Page 10 of Bad Attitude
More silence. The sound of movement, something metallic. Declan’s perfectly still on his bike, head tilted as he listens.
“We’re here,”Kurt says.“Hit it.”
“Vault opening… now,”Tasha replies.“Six-thirty.”
“Hello, gorgeous,”Dario purrs.
The sound of drilling comes through loud, a high-pitched whine and the screech of metal on metal. I wince, teeth on edge, then a second drill starts up, a third following. It’s like being in the vault with them, even with the automatic gain control on our radios.
“Fuck.” Kawasaki gives a pained mutter behind me, and it echoes in my earpiece a half-second later.
Kurt always uses open mics. He says push-to-talk adds delays and causes mistakes. But at times like this, I don’t really want to listen in.
“Five.”Tasha’s countdown cuts through.
If the monitoring company is good, they’ll already be putting a call through to the bank. This is the window we can’t predict. But how good are people at 7 p.m. the night before July Fourth weekend?
I don’t have to see inside the vault to know what’shappening. Boxes drilled open, contents emptied into three backpacks. One’s mine, one’s Hale’s, and one’s going to Kawasaki on the dirt bike behind me. Chances he won’t open it and have a little rummage? Zero.
Will Hale?
Jury’s out on that one.
I grimace; bad choice of words. Call it undecided instead.
“Four,”Tasha says. That’s the police being called. Dispatch receiving, assessing, assigning; two minutes. But here’s where we might gain some time, if every unit is deployed to DUIs, noise complaints, or crowd management around bars and restaurants.
Kurt picked this night for a reason.
I pull my helmet on, sliding it carefully over my earpiece. Tuck my braid in. Gloves next. Declan copies, his visor iridescent, blocking out those haunting pale blue eyes. I’m assuming Kawasaki does the same, but I don’t care enough to check. The dick still doesn’t have gloves. He should go visit Hank in the hospital and see if that makes him buy a pair.
“Three.”
We’re a minute away from a really damn early response. My pulse ratchets up another notch.
The drills whir on, and the men are silent. Focused as they work, no banter.
“Two.”
As soon as Tasha says it, two of the drills cut. They’re loading the bags now, taking everythingthey’ve unlocked. Loose-cut diamonds, jewelry, rare and expensive watches. If we get lucky, maybe a sheath of bearer bonds from the ‘80s. Palm Springs’s wealthiest are about to have a bad weekend.
Who cares? It’s all just sitting in boxes anyway. Not like they’ll go hungry.
I’mhungry.
“Got a patrol car out here.”Tasha still sounds perfectly unruffled. She’s tapped into the cameras around the bank.“Single car, driving by, lights only…”
Keep going, I will it. Quiet bank, quiet evening. No signs of a forced entry from the front; nothing to see here.
“…he’s turning…”
Keep going.
“…and he’s stopped.”
Shit.
“Also, One. Cop’s getting out. Wrap it up, boys.”
