Anthony was startled awake by the sound of his partner opening the van door. He checked his watch—he had dozed off for about twenty minutes.
"Here. Iced Americano."
"Thanks! Only an iced Americano can save my life right now!"
Anthony quickly took a large gulp. The bitter, freezing coffee instantly jolted him awake.
"Anthony, anything happen?"
"Pete, what could possibly happen in this dead-end town?"
Pete looked down the street toward the Pacific Standard branch. His expression shifted.
"Why is the bank closed?"
"Probably closed for lunch. Speaking of which, I'm starving. What are we doing for food?"
Anthony still didn't care, but Pete felt a chill run down his spine.
"That's not right. They didn't close for lunch yesterday! Did something happen?"
Pete looked sharply at Anthony. When he had returned to the van, he saw his partner slacking off.
Normally, that wouldn't be a big deal—everyone slacks off sometimes. But if you're slacking off when shit hits the fan, that's a massive problem.
Anthony's eyes went wide. He had only closed his eyes for twenty minutes. And he hadn't heard any commotion during that time.
"N-no way! I didn't hear a thing!"
"We better go check!"
Pete scrambled out of the van, checked his sidearm, and started power-walking toward the bank.
Anthony downed the rest of his iced Americano, wincing at the brain freeze, drew his weapon, and followed.
As the two plainclothes detectives approached the bank, they noticed all the blinds on the large glass windows had been drawn tight.
Highly suspicious!
"Anthony, watch the front. I'm taking the back!"
Pete didn't knock on the front doors. He slipped around to the rear alley to check the situation—just in time to see four men loading heavy duffel bags into a panel van.
Three of them were wearing coveralls and animal masks. The fourth was wearing a sharp suit and a Joker mask.
Upstanding citizens don't dress like that. Pete immediately drew his badge and shouted a warning.
"LAPD! Step out of the vehicle and put your hands where I can see them!"
The four men in the van paused for a second. The response Pete got was a burst of laughter and a small device, looking like a walkie-talkie, tossed onto the pavement.
"See ya, Officer!"
The van peeled out, completely ignoring Pete and his warning shots.
"Fuck! Stop! Stop the damn vehicle!"
Hearing the gunshots, Anthony rushed around from the front, only to find Pete screaming in impotent rage.
"Pete, what happened?!"
"Four suspects just booked it in a van! Fuck! They probably just cleaned out the bank!"
"How is that possible? A bank robbery with zero noise? Are the people inside deaf and dumb?"
Pete glared at Anthony. His partner's little nap might have just bought them both a massive shitstorm.
"Let's get inside and find out!"
Entering through the unlocked rear service door, Pete and Anthony saw the open vault and a lobby full of hostages—bound, blindfolded, and gagged.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! The bank actually got hit!"
Anthony instantly pulled out his cell phone to call their boss, only to find he had zero bars.
"Why do I have no service?"
Pete instantly remembered the 'walkie-talkie' the suspect tossed out of the van.
At first, Pete thought it was an explosive and braced himself. Now he realized it was some kind of electronic jammer.
"Goddammit! This crew is highly organized! We need to get back to the van and chase them down! We might still have time!"
"Pete, what about the hostages..."
"Leave them for the uniforms! Listen, we have to pursue those guys now or we lose them forever!"
Pete was thinking clearly. Any crew that could quietly strip a vault and extract in under twenty minutes was a team of highly intelligent, prepared professionals.
They even deployed high-tech electronic jammers.
If they didn't get eyes on that van right now, the LAPD would never catch these guys.
Anthony realized the gravity of the situation. The two sprinted back to their vehicle. One cranked the engine while the other frantically dialed Vincent.
"Boss! We got a situation! The crew hit the bank and they're gone!"
"Fuck! Why are you only calling me now?!"
...
Catching a vehicle driven by Lawson wasn't going to be easy, especially one he had personally modified.
Sitting in the back of the van, Phil and Dennis were celebrating wildly. Not only did they score the massive bag of jewels mentioned in the intel, but they actually popped open a box full of gold bars.
Incredible luck!
"Phil, how much you think these bars are worth?"
"A lot! A whole lot of money!"
Phil had no idea how to estimate the value of raw gold, but Lawson provided the answer from the driver's seat.
"Around a million."
Dennis looked at Lawson curiously.
"How do you know that?"
"Current market price of gold, estimated total weight. Do the math. But that's retail value. Fencing it on the black market won't get you that number."
Gold was still good; it was hard currency. The black market price drop wasn't too severe. Jewels were where the value really fluctuated.
Unless you had a named, world-class piece like the Heart of the Ocean, you were lucky to get fifty cents on the dollar fencing standard jewelry.
Lawson's phone showed the total yield for this gig was roughly $1.6 million.
That was the calculated fence value.
Meaning, split four ways, they each walked away with about $400,000. It honestly didn't feel like that much.
Sure, to the average American, it was life-changing money.
But Lawson felt the risk-to-reward ratio in this line of work was a bit skewed. They were risking their lives!
If you really wanted to get rich, the sharks on Wall Street were way more ruthless. They legally and systematically harvested the wealth right out of the pockets of everyday citizens.
As Lawson was thinking this, Donnie's pants vibrated in the passenger seat. Incoming call.
Phil and Dennis were too busy cheering in the back to notice.
Lawson glanced at Donnie.
"You going to answer that?"
Donnie thought for a second, then pulled the phone out and rolled down his window to toss it.
Lawson grabbed his arm.
"Don't throw it! That's a nice phone!"
"He gave it to me. I never want to see it again!"
Lawson frowned. He knew exactly who "he" was—Vincent.
"Wait. You're saying he gave you this phone?"
"Yeah!"
No wonder the gig hadn't registered as "Completed" yet!