52

August 2018

Greg, Maxim, Alex, Vickey, Leon

Hearing the fat guy’s quivering voice, the guard immediately perked up, turning in Leon’s direction, leaving Alex directly behind his back. At the distance of an outstretched arm.
“There it is!” flashed through Alex’s thoughts. His mind and body appeared to divide. It all happened incredibly quickly. It was as if Alex heard his inner voice: “Stop! Don’t do it! Run! Grab Vickey and run!”
But his body, for some reason that he couldn’t comprehend, was already doing its job. The right hand had already taken the metal pipe out from beneath his arm pit. The left hand grabbed it in the middle, the left hand lowered it towards the floor, the right hand grabbed it by the other end, all in a fraction of a second, almost instantaneously. The guard slowly turned in Leon’s direction, leaving the back of his head bare.
The blow caught the guard entirely unawares. Alex hit the intersection of the neck and the back of the head. Just the way Max had taught him. As he’d done in the bowling club in East Finchley. A short, powerful, sharp blow. The guard, giving out a muffled sound from deep within his chest, fell to the ground.
What followed was like something from a Hollywood film. The girl standing next to the guard didn’t have time to shout before Greg leapt up on the cashier’s desk, took out his gun and aimed it at the cashiers sitting in their seats.
“This is a robbery! Hands up everyone! You press the button and you’re dead! Hands up, I said!” Greg’s voice rang out in the space, loud and authoritative.
The four cashiers were horrified – glued to their seats, it was as if, in an instant, they’d forgotten all their training sessions on security. They stared at Greg and his gun, raising their hands slowly, frightened of making a move. One of them grabbed onto her head with her hands without taking her eyes off Greg for a moment.
“Customers – lie down on the floor! Fast!” shouted Alex. He kept his hand in the pocket of his coat in order to give the impression that he also had a gun in there.
“Don’t shoot! We’ll get down!” Leon shouted, pretending that he was just another one of the bank’s customers. He got down on his knees, holding his hands over his head, and then lay down, setting an example for the rest.
Within seconds, the rest of the customers, one after another, began lying down on the floor.
“Everyone lie down!” shouted Greg. “Nobody’s going to get hurt! Just do what you’re told and we’ll be gone soon. Just do what you’re told!”
As Greg jumped up on the table, Max walked into the bank manager’s office and aimed his handgun at him.
“Make a move in the direction of the alarm button and I’ll blow your head off!” hissed Max. “You probably want to live to see your kid’s wedding day, right, boss?”
The balding, 45-year-old boss of the bank, startled, slowly raised his hands, shaking his head in silence, trying in some way to express complete submission.
“Come out from behind the table!” ordered Max, and the boss obeyed his order.
In the meantime, Alex turned the lock on the entrance door so that no one could get into the bank and then pushed a brochure stand that stood nearby up against the door. That was just in case the nerves of one of the customers got the better of them and they tried to make a break for it.
Max took the boss out into the main room and ordered him down onto his knees. He ordered the other members of staff to lie down – trying not to even look in the direction of the robbers, they quickly lay face down on the floor. Alex stood by the entrance, indicating that the route to the bank’s doors was blocked. Everything was going according to plan.
“Right!” shouted Greg. “It’s very simple. We take the money and we disappear! If you do everything we say, it’ll be over very quickly! Think about your parents and children! If anyone makes a mistake or disobeys, they’ll be killed on the spot! And we’ll also shoot whoever’s closest to the hero. So keep an eye on one another!”
Greg left a pause in order to make sure that he was completely in control of the situation.
“Now,” barked Greg, “all of the cashiers get up with your hands raised high above your head.”
The women, trembling with fear, began to get up.
“You!” shouted Greg, pointing with his pistol at the first to have gotten up, a tall girl on high heels. “Take the bag! The rest of you – come out from behind the desk and get on the floor!” Greg quickly took out a bag that he’d had behind his back, hidden under his coat and fixed in place with scotch. He threw it to the girl. The cashiers obeyed his orders, came out from behind their desks, looking straight ahead the whole time, and lay down on the floor. The tall girl, her hands shaking, picked up the bag and, trying not to look directly at Greg, for some reason held it in her outstretched hands.
“What’s your name?” Greg asked her.
“Sharon,” she answered.
“Right, Sharon,” ordered Greg, “Get all the money from the tills and put it in this bag! Then give it to that man over there by the door.” He pointed at Alex. “Then lie down next to your girlfriends.”
The girl nodded the whole time and then started opening up the tills and stuffing the bag with money.
“Only the notes!” Greg barked at her. “And if you hit the alarm button by mistake, I’ll shoot you and all of your colleagues. Got it?” shouted Greg.
The girl nodded quickly as she started to carry out Greg’s order.
“Now!” shouted Greg. “Slowly, with one hand, all of you take your mobiles out of your pockets. And put them right in front of you, by your heads. If some hero presses a button on their mobiles and makes a call, then that hero dies!” Greg left a pause that was full of malicious intent. “And I’ll kill whoever’s lying next to that smart ass – to their left and right!” Greg looked down triumphantly at the people lying on the floor. “So,” he continued, “take out your mobiles and keep an eye on your neighbors if you value your life and you want to see your lovely children again, your mommies and daddies, who I’m sure love you very dearly.”
All of the bank’s customers and staff, trembling with fear, slowly took out their mobiles and placed them in front of themselves. Some of the bank’s clients really did look from side to side to make sure that their neighbors were putting their mobiles in front of them.
The girl getting the money from the tills went up to Alex and placed the bag with the cash at his feet. She didn’t take her eyes off Greg, waiting for further orders, standing still, afraid of making a move.
“Now, Sharon,” Greg said, turning to her, “put all the mobiles in a wastepaper basket, put yours in there, and give them all to the man over by the door,” said Greg, pointing with his gun at Alex and glancing at his watch. Everything was going exactly according to plan.
The girl picked up a wastepaper basket not far from the entrance, took her mobile out of her trouser pocket and put it in. She walked through the room and quickly collected up the mobiles that were already on the floor. Then she went back to Alex and placed the basket at his feet.
“Lie down on the floor,” Alex told her quietly, “and don’t make a move.”
He quickly pulled the bin liner with the phones out, tied it in a knot and threw it into the corner of the room. In the meantime, the girl lay down on the floor and put her hands on her head.
The first part of the robbery had gone smoothly. Complete control. Everyone was on the floor.
“You’ve all done very well,” Greg said loudly. “We’ll be finished soon. Stay calm, breathe deeply, keep quiet, and everything’ll be all right. Freedom, your parents, your kids – they’re all right here, just outside the door, you just have to be patient,” Greg concluded sarcastically.
Max, who’d been standing gun in hand, controlling the situation, for the whole time, kicked the bank manager who was lying on the floor.
“Get up, boss,” he said.
The bank manager quickly followed his order.
Greg went over to Leon, who was lying on the floor.
“And you get up, fatty,” Greg said to Leon.
Leon, who’d been playing a bank client this whole time, also obediently got up.
Greg put the gun to Leon’s head and Max put the barrel of his gun to the back of the bank manager’s head.
“Let’s go to the safe!” said Max. “And if you start telling me fairytales about not being able to open it up, you die, boss. Got it?” shouted Max. “You want to see your kid again, right?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the bank manager quickly nodded.
“And then I’ll shoot this fatty,” Max hissed into the bank manager’s ear, nodding in Leon’s direction. “Because I’ve got nothing to lose, boss.”
“I’m begging you, do what they say,” said Leon, staring down at the floor. “I’ve got two little children. I’m begging you!”
“And not far from your house at 35 Widmore Road, boss, there’s a guy,” Max hissed into the bank manager’s ear, “and if I don’t phone him in fifteen minutes, then someone at Widmore Road is never coming back out.”
The bank manager’s eyes widened into terrified circles of fear. Max and Greg had been following him for the best part of a month. A woman and a child who appeared to be his wife and kid, lived there, and a woman, probably his mother, frequently visited.
Greg hadn’t sent anyone to Widmore Road. But it was a very good bluff.
“What’s your kid called?” Greg asked the bank manager.
“What?” the manager asked, not having understood.
“What’s your kid called, damn it?” Greg asked again, angrily.
“Billy. He’s called Billy,” the manager answered, stuttering in fear.
“All right, boss. Everything’s fine. Just don’t use any secret codes and you’ll get Billy back. This evening. Got it?” asked Greg.
“Yes,” the bank manager answered quickly.
“And this fatty,” Greg said, nodding in Leon’s direction, “won’t die because of you and will be able to hug his kids again. You got that?”
“Yes, yes. I got it.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, boss.”
“Ok, I got it, I got it!”
“Do what they say!” Leon begged him again.
The bank manager, staring blankly ahead nodded his assent quickly.
“Let’s go!” ordered Greg. “And please, no secret codes on the lock. Think about little Billy, boss.”
“Yes, all right, all right,” the poor man jabbered.
The bank manager, accompanied by Max, walked up to the door behind the cash desk and opened it with his electronic key. The boss, and then Greg and Leon, followed him into a small space. Max remained at the open door in order to control who came in and out of the main room and what was going on in the section with the safe.
The bank manager, Greg’s pistol poking into his neck, along with Greg and Leon, found himself in the center of a small room. There were two doors leading out of it – one normal door made of plastic leading to the room with safety deposit boxes and a second armored door leading to the main safe. The main door had an electronic pad that the entry code had to be tapped into.
Greg sneered on seeing that nothing had changed since he’d worked there.
“Open the door to the safety deposit boxes,” he ordered the manager.
The manager quickly went up to the door and slotted his electronic key into the lock. The lock beeped and the door opened.
“Take off your boot and stick it in the door so it won’t shut,” Greg ordered and the bank manager quickly obeyed him.
“Well done,” said Greg. “Not long now and we’ll be off, and you and little Billy can live out the rest of your long and happy lives…”
Greg really did know how to make a person obey him fully. Despite the show of brutality, he weighed up every word. He ordered and threatened, but at the same time reminded his victims that, as long as they didn’t do anything stupid, the unwilling witnesses of the robbery would be back with their nearest and dearest very soon.
“Now, boss, open up the main safe,” he said to the bank manager. He pressed the barrel of his gun hard into the man’s neck. “But think about it first – do you really want to use the code that opens the door but also calls the police in? Or do you want to tap in the right code, which simply opens the door to the money? Remember, it’s not your money, it belongs to some fat cats who are currently relaxing in the Canary Islands, watching a film or playing roulette in fucking Cannes. Do you understand me?”
The boss again nodded that he’d be a good boy.
“And you’ll tell the cops the truth – that we knew the code to open the door and call them in and we threatened to kill you. That will put you in the clear. You understand me?” Greg asked in a vicious but reassuring voice.
The manager started nodding again.
“Tell me calmly, which buttons you’re about to press, Billy’s daddy…” Greg said slowly.
“I’m …” the manager began.
“The number, bitch,” Greg hissed in a fury. “Tell me the numbers…”
“One, one, seventy-one, two, two, sixty-nine, seven, two,” the manager blurted out.
“Well done,” Greg said quietly. “And what’s the code to open up and call the cops in?”
“It’s the same, but it ends one, one, the same way it starts.”
“Well done,” said Greg and gave the manager a pat on the head with his free hand. “That’s all there is to it. See? You’ve protected your family. You’re a good boy. Now you just have to carefully open the door and wait a while.”
The manager nodded again, staring straight ahead at a point on the door to the main safe.
“Go on!” Greg commanded dryly, pushing the manager with the gun pointed into his back.
The manager took a step towards the door. He took a long flat key out of his pocket and slipped it into a narrow slot in the electronic lock. The lock bleeped and the keyboard lit up. Tense, Greg watched the manager’s every movement. Leon stood with his mouth hanging open, for a moment having forgotten that he was actually a participant in the crime.
When the manager pressed the final button, the two, a loud click was heard coming from the other side of the door. He put both his hands on the round door handle and turned it slowly, using a lot of effort. The door slowly opened as he pulled it towards himself.
It revealed a picture that Leon, and perhaps Greg too, had only seen in films. A room full of money. A huge number of carefully stacked wads of notes on numerous shelves. All of the wads were in multicolored wrappers, the color appearing to correspond to the denomination of the bills within them.
“Is that it?” Greg asked the manager. “No more ‘secret’ gimmicks?”
“No, that’s it,” the manager answered, shaking his head. “That’s it. I did it all. Like you asked.”
“Thank you,” Greg said dryly.
In a flash, Greg slammed the pistol grip into the back of the manager’s head. Without emitting a sound, the manager slumped to the floor unconscious.
“Let’s go, fatty,” Greg said quickly. “Stick to the plan. You’ve got two minutes, bro.”
Greg gave Leon a pat on the shoulder.
Leon suddenly remembered that his work wasn’t yet done. He pulled himself together and seemed to be a different person. The fear instantly disappeared. Like a robot that had been reprogrammed, Leon started working according to the plan that they’d drawn up. He carefully took off his rucksack, took out two bags that had been folded up tight inside and passed them to Greg. Then he quickly entered the room with the safety deposit boxes.
Greg ran into the main safe room, opening up and laying out the two canvas bags. He took a quick look over the shelves, found the area with the 50-pound bank notes and, with a frenzied smile spread across his face, started sweeping the bundles into the bags. “Here’s our dough! This is the life! Take that, you scum! It’s all mine!” he chanted in an exultant rage.
In the neighboring room, Leon acted fast, deep in concentration. Many of his acquaintances wouldn’t have recognized him. It was as if his usual lack of confidence and timidity had melted away in an instant. Leon slowly placed his rucksack on the floor. He carefully prized several packages wrapped in cellophane out of it, along with some sections of foam, and then, very cautiously took out the matrix – a carefully folded construction made of strong wire with a large number of squares spaced out on it, each squared linked by small loops.
Leon laid out the matrix, carefully unfolding it square by square, forming a light wire construction a yard wide and two yards long. In each square there were two diagonal lines that met in the middle where a small charge that looked like a bullet was attached. All of the charges were linked by wires carefully wrapped in duct tape and leading to a single point in the corner of the matrix. Leon lifted the matrix up and carried it over to the safety deposit boxes. Fairly large suckers were attached to the wire that ran along the top. Leon used them to attach the matrix to the top of safety deposit boxes, with each charge hanging over a single box. He’d got the positioning of the boxes to within a millimeter’s accuracy. There were only a few different kinds of boxes – Greg had given him a photograph that his former girlfriend had given him. She’d worked in the bank and had taken a photo of herself in front of them. Leon had also rented several safety deposit boxes in various banks looking for just the same design. Then he’d simply had to measure the distance between the boxes without being noticed. Which is precisely what Leon had done.
When all the charges were over the locks, Leon attached additional suction pads at the sides and at the bottom in order to fasten the matrix in place. It all took under a minute.
Leon stopped for a second to wipe the sweat from his brow. Then he slowly took a battery from his rucksack and put it on the floor. He took the end of a thick wire that fanned out across the charges on the matrix, attached it to the battery and flicked the switch to ON. A light on the battery lit up. Leon looked at the light, then at the construction that he’d put together, picked the rucksack up from the floor, left the safety deposit box room and went back into the main safe room.
There he found Greg who, with the frenzied look of a victor, was finishing up scooping the wads of money into his bag.
“This is our dough, fatty. This is our dough!” Greg smiled savagely, without taking a second’s break from swiping the cash into his bag.
“I’m detonating it!” Leon shouted.
“Do it!” Greg snapped back.
Leon took out a remote controller and pressed a red button on it. A muffled explosion was heard. Not even an explosion, more of a loud popping. Leon ran into the safety deposit box room and stopped.
For a few seconds, his face was consumed by a smile. Leon liked technical victories. All of the mini-explosions had worked very precisely – all of the locks had been blown off. Leon went to one of the boxes at the end of a line and carefully opened it. It contained money. Leon opened his rucksack and stuffed the money into it.
All of the customers and staff at the bank were still lying face down on the cold floor, too afraid to make a move. They were all waiting for this nightmare to be over. They were all dreaming of being free again as soon as possible. All of them. Except one.
The sporty looking black guy in the light brown coat who, by chance, had entered the bank right before Alex and Leon. The same guy who had checked out Vickey, and in so doing sparked up feelings of jealousy in Alex. Alex, in the corner of his eye, had noticed that the man had greeted one of the bank workers at the entrance, but hadn’t really thought anything of it, because he couldn’t imagine who this man, who looked like a normal client at the bank, might be.
David Rose. That was the name of the black man in the brown coat. Forty-two years old. He was from a children’s home. A former special forces operative, an excellent marksman skilled with handguns and rifles, he’d earned distinction in training and immediately applied to join the SAS, Britain’s most elite force. Having qualified, he’d been hungry for an assignment. He wanted to kill. To kill legally. And to get medals, higher ranks and money for those kills. They were almost all like that in his detachment.
Having arrived at an operational unit, Rose found himself under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Fairbanks, who was distinguished by his unique approach to his subordinates. The Lieutenant Colonel “broke” his soldiers down in order to build them back up into machines that would carry out his orders. His first step in gaining total subordination was to send Rose out as a spotter – a soldier who would accompany a sniper, monitoring the wind speed, the distance to the target and any movement of the person in the firing line. There would be no chance of Rose using his handgun, despite his having come top in that discipline as a special forces trainee. So, one of the top gunmen had been given a minor role just so that the rookie would know who was the master in the house.
How did Rose feel about this? Hundreds, thousands of training sessions, 49 out of a possible 50 points with a rifle from a 100 feet, a 100-percent scorecard in pistol-shooting in enclosed spaces, and what was the result? Assistant to a sniper.
Of course, in time Rose would have got the job of sniper or member of an active team that he dreamed of, if he could put up with it. But the former children’s home kid wasn’t used to putting up with anything and he repeatedly expressed his discontent with the leadership. He’d met his match. In order to ensure that no one would discuss his orders and decisions as a commander, the Lieutenant Colonel indefinitely extended Rose’s posting as a spotter to a sniper, which brought an end to his dreams of gaining promotion and insulted his dignity. Rose applied to be transferred to a different detachment but got nowhere. The Lieutenant Colonel knew how to take revenge: “An accusation of robbery, then military prison, son. That’s if you’re lucky.”
Soon Rose found himself back in civvies and applying for a job with the police. His experience quickly had him recruited into an anti-terrorist unit and once again he was allowed to legally carry a firearm. And right now, the weapon, an Austrian Glock 17, was well hidden in his shoulder holster under his light brown coat.
“Here’s my chance,” Rose thought. All this time, lying on the floor, he’d been working out options. The way he’d been trained to do in the special forces. It was clear that one of the robbers, the guy at the door, was a complete loser. Rose had seen how he’d hit the guard with the piece of pipe – it was completely unprofessional and he was lucky the guard had gone down.
If Rose hadn’t been a professional soldier who was very much at home in enclosed spaces, he’d have taken out his Glock 17 and done damage to the guy by the door. But the instincts he’d developed in thousands of training sessions had come into play. The guy had to have accomplices in the room, and Rose didn’t know how many or where they were. He could immediately get caught in the crossfire, and that would have meant instant death.
So, Rose preferred not to make a move. He needed to work out what was going on and fully evaluate the situation. When another two guys appeared with guns, Rose realized that they were the main strike force. The visible strike force, at least. They were clearly professionals. That could be seen in their actions, the way they spoke, the way they took control of the situation at a stroke, and where they placed themselves in the room.
This robbery had been carefully planned – Rose had no doubt about that. The question that he asked himself as he lay on the floor was simple: were there more accomplices in the room who hadn’t yet revealed themselves. The wolf’s instinct awoke in the gunman. An instinct that had been developed through all those training sessions. An instinct that had been ground down by the dirty, army boot, with its rough tread, of Lieutenant Colonel Fairbanks. Rose wanted blood and victory. Thousands of training sessions, but not a single eliminated live target in his life. Because of the whims of a sadistic commanding officer. Some got lucky with their military commanders, his friends from special forces training, for example. Some, but not him. Again, he’d been unlucky. As he had been in his childhood. He’d lain on the cold ground for months, then in the guardroom for disobeying his commanding officers, and then there was the shame of discharge. That’s how it had all ended for this ambitious kid from a children’s home. These were the gifts that fate had given him.
Rose lay on the ground and sized up the situation. So, the main thief had gone inside, taking hostages – the short, fat guy and the bank manager. The second thief was at the door that led into the bank. From his position he had a good view of the entire room. The handsome guy at the door probably didn’t have a gun – if he did he would have pulled it out. The door was locked and the brochure stand had been pushed up against it, making escape difficult if one of the bank’s clients panicked and tried to make a run for it. The client would immediately get a bullet in the back. The only option right now was to wait.
Rose decided that he should only get involved right at the end, when the whole gang would be at the entrance. Then they’d be one big target or, as they put it in the special forces, they’d all be in one firing line. True, the fact that there were clients and bank staff close to Rose was dangerous – they could get caught in the line of fire. But Rose didn’t plan on giving the thieves a chance. He shot at an average rate of four bullets per second. That was enough for the two main thieves who were armed. A factor in favor of only shooting at the end was that Rose was lying furthest from the door, and so if he got up on one knee or crouched, then any shots returned, if the thieves got the chance, would go over the crowd lying on the floor and, accordingly, Rose would be putting the risks for the civilians at a minimum. He felt his Glock 17 against his body. The best handgun in the world for targeted fire and for fast, “instinctive” shooting.
And so, Rose took a very precise evaluation of the situation and made a decision. And that wasn’t just because it was his duty to protect the clients and personnel of the bank in accordance with his post as a police officer. He had the right to bear arms and to use them if needed. He was on duty, which gave him the right to use his weapon in the situation that had arisen, although he’d actually only dropped in on the bank to pay his bills, even though he was on the clock.
It wasn’t just a matter of his professional responsibilities. Rose knew that he would also be shooting because he’d been preparing for this all of his life. He’d made that choice when he signed the documents for the special forces. All that training, all that blood and sweat, and not a single live shootout, something that he’d dreamed of taking part in. A precise, considered squeeze on the trigger. Cold metal under the tip of his index finger on his right hand. A bullet piercing through the living flesh of an opponent, slicing through the enemy’s body at a speed of one hundred and fifty meters per second. Rose never lied. He wanted to take an opponent’s life. Like he’d had his childhood taken from him. And then his career.
David Rose. Forty-two years old. It was as if his age was branded into his forehead. Another five years and they’d appoint a younger guy to his post, and then what? Rose didn’t know how to do anything else and he wasn’t planning on going back into education. But if this job came off, it would elevate him into a different caste. Into the police’s highest ranks. The superiors loved people who’d proved themselves in action. And that would mean a different pay packet. Then he’d be able to meet up with his daughter Alisa, who he’d barely seen since the divorce, he could buy her beautiful dresses, toys, he could take her to the shows in the West End that she asked to go to whenever they met because her girlfriends at school often went there, he could take her to the kids’ 3D movies at the cinema. He could take her Disneyland - that trip would set you back thousands, it all cost so much. Ideas fanned out through his mind. He could get transferred to management. It was a chance to become someone, to become a person who meant something in the eyes of his daughter, in the eyes of his elderly parents who’d adopted him, even in the eyes of his ex-wife.
Through the bank’s large windows, the figures of people walking by could be made out, though they in turn couldn’t see what was going on inside the bank, the matted glass blurring the view. Outside, Vickey was calmly explaining to the people who came up from time to time that there was a temporary service break, that the bank apologized for any inconvenience, and would they like to answer some questions for a poll? Those that came up, and there weren’t many, waved her away and headed off.
Max, who’d been controlling the bank’s main room for all this time, heard a noise behind him. A few seconds later, Greg appeared in the corridor, loaded down with two big bags, along with Leon, the rucksack on his back and several bags in his hands.
“It’s all going to plan, bro!” Greg said excitedly.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Max hurried him, unable to conceal his joy, although they were already walking as fast as they could.
“Take these!” Greg handed the two bags over to Max.
Max threw the bags over his left shoulder, holding them in place with his left hand, still holding the gun in his right.
Strictly in keeping with the plan they’d memorized, Max headed to the door first, Greg walking fast after him. Leon was already setting up his bags around the room – inside there was foam that was supposed to make the bags look like bombs. All of the clients lay quietly on the floor, face down. In the ringing, nervous quiet, you could reach out and touch the air, or slice it into pieces.
Max and Greg reached the door where Alex was standing. The bag with the cash from the tills lay at his feet. Greg gave Alex a pat on the shoulder.
“And you were worried, smartass …” grinned Greg.
Max threw his two bags onto the floor and Leon put his rucksack next to them. Greg hid his gun in his trouser pocket, then stuffed the bag with the cash from the tills into one of the larger bags with the money, picking both of them up in his left hand. Leon took a Dictaphone out of one of the external pockets of the rucksack. Alex moved the brochure stand away from the entrance, and then, in the tense silence, the loud and precise voice of the anti-terrorist police officer, Dave Rose, was heard:
“Everybody put your hands up! I’m a police officer! I’ll shoot to kill!”
The third, last phrase was lost in the racket from Rose’s shot. Greg had responded even before he’d managed to understand what was going on. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, which was precisely when the shot rang out.
The bullet fired by Rose’s Glock 17, the finest handgun in the world for enclosed spaces, hit Greg in the stomach. Greg, knocking over the brochure stand, smashed into the wall that he was standing next to. A shriek was heard. A tall girl, a cashier, lying on the floor near Alex, leapt to her feet, screaming, trying to run from the shot fired right over her head.
Greg, managing to stay on his feet, took out his gun. Losing his balance, he tried to aim, but was hit by another bullet in the stomach.
Rose, turning his gun to aim at Max, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Greg’s gun flying out of his hand, and at that moment, the girl who’d made a break to get out of the line of fire found herself directly between Rose and Max – for an instant she became a shield for Max.
Rose tried to shift to the side, increasing the angle of attack between him and Max, and his shot was delayed by a fraction of a second – it was in that fraction of a second that another shot rang out. Rose felt a powerful blow to his chest. It was as if he’d been whacked with the blunt end of a hammer. The blow hit him right in the center of the chest. Gasping for air, he collapsed to the floor.
A plume of smoke, barely noticeable, came from the barrel of the 7.62-millimeter caliber Walther pistol in Max’s hand. Max, who’d been an excellent marksman in the past, didn’t miss. He had crossed the line that he’d feared for his entire life. He’d shot a living person. He’d shot without thinking about it. Instinctively, to save his life. A thought flashed through his mind: “That’s it.”
Wounded, Rose lay on the floor, leaking blood. His gun had fallen a few yards from him. Blood and a painful wheezing came from Rose’s throat. His legs kicked out convulsively as he tried to press his right hand onto his wound.
Max moved in Rose’s direction in order to finish him. He already knew that there was no way back.
“Where are you going?” croaked Greg. “Leave him!”
Max stopped, looking back and forth between Greg and the wounded man. Leon froze, not knowing what to do. Alex couldn’t move a muscle either, looking in fright at the man lying on the ground, losing blood – it flowed across the floor, forming a shining red puddle.
Greg’s voice, the roar of a wounded beast, again brought them all back to reality.
“What are you standing around for, you idiots! Stick to the plan!” shouted Greg, writhing in pain and pressing his hands to his wound. “Come on, help me!” he shouted to Max.
Max rushed over to Greg, putting an arm round him. Alex turned the lock and opened the door – he immediately saw Vickey’s very pale face.
“Everything’s going to be all right, kid,” Alex said to Vickey. “Just keep calm.”
“Give me the bags!” Max shouted at Alex roughly.
Alex hurried over to the bags with the money, picked them up and gave them to Max. Max threw both of them over his left shoulder. Holding them with his left hand, he held on tight to Greg with his right.
“Keep pressing on the wound,” Max said to Greg. “Press on the fucking wound!”
“We’ll make it, bro, we’ll make it,” wheezed Greg. “Get me to the car.”
“Let’s go!” said Max. Then to Alex: “The rucksack!”
“Motherfucker!” hissed Greg, trying to bundle up his shirt and press it down on his bloody wound.
“Hit it, fatty!” Max snapped to Leon.
Leon hit the play button on the Dictaphone.
“Attention all clients and personnel in the bank!” The metallic voice from the Dictaphone sounded out through the room. “The robbers will now leave the bank and, by radio, activate four bombs placed in the banking hall. For the first three minutes after the thieves have left, those bombs will be detonated by the slightest movement in the bank. So, keep calm, remain lying on the floor, don’t move, and you’ll survive. We don’t want any needless victims. Nobody should be hurt.”
There was no one by the door to the bank. Vickey, shocked, watched as Max struggled to prop Greg up as he came out into the street. He dragged Greg a few yards to the stairway down to the carpark. They disappeared through the door that led downwards.