The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  The grainy image of a bank robber gazed back at him. Nick snapped out of his self-absorbed disappointment. He took a second look at the image in front of him and attempted to discern any distinguishing features.

  Nick did not typically make excuses for his current circumstance. He was angry at himself for allowing his mind to drift. It contradicted the mantra of his mentor, Sgt. Dave Paulson. Excuses are the bricks that built the house of failure. Paulson was a legend in the Ranger community. He was Nick’s primary instructor, a black hat, at the elite training grounds of Ranger School, and later the two served together in Afghanistan. The wisdom bestowed by Paulson had helped Nick prevail in times of adversity. It would assist him now.

  4

  The nighttime routine consisting of bath, snack time, and bedtime stories was completed. With the girls tucked into bed, Declan and Val finally had an opportunity to talk. They sank into their tattered couch, each with a glass of wine poured from their favorite boxed brand. Declan took a deep breath. Why was he so nervous? Maybe he was in shock at the desperation of his plan. Would she judge him for it?

  “I’m not sure how to begin.” Declan’s voice was soft. Almost delicate. He sipped slowly at the Merlot.

  “You can tell me anything. We’re in this thing together.”

  “I can get us the money we need.”

  “That’s great babe!” A smile shot across her face. “I knew that you would. You’re like a cat that always lands on his feet.”

  “It’s the how that I need to talk to you about.”

  Val’s smile receded. She nodded for him to continue and pulled hard from her wine glass.

  When he finished explaining his proposal, Val was silent for what felt like an eternity. Declan prided himself on being able to read people, but he found himself at a loss when it came to his wife. Val was deep in thought. Her brow furrowed.

  Val finally spoke, and her voice broke the profound silence. The sound startled Declan.

  “I’m in. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll be there.” Her voice steady and eyes sharp. Sincerity present in every word she spoke as she continued, “I love you and I know that you love us. If you tell me that this will work, then I am telling you that I trust in you completely.”

  The faith she had in his ability to provide always surprised him. If at any moment he wavered, he knew that Val would be there to push him forward, encouraging ever so slightly. A smile crossed Declan’s face and the two embraced. He didn’t want to let go.

  They set aside the task ahead and turned on the television. Val curled up in the crux of his arm. Tonight, he would use this time to clear his mind. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

  Surveillance was a skill he had honed over his thirteen years in the Teams. He was better than most. Declan hid in plain sight. To be invisible in the open was the goal. It’s not like the movies where operatives wore thousand-dollar suits and fancy sunglasses as they moved through a crowd. Declan dressed for whatever the environment dictated. Today, a subdued gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans sufficed. Nothing that would draw attention. The clothes carried no brand logos or recognizable graphic designs. A layperson might notice these things. And therefore, remember him. The more generic the better. Be forgettable.

  Declan located several vantage points from which to observe the bank. The building was on a main road with two lanes of traffic in each direction. Its only entrance was south of a congested four-way intersection controlled by a traffic light. Adjacent to the bank was a gas station with a three-foot decorative white-picket fence that separated the two parking lots. Across the street was a small strip mall filled with a smattering of low-budget businesses. The traffic was constant. A steady flow of cars in and out.

  He needed to map out the ATM delivery schedule. He wanted to confirm his assumption. Over the next two Thursday afternoons, Declan sat patiently within visual range of the bank’s drive-thru. A bus stop bench across the street, near the strip mall’s entrance, provided an excellent observation post. The volume of foot traffic on this side of the road made it easy for Declan to blend in.

  Declan sat, his face idle. He removed his cell phone from his front pocket. A swipe of his finger activated the screen. He scrolled through his apps. With Candy Crush open he would look like any other bored citizen passing time while he waited for the bus. In today’s world if you didn’t have a phone in your hand then you were more likely to stand out. It was probable that no one would take notice of him anyway. Most people had their faces buried in phones of their own.

  Declan deployed another trick of the trade. He lit a cigarette. Like a cloak of invisibility, smoking reduced suspicion. It was common for smokers to stand in isolation while they took their nicotine break. He’d used this ploy numerous times during his stint in the narcotics unit. Even though he did not regularly smoke he had conditioned himself so that he did not cough, although the first few pulls burned. A subtle reminder of the long gap since he’d used this guise.

  The armored car delivery happened around the same time on both Thursdays. 5:07 p.m. and 5:13 p.m. respectively. Declan concluded that these transfers were scheduled for 5:00 p.m. The variance in time was most likely due to traffic or possibly a lack of discipline by the driver. Declan knew that he would have to account for the possibility of an early arrival in his planning. A necessary precaution if Murphy’s Law took hold and they happened to be on schedule on the execution day.

  On every bank run, Hoops drove, and Casper reloaded the ATM. During these runs, Declan noted that Hoops had only exited the vehicle on one occasion. But every delivery, she had opened the door to chat with her partner. Casper was consistently slow and distracted, sometimes on his phone or talking to a random passerby. Declan witnessed that during each visit Casper would attempt to get the attention of the teller with a smile and a wave. He was rejected without fail. But like a loyal dog, Casper never faltered. Declan pitied him.

  Casper never visually scanned his surroundings. Too many deliveries without incident had apparently lowered his guard. Declan had seen the same thing happen to guys overseas. Lulled into a false sense of security after long gaps between conflicts, usually with disastrous consequences. He’d lost friends to complacency. And had therefore forbidden its lure.

  On the third day of surveillance, Declan had noticed a man of Middle Eastern descent standing in the shade of a tree. The man looked like he was taking notes. Initially concerning, but Declan deemed that this man had no interest in him. His interest appeared to be solely focused on the arrival of the bus. Watching this man scribbling into the notebook, Declan thought he recognized him. A sense of Déjà vu. It was a fleeting thought. Declan had refocused on his task and when he looked back toward the maple, the foreigner was gone.

  The timeline had been established. Weaknesses of the guards exposed. The operational planning was underway.

  Rehearsal. The cornerstone of his former unit’s success. Drill it until the movements become so natural that they could be carried out with the same simplicity as pouring a cup of coffee. And Declan drilled his op. As he had done in the Teams. The difference this time was that he would be alone. Success rested squarely on him.

  He measured his planned start position to the armored car to be roughly twenty-one feet. Equal to the maximum distance that a person could close before a holstered gun could be drawn and fired. Based on the observed skills of the two guards, he determined that this would not be a factor. Declan knew that he would be able to cross a minimum of seven of those feet before Casper or Hoops would even register his presence. By that time, it would be too late for them.

  Declan used the fenced-in backyard of his home to practice in relative seclusion. His daughter’s plastic red and yellow cab car was used as a reference point for the armored truck. Two five-gallon water jugs bought from a local Army surplus store replicated the relative bulk of the money containers.

  He clocked each pass with a stopwatch. Speed would be critical to the success. He prepared for several days and
the rehearsals went late into the evening. His girls had joined in when they arrived home from school. They followed their dad as he ran the gauntlet, giggling and cheering as they gave chase. Abby took on the role of drill sergeant, pushing her dad to best his time on each run. A natural leader.

  During most of these days of rehearsal, Laney stood by and watched. Close but far away. Her eyes tracked the movement. Her face placid, no effect.

  “Daddy, why do we play Fetch the Water every day?” Ripley asked, coining the drill’s name.

  “I love this game. Imagine that we must bring these water jugs to a village of thirsty people. Lives depend on us.” He was saddened by his response. The words couldn’t be truer.

  5

  Thursday, 4:30 P.M.

  Declan arrived early but not so much so that it would draw any suspicion. Approaching the bank’s parking lot, he observed that the parking space that he’d selected for the assault and escape was occupied. Using this as an opportunity to conduct one final reconnaissance, he looped the block to scout for any cops who might be parked nearby. All clear. Luck favors the prepared. He returned to the bank. The space was now vacant, and he backed his Corolla into it. A focused intensity surged inside him.

  Pulling out his cell phone, Declan pretended to make a call. It was not out of the ordinary for people to be parked in front of a business while carrying on an in-depth conversation. No one would give him a second thought. He knew that the bank’s external cameras would pick up his vehicle as he entered the lot and Declan used this to his advantage.

  Earlier in the week, he had walked the parking lot of a rental car agency in Hartford. He located a Toyota Corolla of the same make, model, and approximate year as his. He snapped a quick photo of the New Jersey license plate attached. Later, using the image, Declan created two replicas using his computer and some do-it-yourself laminate. The simple process had effectively disguised the registration of his car. Double-sided tape affixed the mock plates to the front and rear of his Corolla.

  Declan had also picked up a couple of cheesy bumper stickers. He strategically placed them on the rear bumper using clear packing tape so that he could quickly remove them without leaving any residue. The surveillance cameras would record these plates and identifying stickers. The effect was designed to add a layer of misdirection to any subsequent investigation.

  Declan was unrecognizable. He had picked up some non-prescription contacts, changing his blue eyes to brown. Val was employed to assist. She showed him the proper way to insert the lenses without poking his eye. It took several attempts before he was comfortable with the thin plastic film overlays. He bought a cheap afro wig. Using scissors, he trimmed it down to give him an unkempt, nappy look. A heavy bronzer cream darkened his complexion. He could be mistaken for a dark-skinned Hispanic or light-skinned African American. Misdirection was a critical element in surviving the fallout.

  Declan was grateful that fall had arrived early. The dip in temperature gave him a slight reprieve from the heat produced by the layers of his disguise. The New England air was crisp for late August. The warm days were not yet completely gone, but today’s high teetered at fifty-three degrees, ensuring that the black skull cap secured atop his head would not be out of place. The long-sleeved shirt he wore meant that he only needed to bronze his hands and a small portion of his forearms, reducing the time he would need later to remove evidence of the disguise.

  Val had come up with a brilliant addition to his masquerade, finding some temporary tattoos at the Dollar Store. Declan had adhered a black scorpion on the outside area of his right wrist and an eight-ball on his neck, giving him the look of an ex-convict or gangbanger.

  In position, Declan inhaled deeply, preparing for the next phase.

  Declan had long ago learned that anyone who claims that they don’t get nervous before an op has either never been in a real-world combat situation or is completely full of shit. He had heard all the macho bravado before, but he had also done things that the average person couldn’t fathom. Each time before battle, he felt those nerves. Each time he suppressed them. Declan wasn’t good because he was fearless. He was good because of his ability to acknowledge the fear and take total control of it.

  4:55 p.m.

  Declan sat in his Toyota with his air conditioning on full blast, ensuring that sweat did not damage any of the makeup covering his exposed skin. He looked down at the four prepaid cellphones resting on the passenger seat, mentally pregaming the upcoming sequence of events. The fifth burner phone was with his wife. He flipped open the first cell phone and punched the numbers. Declan knew that based on the geolocation of his call that he would be automatically directed to the Wethersfield Police Department.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I’m at the intersection of Prospect Street near Back Lane and I just saw a car accident.” Declan covered his left nostril as he spoke, giving him a nasally tone.

  “Do you have a vehicle description? Is anyone hurt?”

  Declan responded, “I don’t know. I kept driving. I’m late to pick up my kids. I’ve got to go.” He hung up and threw the phone on the passenger side floorboard. One call down. It had begun. No turning back now.

  Declan was selective when he picked the intersection of the imaginary car accident. It was several miles from the bank. He knew from his time as a police officer that smaller departments typically operated with four patrol officers and a supervisor on a shift. There might be one or two detectives working. Lower numbers meant limited ability to respond. The intersection of Prospect Street and Back Lane was picked because it was located on the boundary of Wethersfield. The jurisdiction abutted the Town of Newington, creating the potential for a multi-agency response. And more confusion for the officers.

  It wasn’t long before sirens rang out in the distance. Declan placed call number two.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I’m stuck at an accident on Prospect Street!” Declan used a high-pitched voice, bordering on being shrill to portray himself as an important person with important things to do. He delivered his act as a man agitated by the inconvenience of delayed traffic.

  “Sir, we have already received a call on this and officers are on the way.” The dispatcher relayed this with a hint of annoyance.

  “There’s smoke coming out of the front of one of the vehicles!” Alarm present in his voice.

  The dispatcher’s voice sounding less annoyed as she registered this new information. “Do you see any fire?”

  “I don’t kn—” Declan ended the call mid-sentence and tossed burner number two on the floorboard. The fire department would be dispatched to the scene. Firetrucks were a cop’s worst nightmare on the simplest of accidents. They were loud, blocked roads, and caused supervisors to show up.

  Declan waited until he heard the distinctive sound of firetrucks sirens as they cleared a nearby intersection. The calls had begun to work their magic. He had engineered an event that was now forcing at least two police officers, a firetruck, and most likely a supervisor in the direction of Prospect Street and Back Lane. The dispatcher had probably already contacted the neighboring jurisdiction to let them know it might be their accident. The game of “whose crash investigation is this” had begun.

  5:00 p.m.

  Call number three.

  “911. Go with your emergency.” The dispatcher said hastily. Declan heard the apprehension in her voice. Frustration had set in. A dispatcher’s stress transmitted over the radio commonly increased the anxiety and tension of the responding officers.

  “I’m stuck in this damn accident. The road is blocked,” Declan projected in a deep, angry voice.

  “Sir. We already have units responding—”

  “Well tell them to hurry the hell up! The guys are fighting in the street!” boomed Declan, staying in character as he interrupted her explanation. This loud, irritated version of Declan commanded the dispatcher’s attention.

  “I have an officer close by. D
o you have a description of any of these people?”

  “Shit! Hurry!” Declan pretended not to hear the dispatcher as he hung up. Burner number three done and on the floor.

  5:03 p.m.

  Call number four.

  “911.”

  Declan covered the phone with a handkerchief and gently rubbed it over the mouthpiece, giving the effect of movement, simulating a butt dial.

  He never spoke directly to the dispatcher, but began yelling, “Stop! What the fuck is your problem? Get back in your car you son of a bitch!” Declan then rubbed the phone harder, giving the impression to the listener that a scuffle was actively occurring.

  “Can you hear me?” The dispatcher spoke with obvious notes of stress in her speech.

  Nothing.

  “Drop it!” Declan yelled through the cloth, creating a muffled effect before he disconnected the call. Burner four down.

  Declan paused. He took several deep breaths. He was aware of the importance of oxygenating the brain prior to combat. The initial stage was underway.

  The fifth call would come from Val using the last burner phone. Declan knew that she would be calling them at exactly5:05. They had rehearsed it numerous times throughout the week. Val would place the call to the 911 operator. She would scream that the people involved in the accident were now actively fighting. Once dispatch began their barrage of questions, Val would interrupt. Her script called for her to yell “He’s got a gun!” After a few seconds of unintelligible screaming Val would hang up. Declan knew that this last ruse would push any remaining officers and detectives out toward the chaos.

  All responding police and fire units would be forced to navigate rush hour traffic to get to the location of the made-up crash. Even with the lights and sirens, traffic created its own issues. Once on scene, the true pandemonium would ensue. Police from two neighboring jurisdictions would be jockeying for ownership of the call and with the introduction of fire department personnel, lots of people would be battling to assume command.