Home > Uncategorized > Day One Hundred and Forty-seven: Out of Retirement

Day One Hundred and Forty-seven: Out of Retirement

Roy knew he was going to catch hell for missing his grandson’s graduation, but there were some things that I guy just couldn’t put off. He pulled the ski mask down over his face and adjusted it, and then did a quick check of his weaponry. Two handguns on his hips, a shotgun in his hands, and a half dozen flash-bang and smoke grenades hanging off his vest. He shook out his hands, then picked up the shotgun and kicked open the back door of the van and ran into the bank.

In his younger days, he would have gone in with a crew, but most of them had retired or died by now, and none of those damn young people wanted to go bank-breaking with an old man. No matter that he’d had decades of experience, that he knew bank robbery inside and out. It never occurred to them to think that yes, he was old, but he was an old bank robber. And there really weren’t a whole lot of those to be found.

The grenades were an excellent way to start the operation off. People dropped to the ground and could barely see through the smoke. Roy pulled down his custom-made goggles and leveled the shotgun at the first teller he saw. “Anyone moves,” he yelled, “and it gets messy!” With his other hand, he handed over a bag. “You have two minutes,” he said. “Fill it up.” The teller nodded, and one of her hands started to drift under the counter. “Uh-uh,” Roy said. “Your bank’s automatic alarms probably tripped already.” He smiled, but it didn’t come through the mask very well. “All you’re doing is making me angry.” He gestured with the shotgun. “All things considered, not a good idea?”

Given his druthers, he wouldn’t do banks. Too many people, too many variables, and frankly it was cliched by now. But passing this one by wasn’t really an option this time. So bank robbery it was. Easier than hijacking, since he certainly wasn’t as limber as he used to be, and he never really got the hang of kidnapping.

One of the other tellers handed over a sealed bag. Roy didn’t take it. “Open it,” he said. When the teller hesitated, he pumped the shotgun. “Open. It,” he said again. The teller, her hands shaking, opened the bag and let him look inside. He looked in, then looked up and shook his head. “Sweetheart,” he said, “adding the paint bomb is older than I am.” He nodded. “Get that out of there.” The teller, now starting to cry, reached in and took out the paint bomb. That done, Roy reached out and grabbed the bag.

“Many thanks,” he said, backing out towards the door. He could already hear sirens. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

When the doors swung closed, he turned around and headed for the van. He didn’t get in, however. Parked behind the van was a small economy car. He stripped off his ski mask and sweater and threw them in the trunk with the money. He took out an old cardigan and put it on as he got into the car. He turned on his left blinker, pulled out of the parking lot, and was on his way home before the police arrived.

The money would make a good present, once he’d found a way to clean it up. A quick glance suggested there might be upwards of a hundred thousand in the sack, which was more than enough. The FDIC would compensate the bank, no one got hurt, and everyone had a story to tell their friends. What’s more, little Neil would be able to go to college without becoming a slave to some bank until he turned thirty. Everybody wins.

Still, Roy was beginning to wish he had more conventional means of raising cash. Sooner or later, this would catch up to him. He sighed and switched to his right blinker. He had a stop to make before he tried to get to as much of the graduation party as he could.

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