The silver Jeep truck pulled up outside, across the street from Dyker Heights, Pershall Bank. The car was brand new. The licence plates removed. Inside sat four masked men, hoodies pulled tight over their heads. Their eyes fixated solely on the bank across the road.

  In the front passenger seat, Dillon began to get nervous, his leg twitching as he tapped his firearm against the top of his thigh.

  “Yo guys… we sure about this?” Dillon muttered, drumming the gun against his leg.

  Mateo’s eyes snapped from the bank across the road to his comrade.

  “You what? Why you getting cold feet all of a sudden? There’s no room for doubt when we’re on the job—doubt gets you killed in our world. Every one of you in this car knows that. We go in, we grab the cash, we get out, it’s as easy as that, brother.”

  Was the notion so pre-conceived they’d completely disassociated from the risks of the job, from the dangers waiting on the other side? Was it overconfidence?

  Dillon’s breathing grew heavier, quick and uneven. “Come on, man, we’ve got to be at least a little bit worried. If anything goes wrong, it’s our asses on the line and ours alone.”

  Mateo clenched the steering wheel tighter before slamming a fist down on it.

  “Worried about what, homie? Tell me what it is exactly that we should all be worried about, Dillon?”

  “Dragonblade.”

  Joseph and Santiago’s heads snapped around, their eyes meeting briefly before dropping to the floor. The word on the street was that Dragonblade was clearing house, and that message had been heard all over New York.

  Mateo’s eyes shot to the back seat. He could see the seeds of doubt starting to spread in his crew’s minds and was ready to cut it out at the root.

  “Come on now, are you guys serious? You’re going to let the story of some ghost scare you? In what world do we do that? We’ve went to war with the other side, lost brothers along the way. Did we ever blink in the heat of battle?”

  “No,” muttered Joseph and Santiago.

  “Then I ask you this, brothers—why are we letting some myth the government pushed to deter us stop us from doing what we do best?” Mateo pressed.

  Dillon’s head wandered everywhere, his leg still jittering, his foot tapping uncontrollably. “All that’s cool and all, but what we can’t let go over any of our heads when we’re throwing out claims of ghosts and false stories is all the criminals that have been put away because of him.”

  Joseph and Santiago sat quietly, too scared to put the same question into words. Now they waited for how Mateo would bring the crew back into line.

  “Stories,” Mateo cut in, confidence booming from every word. “You know what I see? Criminals that thought they were bigger than the game and got sloppy. They got caught and instead of looking like the clowns they are, they needed something to save their reputation. Then the bulb went off in their head—” He clenched a fist, raising a finger straight up. “Ding—ding—ding. Pin it on some mythical dragonfly nobody’s ever caught a picture of or had on video—reputation saved.”

  Dillon still wasn’t convinced, his gun tapping nervously against his thigh.

  “But what about Derrick?” Dillon asked. “He said he’s real and we should be vigilant.”

  Mateo’s patience snapped. His gaze locked on Dillon, terrifying even through the mask.

  “Listen—I’ve had enough of your discourse, poisoning the well. Derrick sees shadows every time Afra breathes down his neck. Remember that half a mil that was supposedly missing? The one that was sat right in his safe where it always is—and who was breathing down his neck, applying pressure? Afra. My point is simple—we’ve hit so many stores, robbed so many houses, why haven’t we seen at least one sighting of Dragonblade—just one? Until we see evidence with our own two eyes, he doesn’t exist.”

  The car fell silent. Dillon’s tapping stopped. Joseph and Santiago’s fear was quenched.

  The crew had gone over the plan for two months, scouting the bank’s routine meticulously. Seven days a week, they watched for weakness, for an opening—and it came on Mondays.

  At two o’clock, like clockwork, an armoured van came to the bank. Two men unloaded the cash while an unmarked police car with the same two officers sat across the street. Once the drop was made, the cops disappeared, leaving a small window.

  They’d tested everything. Someone tripped the alarm once, and they timed the response. Thirty minutes. That’s all they had.

  “Santiago, you sure you can trust your cousin to do his part?” asked Mateo.

  “He’ll come through for us, no doubt.”

  Santiago’s cousin worked security in the bank. His job—give the signal when the cameras were turned off inside.

  The four men sat patiently, checking their watches, checking the bank window, waiting.

  “Listen man, Santiago, I don’t think your cousin’s going to come through. We better hope Afra will give us some mercy,” Joseph muttered.

  But just when doubt was ready to choke them, a man in a brown-and-white security uniform approached a window, flashing a light on and off.

  Santiago’s lips curved into the widest smile. His fist pumped the air.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “You see, my cousin always comes through—never doubt me, man.”

  “Let’s go boys, that’s our cue,” Mateo growled, pulling his shotgun from the side of the car.

  The men exited the vehicle and marched to the bank. A young woman noticed them, her lips parting—but before a word escaped, Mateo and his crew wrenched open the door, guns raised. The glass rattled.

  Mateo fired a blast into the ceiling.

  “Everyone get down, now! Faces on the floor, hands where I can see ’em!”

  Screams ripped through the room as customers hit the floor. One clerk froze, trembling hands hovering over the register.

  Joseph slammed the counter with the butt of his gun. “What part of ‘everyone face down’ don’t you understand? Move—now!”

  At the far end, a worker’s hand slid under the desk. Training screamed at her to hit the button. Fingers shook, breaths came sharp and fast.

  But Mateo caught her.

  He swung, shotgun leveled. “You move another inch closer to that alarm, I’ll blow your brains clean out of your head.”

  Her life flashed in an instant—her mother, her dog, the last meal she ate—memories rushing past like flicking pages of a book too fast to read. Tears welled. She yanked her hand back and raised it high.

  The barrel stayed locked on her head. With a slow sweep of the shotgun, Mateo motioned her out.

  Her legs betrayed her, heavy and unresponsive, each step a countdown to death. One… two… three… like crossing a street as a child with no hand to hold.

  As she reached him, the gun’s butt cracked across her forehead. Her brain crashed against her skull, vision flashing white. She tried to scream, but fear stole her voice. Blood poured warm down her lips, copper and metal on her tongue. The world split into three Mateos as she crumpled, easing herself to the ground.

  One of the men in the bank finally spoke up. “Come on, man, that’s a lady. We don’t do that to ladies. Didn’t your mother teach you respect?”

  A woman tugged his sleeve, whispering sharply. “Shut the hell up—are you trying to get us all killed? Just be quiet. Let them do what they need to do. They get out of here, we all go home.”

  “Bingo—the lady gets it.” Mateo pointed the shotgun at the bleeding clerk. “All you have to do is comply with what we say and you leave with your lives. Or—you can be a hero and end up with your brain blown out. The choice is yours. I know which one I’d choose.”

  The bank froze in silence. They’d trained for robberies, drilled procedures—but never believed it would happen. And now training was useless. This was real.

  As time passed, Dillon couldn’t help but keep one eye on the clock and another on the hostages. Sweat began to drip down his mask into his eyes. The pressure of the moment was becoming too heavy.

  Tick—tick.

  The easy passing beat of the clock sent shivers down his spine and made him uneasy. He played every scenario in his head over and over, and each time they walked out with the money—every time but one. They had everything under control, but Dillon couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right—that feeling that out of the hundred possible outcomes, they were in the one in one hundred.

  “Boss—we need to get a move on. Not trying to rush anyone, but the more time we spend here—the higher the probability that we get caught,” said Dillon.

  Dillon was right. They were on the clock, time was ticking away, and the moving pieces weren’t falling into place. Mateo’s head lowered, his eyes squinting as they scanned across the room until they landed on a name badge that read Manager.

  Mateo moved quickly, weaving in and out of the bodies that lay shaking on the ground until he stood at the side of the manager.

  “You,” he barked.

  The manager’s head twisted, his eyes rising. “Who—me?” he stuttered, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Yeah, you.” Mateo shoved the barrel of his gun into the man’s cheek. “Get up now and open up that vault back there. And before you even think about lying to me that you can’t—don’t. I know that you can, and if you persist with the narrative that you can’t, then you’re no use to me. A loose end I can just tie up right now.”

  A thick lump gathered in the back of the man’s throat. He was looking into death’s door, and in that moment decided it wasn’t his time. His hands pressed gingerly into the cold marble floor as he pushed himself up to his feet. His clothes were crumpled, but Mateo didn’t give him a beat to compose or fix himself—he was met with the barrel of a gun pressing coldly into his back.

  The two men moved to the back of the bank, and behind the cold bars lay the vault. Mateo pressed the barrel harder into the manager’s back, reminding him what was at stake.

  “Open it. Now.”

  The manager reached slowly into his pocket, his hands shaking as he pulled out his keys. He raised them slightly before lowering them into the lock.

  Click.

  The lock opened. The manager gripped the heavy handle of the door and pushed. The metal creaked and screeched at its hinges, dragging open inch by inch. Mateo closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a sigh quiet enough that only he could hear, before pressing on to the vault.

  The men stopped in front of the final panel situated on the wall.

  “Open it,” Mateo commanded through gritted teeth.

  The manager looked at the vault, then at the small panel to his left. His heart began to race. His armpits flooded with sweat as he stepped forward. His fingers trembled as he punched in the numbers.

  Once—the panel flashed red. Mateo’s face started to crunch with anger.

  Twice—it flashed red again. His jaw tensed.

  A third time—the panel flashed red, his teeth grinding together, his face sheer rage. Mateo pressed the barrel into the back of the manager’s head.

  “Get it wrong this time and I’ll blow your brains out on the spot. Sure, I’ll walk out of here with nothing, but I’ll leave knowing you’ll never take another breath.”

  The manager wiped the ocean of sweat clouding his vision. He took a huge gulp and entered the six-digit code once more. Mateo waited, the seconds dragging like lifetimes. Then the panel lit green, and the vault clicked—the lock released.

  “It’s time. The vault’s open,” Mateo shouted.

  Joseph and Santiago came rushing in while Dillon kept order at the front. The men turned the heavy wheel and pulled the vault door slowly open.

  And there it was—millions in cold hard cash.

  Mateo couldn’t hold back his grin, his lips parting into a smile stretching ear to ear. “You see, boys—and you thought you had something to worry about. It’s like clockwork, man.”

  As Santiago and Joseph bagged the cash, Mateo shoved the manager back into the other room and down to the ground. Time seemed to be on their side—the money was stacking faster than expected, the hostages were under control, and the cameras were off.

  But then, in the distance—an all too familiar sound.

  Sirens.

  Police.

  Mateo’s head snapped to the side, signaling Dillon twice to check outside. Dillon crept to the window, fingers parting the blinds. His worst nightmare was confirmed.

  “The feds!” he shouted.

  Mateo froze, eyes widening. The boys in the back felt their hearts drop—the money they were counting slid from their hands and scattered across the ground.

  “Which one of you was the hero?” Mateo roared. “I know it was one of you, and I’m going to kill you all one by one until that hero comes forth. How many bodies drop, well—that’s up to you.”

  The hostages lay silent in unity, refusing to break. But then one of the clerks’ eyes fell upon the woman lying gingerly in her own blood, a reminder they weren’t playing games.

  An elderly woman rose slowly to her feet. Both guns locked on her as she stood.

  “It was Ricardo,” she whispered, pointing at the manager. “The bank has a fail safe. If you press the code wrong three times, it triggers a silent alarm sent directly to the police.”

  Mateo’s mind cast back to the keypad. The three failures. The stalling. It all made sense now. Ricardo’s ploy.

  Mateo broke into a blinding rage. “Get up, now!” he shouted, but he never gave Ricardo the chance. As the man began to rise, Mateo grabbed the back of his clothes, yanking him up and dragging him to the window, gun pressed to his head.

  What was supposed to be a routine robbery had become a standoff with the police—

  and Mateo wasn’t about to surrender without a fight.