' a car."
"Borrow?" Fiona's voice shook.
"Something boring. Plain. Doesn't matter whose it is." Shane stayed calm. "We use this—" He tapped the airbag tool and Lip's OBDII editor. "No alarm, no trace. Drive to the impound lot, get the job done, drive it back, and dump it exactly where we found it. Trail goes cold."
He checked the clock on the wall.
"Two hours. Both of you suit up, check the fit. Helmets on—get used to the visor and breathing. Gloves on, test your fingers. I'll check the rest of the tools."
Shane had taken complete control. What was supposed to be Lip and Fiona's desperate, half-assed rescue mission had become his clean urban infiltration op.
The next two hours, the Gallagher house was dead quiet except for the rustle of gear.
Upstairs, Debbie had dragged Carl into her room and shut the door. Neither kid was sleeping.
Downstairs, Lip and Fiona awkwardly pulled on the armored jackets and helmets, feeling like they were wearing actual armor.
Shane methodically checked every tool—oiling the hydraulic cutter, testing the airbag's seal.
Midnight exactly.
The living room lights stayed off. Three dark figures slipped out the back door into the Gallagher yard.
Full-face helmets hid every feature. Dark visors made their eyes impossible to read. The riding gear bulked them up and screamed danger.
Shane, gloved, gave the signal—check comms. He'd ordered three cheap earpiece walkie-talkies off Pinduoduo.
"Can you hear me?"
"Clear."
"Loud and clear."
He led the way, opening the back gate and stepping straight into the thick Chicago night.
Fiona took a deep breath and followed.
Lip went last. Before he pulled the door shut, he glanced back at the dark, empty living room, eyes complicated. Then he closed it.
Three ghosts moved along the South Side alleys, hugging the walls.
The heavy jackets slowed Fiona and Lip a little, but they also blocked the night chill—and most of the fear.
As the three figures disappeared down the alley, two pairs of eyes watched from different shadows.
Karen Jackson bit her lip, hidden in the darkness.
She'd been pissed off all day.
Shane hadn't come to school. One short phone call tonight—"Something came up, I'll make it up to you tomorrow"—and the rushed tone had set her off.
Now this. He ditched her again to deal with "van shit," and even their night together got canceled?
She hadn't told him she was coming.
She'd picked midnight on purpose—just to see what the hell he was really doing.
And she'd seen three figures slip out the back door.
Even from a distance, even wrapped in weird riding gear, she knew the tallest, strongest one with that familiar smooth stride was Shane.
The other two—awkward and hunched—had to be Lip and Fiona.
Dressed like that, this late? What the fuck were they doing?
Shane's "something came up" was dragging her brother and sister into shady shit?
Karen's heart raced—not from fear, but from the sharp sting of being left out.
She didn't run after them. That would ruin whatever Shane had planned and probably piss him off.
Once the three shadows vanished around the corner, she slipped toward the Gallagher back door.
She was going inside.
She was going to get answers out of Debbie or Carl.