Page 10 of The Santa Claus Con

I scan the perimeter of the bank, communicating silently with my eyes to my partner positioned behind open car doors. We’re waiting for the right time to enter the building. First, I need a sense of how many people there are involved in this operation.

I suppress what this entire situation could easily remind me of. The bank. My brother. Right now, I need to focus and not get dragged down by the past. I’d really like to not get shot today.

The call came in six minutes ago; we made it here in two. The FBI SWAT team arrived seconds after us, ready for whatever’s about to come our way. It’s just another day at Hogan’s Alley, the FBI’s mock town in Quantico where new agents in training and special agents can be immersed in realistic, high-stress scenarios.

Down the street, people are going about their day, picking up dry cleaning, groceries, and prescriptions. We’ve caught the attention of a few onlookers, who I hope will stay back and out of our way.

My partner tells me he’s got eyes on two targets. I take my first step.

That’s when the shooting starts.

I jump behind the car door as rounds zoom past my shoulder. They’re hard raindrops on metal, loud and sporadic.

I manage to get a look at what we’re working with: two robbers, shielded and masked, who have burst through the bank’s front doors. One’s holding a bag of money. No apparent hostages.

I turn and fire a few shots back, taking out one of the two. The other tries to make a run for it, clutching at their stomach. The robber stalls for a second before turning the corner, trying to figure out which way to go.

This is my chance.

I sprint forward, following in their footsteps, and catch up quickly. I’ve always been fast, but adrenaline powers me forward even faster.

“Stop where you are!” I shout. “Don’t take another step!”

To my surprise, the robber stops and looks right at me, brown hair swinging over her shoulder. I can’t see her face through the mask.

“I’d really love not to shoot you,” I say, raising my gun. “Put your hands up!”

For a moment, I think she’s going to listen, which would be great so we can all get on with our lives. I have a resignation to deliver, and I’d prefer not to end this day with any injuries if I can help it.

But because this person doesn’t know when to quit, she starts to run.

Too bad I’m faster. I leap, managing to tackle her in one smooth—and impressively efficient, if I do say so myself—motion. It’s extreme, but it works. I put an end to this thing. I’ll even let slide the fact that I ripped my suit doing it.

“Gotcha, sucker,” I say, pulling the robber’s arms behind her back and grabbing my cuffs.

“Your catchphrase could use some work,” she says, and in my shock, I stop what I’m doing, just for a second.

This is no robber. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

She takes advantage of my mistake and slips out of my loosened grip, flipping around and hooking her legs around my neck. Before I know it, I’m looking at the sky and landing on my back with a thud. I backspin and sweep my leg under hers, and she falls to the ground. Within seconds, we both have our guns out and pointed at each other.

“Freeze!” I shout, stabilizing myself on my elbow as my opponent scoots back for a better shot.

Of course, she’s not listening. We have the same idea and squeeze our triggers in sync. Bright blue paint marks each of our vests, right over our hearts. When I aim to kill, I don’t miss.

Neither does Scarlett Payne.

“You always did love to rip out my heart,” she says, glancing down at her vest. And then Scarlett whips off her protective headgear. “Hey, Lambros. It’s been a year. Time’s up.”

Chapter 5

NATHAN

I lift my face mask and glare at her. “Why are you here?”

Scarlett looks up at me from where we’re lying on the ground, her dark brown eyes as piercing as ever. “I didn’t expect a hot welcome, but at least a warm one would’ve been nice.” She hunches forward and grimaces. “Ow.”

“Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?” I ask, and Scarlett quirks an eyebrow just enough for me to tell that she’s surprised by my concern. An unknowing observer wouldn’t have noticed anything. She’s good, but I’m better. I scold myself for that being my immediate response. “I mean, that’s what you get for initiating a shoot-out.”