I got a package later that day and in it, five million dollars in cold, hard cash. Each bill was worth a hundred bucks, but it seemed like so much more. All that cash lying in front of me almost made me change my mind about the heist, but I couldn’t forget what had happened.
What he had done to all those people. The blur of the car chase following the heist. And Jerome’s face as his eyes glazed over and his body went limp, the warmth leaving him.
I brush aside the melancholic thoughts of the previous week and drive away in my beat-up 1985 Ford F-150 to the airport, where a private chartered plane will be waiting for me. As soon as I get to Italy, I’m getting myself a nice new car, I think to myself.
Driving along a local road, though, I feel like something is off. It’s a small town I’m driving through, but it’s the main street, and I see no one. Then I see what I’ve been dreading, the distinct black and white of a police car in an alley. But before I can reverse the car, I hear a pop pop pop, and my tires burst.
I instinctively reach towards my conveniently stashed AR-15 assault rifle from under the shotgun seat. Thanks to last week’s events, I’m prepared for anything. However, I quickly realize my pitiful rifle is nothing against the two S.W.A.T. vans that pull up in front of me and behind me. I’m pinned in a narrow road, surrounded on all sides by at least 20 to 30 heavily- armed cops. “GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE, SHOW US YOUR WEAPONS, AND LAY THEM ON THE GROUND, NOW!”, I hear a cop shout through a megaphone. But after everything I’ve been through, I’m not giving up that easily.
I remember my training and quickly assess the situation. Cops are on all sides of me; however, there are weak points. There are about 15 cops in front of me and behind me, but only 1 or 2 in the buildings on my left and right. I slowly get out of the car with my gun, pretending to listen to the orders. “LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPON, NOW!”, the officer with the megaphone responds. I start to comply, but before I do, I quickly bring my AR-15 up and shoot wildly at the officers. I receive a hailstorm of bullets in return as I madly dash for the building closest to me, a bakery. I smash the glass and head to a backroom, where a set of stairs that lead to the floor above are located. There are two cops inside, waiting for me. After a few accurate blows, they are both down. I disarm, tie, and drag them up the stairs.
As I barricade the door and prepare a grenade trap, I remember how I got into this mess. How he had coaxed me into helping him rob the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank, and how he got Jerome killed. I hated him for that, but what’s done is done, and all I wanted was to escape to Italy, unbothered, with my money and a fresh new start. Jerome would have wanted that for me, too. I quickly regain my senses and resume building my trap. This one’s gonna be a long haul, I think to myself. I sigh and continue setting the trap.
What he had done to all those people. The blur of the car chase following the heist. And Jerome’s face as his eyes glazed over and his body went limp, the warmth leaving him.
I brush aside the melancholic thoughts of the previous week and drive away in my beat-up 1985 Ford F-150 to the airport, where a private chartered plane will be waiting for me. As soon as I get to Italy, I’m getting myself a nice new car, I think to myself.
Driving along a local road, though, I feel like something is off. It’s a small town I’m driving through, but it’s the main street, and I see no one. Then I see what I’ve been dreading, the distinct black and white of a police car in an alley. But before I can reverse the car, I hear a pop pop pop, and my tires burst.
I instinctively reach towards my conveniently stashed AR-15 assault rifle from under the shotgun seat. Thanks to last week’s events, I’m prepared for anything. However, I quickly realize my pitiful rifle is nothing against the two S.W.A.T. vans that pull up in front of me and behind me. I’m pinned in a narrow road, surrounded on all sides by at least 20 to 30 heavily- armed cops. “GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE, SHOW US YOUR WEAPONS, AND LAY THEM ON THE GROUND, NOW!”, I hear a cop shout through a megaphone. But after everything I’ve been through, I’m not giving up that easily.
I remember my training and quickly assess the situation. Cops are on all sides of me; however, there are weak points. There are about 15 cops in front of me and behind me, but only 1 or 2 in the buildings on my left and right. I slowly get out of the car with my gun, pretending to listen to the orders. “LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPON, NOW!”, the officer with the megaphone responds. I start to comply, but before I do, I quickly bring my AR-15 up and shoot wildly at the officers. I receive a hailstorm of bullets in return as I madly dash for the building closest to me, a bakery. I smash the glass and head to a backroom, where a set of stairs that lead to the floor above are located. There are two cops inside, waiting for me. After a few accurate blows, they are both down. I disarm, tie, and drag them up the stairs.
As I barricade the door and prepare a grenade trap, I remember how I got into this mess. How he had coaxed me into helping him rob the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank, and how he got Jerome killed. I hated him for that, but what’s done is done, and all I wanted was to escape to Italy, unbothered, with my money and a fresh new start. Jerome would have wanted that for me, too. I quickly regain my senses and resume building my trap. This one’s gonna be a long haul, I think to myself. I sigh and continue setting the trap.
