(For mature audiences)
(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)
My eyes were locked on Quinntella from behind the black truck’s passenger seat. One getaway vehicle. Her neck and split poof ponytail displayed through the head rest. Admiring high rises from the freeway before she side profiled all of us. Mainly focused on newcomers in the left peripheral. Caramel skin slightly damaged by minor cuts and bruising from shit she started and we finished. Excluding my good friend at the opposite window, the other two were fresh faces from nowhere. Thugs I’d never met before. Her dark brown eyes took a quick tilt at me when rotating to the passenger door. I was good, and she felt better confirming.
Her thuggish tone commanded, “A’ight fellow criminals, listen. A lotta people applied for the position to be where you are now, and I chose four, excluding my regulars. I’m gonna go through the plan one more time. This job will be done with seven of us. This is getaway vehicle one; vehicle two is the same make and model, parked two blocks south of the bank. Ours will be parked there as well by current driver, who will then, leave the keys inside, keep a low profile, meet us at the alley side door and mask up before entering. Is that clear current driver?” He nods in agreement then Quinn continues, “In ten minutes, we’ll be at the bank, and in fifteen minutes, so will a cash truck carryin’ another large sum.”
The thug next to me asks, “Why not just take the truck?”
She quickly stated with an answer, “Ah, a stupid question, it’ll be too difficult to escape and won’t have enough money to satisfy my needs. Now, once that truck docks inside, we’ll need to ambush those drivers and bag the truck load too. We each walk out with five hundred thousand dollars apiece. Once that bag is tossed to you, it becomes your responsibility. Lose it, you walk away broke. I do not want fuck ups. An alarm goes off, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ massacre gettin’ outta there so no killin’ hostages or puttin’ on rough shows; just group everyone together, wave your guns around, and keep everybody quiet. Our names are as follows: Quinntella, T is Alpha, J is Bravo, Charlie’s in the middle and Delta’s in the driver seat. Our last two guys are Echo and Fox. Tasks and names have already been explained to them. Alpha, Charlie, Echo, will be on crowd control. Bravo, Fox, and I will be clearing the garage and raiding the vault. Six bags will be loaded there, and one from the truck. Any more stupid questions?”
We all sat silent, so Quinn faced forward. I reached into the trunk space and dispatched masks to everyone except Quinn. Others would have preferred to walk around mask-less, but she wanted certainty. Never one stench of confusion about who was in charge; I, to the contrary, preferred anonymity. Public eyes and being on the grid don’t mix. Unlike her, I could show my face without getting shot at. Everyone had an assorted mask. I held mine until after dispensing weapons.
Pistol for everyone; machine guns for us lackeys, and a boomstick for Quinn, who loved to make noise. Nervous about four new members, I fantasized about how smooth the job wouldn’t go. Any simpler explanation wasn’t a plan at all, yet they were committed. No further questions only spelled zero experience. Good side was improbable betrayal from first timers learning the ropes; bad side was they didn’t know the ropes. Did she expect failure? Was it part of the plan?
Money wasn’t why Quinn and I were there, but it didn’t excuse getting killed during amateur hour. Alpha’s watchful eye was all I could hope for. Visually lost in busy New York streets below for a couple minutes, we exited the freeway. Arrived at the bank minutes later to heavy foot traffic. Broad daylight business hour. Power suits and power skirts was exactly the attention Quinn wanted for her next act. Everything under her belt had a stamp, and there’s no better stamp than a face. Delta U-turned, causing traffic to honk and halt as he swung at the curb. We were greeted nonverbally by Echo and Fox. I slipped on my mask before leaving the truck. Quinn was ready to lead silly masked, gun-wielding bandits into a lit furnace.
She warned Delta, “Don’t drag your feet. That bank truck is your cut.”
As planned, Delta lit his own fire. Drivers and strollers watched us. Uncertain of what was happening but drew phones anyway in case a street performance started. It didn’t. The most well-known bank Downtown had been, unsuccessfully, hit once. Encore fell to us. A.S.L. Holdings belonged to Danielle Melligan, one of crimes finest money laundromats. Hot commodity in high-end circles of white collar shit. We cracked the double door for our host and took three steps up behind her to a security guard. Outgunned, his hands were already in the air. Quinn lowered her shotgun as Alpha subdued the guard then I stuck my MP5 into the spine of another.
I demanded in a low tone, “Keep quiet.”
The guard stood silent while I disarmed and shoved him ahead. Unaware tellers and customers in the huge establishment still conducted business. Why stop? A.S.L. had service representatives on both sides of floor one and tellers behind windows in back. Right corner stairs went high and low. From the schematic, the upper floor held small offices and lower housed the vault. Too much space for a simple layout. Complaining about lack of intricacy was counter intuitive. Its left corner led to the garage and alley entry.
Quinn shouted, “Attention please! I have enough bullets to kill all of you, so tellers do not touch a fuckin’ thing! No yelling, panic, or screaming because I have a hangover! Calmly bring your asses to the center! Let’s go!”
Patrons and employees quietly obeyed. Silent yet in great fear. No introduction needed. It wasn’t an extraordinary sighting. Not doing what a gunman wanted was politely begging to die. With closely held proximity, customers stuck together, and tellers mimicked. Gathered on their stomachs in the huge square, like they’ve been through rehearsals before.
Quinn spoke while circling the scared crowd like a hunting vulture, “We need whoever holds a bunch of keys to open the vault.” I guide my security guard toward the civilians, “Anyone wanna volunteer before I have an armed henchfolk start shooting each of you one at a time? Starting with tellers, of course.” A woman’s hand quickly raised from the herd then Quinn smiled a compliment, “Good girl. Fox, bring her. Be gentle. Don’t get comfortable everyone, this will all be over in about seven minutes.” With the female manager, Quinn and Fox went for the stairs on parting orders, “Bravo, let Delta in to secure the truck then meet in the vault. Crowd control, hold it down.”
I swiped a keycard from the guard’s hip then split diagonally left for the single door. To the garage. Scheduling called for three armed guards; two were hostages, and the final was lonely at the loading dock. A security guard I needed to cautiously subdue. The door led to a cream-colored hallway with three additional doors. Break room and restroom on the right, then a double door ahead was potential danger. I casually secured the first two for civilian presence with a pistol ready, before going to the dock.
Heat trapped under my mask and sweat manifested everywhere else, I nudged the door so slightly. Eased vision through the slit showed a nearby guard booth. One more closed door. Regardless of wasted time, I slid through the barely open crack. Heeded every nook. Pistol high in my chest and pointed at the vacant spacing below. All cleared. Commotion leaked from an old radio inside. Static ambience of uproar. The male guard complained aloud about the ball game. There was always a chance he faced the door, but none indicated prepared response. Rant was a good distraction, so I used it. Crept in slow and placed my pistol in his back to quiet excess words.
His neck slowly twisted, then more slowly, his hands reached record high while a stare held our locked eyes. Before heroic ideas formed, I stripped the sidearm and went akimbo. My gun ordered him out and down to the dock’s smaller door. When he looked back for opening approval, I nodded. Delta, out of breath, joined us inside. Two New York blocks always proved a faster travel on foot than driving. A rope over his shoulder immediately attached to my hostage. Three down. No word came about our truck.
I returned to the lobby, alone. When it came to company Quinntella kept, it required babysitting. She carried herself reckless and never appreciated when others followed suit; she was my main customer. Everything was cool and quiet and boring. As smooth as any heist should go. The big hallway to the vault was no different. Opened safe deposit cage had been raided sparsely searched. Quinn and Fox were further on, inside the vault filling up duffle bags. The volunteer stood calmly away. Two bags were filled and rested on the central table as accomplices to our escape. Quinn noticed me. Not one word exchanged while tossing paper-banded stacks of cash into less full duffels. Silence from me meant life was going bad but doing decent. I swung one strap to each shoulder and lugged both upstairs, then slid them into plain view.
Before helping more, one newbie grabbed a woman’s arm and stood her up, “What’s say we take a hostage too? I fuckin’ love blondes.”
The woman does not cower, though clearly afraid. Ejections of fright shift from hostages at his sudden behavior swap, only momentarily. I had a general idea what that asshole thought; following suit. A cry for attention.
Alpha demanded, “Stop dickin’ around, Echo.”
From behind, Echo wrapped his arms around the woman’s waist and used concealed dick to rub her ass, “If I’m dickin’ around anything, it’s gonna be her. I think she might get that Stockholm shit.” Attention returned to the woman, who tried to inch enough distance to not anger him and comfort herself, “Want some cash, baby? Gold bars would be nice. Ever blow a rich guy?”
The woman begged quietly, “Please, stop.”
A suited man literally rose to defense with words, “Leave her alone.”
Echo’s mask slowly turned to the brave, yet stupid gentleman. A basic human being. Wealthy individuals would not breathe air to save the life of someone at chanced expense of their own. Echo was annoyed and ready to express likeness. The hot-head became obvious. My mental bet was on Charlie.
Echo asked, “What’d you just say?” He shoved the woman stiff to the tile and clutched his crotch on approach, “Did someone say open yo bitch ass mouth? Or get up?” The hostage cowered out of the immediate crowd, late at realizing there was nowhere to go then rushed to the floor, but Echo barked angrily, “No get up, you lost ‘sit down’ privileges!”
Hands slightly raised, the suited man cowered high and low on his feet, hoping to reason with who he should’ve known was an amateur, “Listen, we are all afraid here. You have shaken us all and we’re doing as you asked. She does not deserve–”
“If you were doin’ what you were asked, you wouldn’t’a stood the fuck up, right? Sit down.” The man hurried completely flat on his stomach then Echo persisted, “Stand up…”
The man hesitated, certain what to do but unsure how. Echo stood only inches from him and feet away from the crowd. Pistol suddenly drawn slow. Games were his thing to play. My help at the dock seemed more fitting; certain the truck had arrived, and after a semi-successful ruse, Fox would need a hand against two, maybe three armed protectors.
Echo’s heightened tone changed that, “Now that’s how you–” A loud cracking sound mixed with metal, “–do–” I quickly spun to see he smacked the hostage with his gun and still is, “–what–”
Alpha shouted, “Echo?!”
Echo ignored Alpha and smacked the bloody-faced man into a daze again and again, “–you’re–” Alpha began to approach Echo to physically stop him upon another smack, “–told!”
The pistol prematurely popped. Everyone froze. Gasps expanded outward from the floored huddle to emptiness and bounced off walls with the ricochet. That bullet didn’t sound like it pierced anywhere; just entered a wall for safe keeping. The alarm sounded. Ridiculously loud ringing, like newer versions of old school bells able of making ears bleed. Popular banks carried automated designs triggered by gunshots; we forgot to inform our new hires A.S.L. was one.
Avery Nunez 