Chapter 6: It Wasn’t Our Job

(For mature audiences)

(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)

Mistakes had taken place. Driving to the swap spot was uncomfortable and silent. Three of our heist crew didn’t make it and the last was Quinn’s fault alone. Echo messed up bad and deserved to pay a price but being beaten to death was completely unnecessary; another was pushing his corpse into traffic to leave an obvious trail of which direction we went. Most situations at her hands don’t get thought through, even after shit hit the fan.

I spied at the frustrated woman and held view on her bloodied figure. Soaked in red juices that kept Echo going. Her restless left leg was hopping up and down while the joints closest to her knuckles rested between her lips, yet not in her mouth; eyes gazed out the window, without a shaky sensation of adrenaline from what she’d done. Murder wasn’t a new trick, and she hadn’t cared about it for a long time.

Behavior she carried so bold always bothered me, especially when her actions had potential kickback down the line, which was every action. We hit the bank and managed bigger cuts for ourselves, though money wasn’t my motivation. Trane’s, Alpha’s, facial expression seemed seated on the edge of upset about the sour job; however, appropriate timing to converse about misfortunes hadn’t felt there yet. On paper, three million at a four-way split instead of three and a half at seven sounded successful.

I always hid being pissed at Quinn well; many don’t grasp that lesson early. She tried to risk her life over a bag of money that wasn’t even her claim nor was needed. A.S.L. was a direct punch at Danielle Melligan, businesswoman atop a short food chain; an attack that felt more like vendetta, with the reaction to losing a share of bank-marked bills. We exited the recently distraught beauty of upper Manhattan and entered the rundown section of Harlem. Not far into borough limits, we stopped at a warehouse I rented in cash days before to switch vehicles to something less conspicuous I prepped in advance. Charlie waited nearby.

We hauled duffels from one to another on his approach, “What happened to Echo? I thought he jumped in with you guys.”

As she walked to our worn sedan with the last bag, the blood-soaked Quinn answered rudely, “None of your fuckin’ business, get in your car and go.”

Obedient and paid over his shoulder like the rest of us, he backed off. Trane and I followed her lead, as usual. Charlie started his car and kept idle. I closed the trunk after my last bag then took the driver side. Harlem was just a rest-stop where I stashed the replacement vehicles, presuming a successful getaway. Unfortunate enough to not have clean clothes handy, a semi-cleaned up Quinntella returned and got in the back seat. The six-hour drive to Buffalo came.

Cops were long gone. I wanted to slide into a drive-thru yet kept thinking how Trane and Quinn would be too bothered to wanna stop for anything less than a break away from each other. My stomach understood. Home was nowhere near Buffalo for any of us, but to try and stop premature hatching, being close to Quinn when fresh ideas popped was mandatory. She essentially crowned herself one of New York’s most dangerous, and fuck if it didn’t take. Hotheaded demeanor and brutal methods brought a level of fear into people’s minds that labeled her socio– and psychopath. Hours without voice or music resulted in a dry arrival. Smack in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by lush green.

I parked close, where leaves were scarce, “Here we are, off the grid.”

Trane got out first. Not a word said. He went for two bags of money in the trunk I’d unlatched from my seat. I’d have joined but Quinntella was still seated in back. Stiff as a board and lost in thought. Nothing crossed my mind while watching through the rear-view mirror, until Trane closed the trunk. Then she snapped out of it with only her eyes. Straight at the mirror into mine. I surrendered when she broke sight. We exited the car, grabbed three bags Trane left in the dirt, and went inside to cool breeze air conditioning.

The cabin made a nice base of operations for when the city got too hot, which was rare because hot was where Quinn shined. That was my third stay in two years. We spent most of our time in Brooklyn, although bad ideas took us all over to dip into everyone’s pools. A second vehicle pulled up close behind ours. Charlie again. Alone. That was unbelievably clumsy of me to not catch that tail. I began to wonder why he was there. Stealing our shares, he wouldn’t have pulled up, but waited outside the trees until night. Brandon’s smart-ass reeled me in.

Laps spun slow in the computer chair, he asked in a joyful tone, “I take it things went well?”

Our drug deal and heist coordinator. Also, despite being the weakest of us, the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my life. Proud genius with an uncontrollable mouth and zero cares. Boasted into bad situations and wound up at the wrong end of guns more times than his pothead mind cared to remember. Quinn ran into the tortured version of Brandon twice, coincidentally saved him and recruited him on the third. Dressed apart by always wearing a suit, as if at an office job; compared to the rest of us, stood out as an asshole in charge.

Quinn answered as she reentered the main room from the kitchen, “Yeah.” Her attitude raised, “Everything went fuckin’ fantastic. Wish you were there.”

The cabin greeted with a huge main living area and stairs on the immediate left that led to the upper balcony and extra bedrooms; left held the kitchen and dining rested straight back in the center. The agitated Quinn headed to the single doored master bedroom in the back right corner. A true psychopath, Warren, sat in the dining area with a sandwich and locked eyes with Quinn momentarily. Making presence known by never speaking.

Stereotypically, based on dreadlocks and dark skin, Warren was an islander. And that’s it. He didn’t talk, only breathed when he smoked and never shared with Brandon. Similar to Quinntella, he’d shoot anything first and never ask questions. Main differences between them: it was strange to see him smile and sadism. Admittedly, things he did creeped me the fuck out sometimes but I never showed fear, just disgust. Example? He kept tally of how many people he killed by cutting himself. I didn’t know how Quinn and Warren met, but they seemed meant for each other.

Brandon shrugged, “Should’ve brought us along.”

Quinn argued, “Two of my closest and four expendable was your fuckin’ plan!”

A gun cocked. Warren watched the front door, ready to fire from under the table while smoking with his left. We all faced his sight.

Brandon stated, “I see you brought back an expendable.”

Charlie entered with his share of the money strapped across his chest. Five of us knew about that place and I knew Quinn intended to keep it like that. Hoping he was there for something important was a wasted feeling.

I warned him, “You were told to leave, you should do that.”

Charlie spoke without care, “Hey, I don’t mind bein’ expendable. I just wanna know if you guys wanna grab a drink or maybe talk about another lick.”

Brandon introduced himself with an enthusiastic wave and readied handshake from his seat, “Good afternoon, I’m Brandon.”

Charlie approached. A gunshot rattled me. Blood spouted from Charlie’s head and onto the right side of the doorway. His body and shocked expression sunk sideways onto the floor. Warren, at least, waited for sign of danger or permission. I automatically traced direction to Quinn lowering her gun. Because that was our secret lair and I should’ve paid attention to my tails, I couldn’t even argue a valid point. No one had a comment as she retreated into the bedroom. Door slammed behind her.

Brandon laughed hysterically for like ten seconds, “A small part of me thought that was gonna happen, but then I was like ‘nah, he might actually dip.’ and he didn’t!” The laugh vanishes, “So… I know my day was the least difficult but I am not cleaning this up.”

Hotheaded could ring a million reasons why Quinn was upset. Her reactions were how I wished I could react from shit she’d done. Trane and I were alive, Danielle was hit, and we lost an irrelevant share of the take. Crunch. Warren ripped a huge chunk of his sandwich. That appetite I had prior was long gone, and it didn’t surprise me that he could eat while seeing blood actively pouring from someone’s head. Scarred left and right arms proved untimely demises no longer affected him.

Warren strolled over to the body, still eating out one hand, and grabbed the back of Charlie’s shirt with the other. Without stopping, he dragged the body out the front door. Trane sat on the couch in front of the flat screen and Brandon spun back to his computer. I went to the corner room and triple knocked light, entering without permission and closing us in. The master room was as typical as the rest. No decorations and one rectangular feature. Quinn paced back and forth on the other side of the bed against the wall.

She glanced at me during the pace, “Don’t you knock?”

“I did…” She resumed pace in peace as if I weren’t there anymore, therefore I pried, “What’s goin’ on Quinn? We hit Danielle’s bank. The money was just a bonus to pissing her off.”

“I don’t care about that damn money.”

“Then what?”

“It’s nothin’.”

“You’re not even tryina bullshit me.”

Anger heightened and pace stopped, “I don’t have to explain shit to you either!” I kept calm eyes on her, then sigh on her breath, she sat on the bed, “I’m sorry, alright?” Voice calmed to a bit frustrated while I stared at her back, “I keep on forgetting.”

“It’s okay.” Awkward silence didn’t cease the conversation, because I further discouraged hesitance, “Quinn, what is it? You can talk to me…”

Her head fell near interlocked fingers, “…It wasn’t our job.”

Immediately after hitting a bank, I couldn’t know what other job she’d worry about or refer to so soon. Not being “our job” meant somebody else needed a cut, but not a ridiculous percentage that would’ve broken us. Plans to hand Charlie, Delta, Echo, and Fox five hundred thousand splits should’ve left a small amount for whoever the handler was.

I reminded her, “You know I’m not here for money. Take my cut, problem solved. You have Charlie’s share now too. Pay whoever you brokered–”

She quickly rejected my offer, “Money isn’t the problem.”

“Then what?”

Her head twisted left, not looking at me behind her. Dead at the bland wall. I revisited the scene in my head. Back at the bank, headed down to the vault, I remembered seeing an opened room holding loads of safe deposit boxes; a room never to be left open, under any circumstance. Locked as soon as visitors exits. All customers were rounded upstairs in the huddle.

My mind pieced together why the door was open and confirmed my suspicion, “Oh no you fuckin’ didn’t… Fox’s bag had a deposit box?” My attitude raised, “Why the hell would you keep that from me?! I woulda carried the damn bag myself!”

Quinn matched my tone sarcastically, “I’m sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t have handed the very reason I was robbing the bank to a total stranger! We accidentally swapped when you flipped the truck!”

“What was in the box?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

She made a good point. It was called a safe deposit box for a reason, and I doubt she had time to investigate contents before that alarm started ringing.

I normally asked, “Who’d you cut the deal with?”

She stayed silent but I stayed patient, “…Bruno.”

“Bruno? As in Bruno Yigarin?” She didn’t answer me, so I expressed frustration mildly, “You made a deal with Bruno behind my back?”

She rose from the bed and shouted at me with fury, “Who do you work for?! Everything I do is behind your fuckin’ back! I do not answer to you, you answer to me! You got that?!”

I backed down, “I got it… He’s gonna kill you, Quinn.”

“He can try.”

She was being intentionally dismissive. Bruno had a reach much higher than Danielle’s, despite sharing the same table in the upper class criminal world. All he had to do was throw out a high enough number and we’d be dead before the day was up. On a good note, he didn’t know we lost his box since only two of ours died at the bank. Once he found out, Quinn’s entire circle would become responsible for the whereabouts.

I asked, “Does he know who went with you on the heist?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just answer the question.”

She shouted, “I don’t fuckin’ know!” After brief silence, she calmed down and felt worse for snapping, “Fuck, Jordan, the four of you are my go-to backup for everything, he wouldn’t be stupid to assume. I’ll just tell him you guys had nothin’ to do with it. I’m not scared to face Bruno.”

“Don’t you dare, you’re not takin’ heat for this by yourself.”

“Then he’ll kill us all.”

“He’s not killing anybody. We just need to get that bag back somehow.”

“You’re too far gone. We’ll be better off taking our chances with Bruno than trying to get that bag back.”

“Give me time to sort things out. I will not abandon you again, promise.”

I took my thoughts elsewhere. Regaining the bag wouldn’t be easy but wasn’t impossible, strictly dependent on which station it ended up. Quinntella’s behavior kept cops way past arm’s length to be bribed. Her face was everywhere; however, I kept lowkey. Made sure to mask up on every occasion or stay hooded on big jobs. With the right plan, I could slide under radars and take the risks for Quinn to, at least, postpone a Bruno incident.