by Brian Shea
Declan was confident that the difficulty in finding the non-existent crash would stall the officers. Once in the area of Prospect Street and Back Lane, officers would be three and a half miles from the bank.
Declan had timed the route without traffic. It had taken eleven minutes. He estimated that the high speeds of the police cruisers would cut the time to approximately six minutes, but rush hour would add an additional minute or two to the commute. Declan calculated eight minutes of time.
Supervisors and officers would race around the neighboring streets looking for an accident that had quickly escalated into a disturbance involving a firearm. Protocols would dictate their inability to break off from a service call of this magnitude until they determined that the area had been thoroughly searched. A minimum investigative standard needed to be met before a supervisor would begin releasing officers back to their regular duties. And that would take time.
5:08 p.m.
Declan could see the front of the armored truck approaching from a block away, stopped at a red light. The two occupants appeared to be engrossed in an animated discussion, totally unaware of what was about to happen. Declan found a contentedness in this moment of calm, like being in the eye of a hurricane.
The armored truck entered the parking lot, passing Declan’s car. They paid him no mind, lost in their conversation. The truck disappeared behind the bank and then reappeared in the ATM lane a moment later.
Casper and Hoops pulled to a stop facing him. Declan inhaled slowly. He began the last of his pre-battle preparations, tensing and releasing his muscles to allow for the adrenaline to disperse throughout his body. A technique that had been learned from his hand-to-hand combat instructor. It had served him well in times past when a steady hand was needed.
His Toyota idled quietly. The loud rumble of the armored truck provided him with additional stealth and would drown out the sound of his approach. Declan opened the door slightly. He watched as Casper began the routine, lazily sauntering around the front of the truck. His back to Declan, he waved at the teller. Routine created complacency.
Hoops had opened the driver door, sitting half in and half out. She continued her heated discussion with Casper. Declan heard her voice for the first time and noted the slight rasp of a chain-smoker as he heard her say “…you know that she loved him from the start. He was just acting like he didn’t care.” Declan had surmised that they did not seem like readers. He deciphered their conversation must have been about some reality television show they watched.
Casper had opened the front of the Automated Teller Machine, turning his attention to Hoops. “You always talk about that love crap. Who cares? She obviously was using him. Why would he want to be with her cheating ass anyway?” Casper threw his hands up and mumbled something under his breath. He walked toward the rear door of the armored truck.
Casper began lumbering back toward the ATM in the same manner that Declan had observed him do repeatedly over the past several weeks of surveillance. He put the box down and turned toward Hoops who was now completely out of the truck.
Declan was already moving. They didn’t see him approaching on foot. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Declan never moved faster than he could shoot or act. The weeks of preparation showed in his ability to close the distance quickly. As he moved he pictured Abby holding the stopwatch and cheering him on.
Ten feet away from the two guards, and they remained unaware of his presence. He pulled on the skull cap, rolling down the black dry-fit ski mask over his bronzed skin. The mask, by design, only covered his face, ensuring that his eight-ball tattoo was exposed on his neck. The black latex gloves were size medium, a tight fit for Declan’s large hands. This caused the rubbery material to stop at the wrist, intentionally exposing the fake scorpion tattoo.
In one swift, fluid movement Declan pulled a silver starter pistol from his waistband. His left hand simultaneously slid a blackjack from his pocket.
Canting the gun sideways, giving him the appearance of a street hood, Declan roared, “Don’t do anything stupid! It’s not your money!”
To Declan, everything was in slow motion, but he knew from personal experience the speed at which he was now moving. Scientists called this flow. Legendary athletes had been studied because of claims that everything slowed down when shooting a basket or swinging a bat, making it almost impossible to miss. Declan Enright had achieved this as an operator in the military and was subconsciously applying it now. He was the Michael Jordan of special ops.
Casper’s hand began moving toward the holster on his hip. “What the fu—” His words cut short as the loud bang of the starter pistol erupted next to his left ear. Simultaneously Declan struck the right side of Casper’s head with the blackjack. Declan banked on the brain’s inability to comprehend multiple stress events. He knew the gun would consume their attention. Casper went limp and crumpled to the ground.
The effect on Hoops was immediate. The only thing moving was her eyes. This happened sometimes. Most people were aware that the mind responded to stress in one of two ways: fight or flight. Declan knew that there was a third and less common reaction, freeze. In the face of extreme danger, some people lost the ability to physically react. Hoops stood in front of him completely frozen.
Declan yelled at Hoops to snap her back, “Get on the ground! On your face!” Her body initially resisted the movement, but slowly she took up the prone position as requested.
“Look away from me and close your eyes!”
“P-p-p-p-lease don’t shoot me. I have children. I don’t want to die. Take the money! I didn’t see your face.” Hoops pleaded to Declan in a whispered voice.
Declan continued to play his role, “Bitch, you don’t move, you don’t get shot!” He quickly bent down and grabbed the gun from the worn leather pistol belt wrapped around Casper’s urine-soaked waist. He tossed it on the front seat of the armored truck. Hoops followed his orders and continued to lay motionless on the ground.
“Start counting to 100!” Declan spoke these words through clenched teeth. Hoops began the slow rhythmic count as he released the holster’s retention safety and tugged her sidearm free from her hip. Declan pitched it in the truck and slammed the door. He created a barrier between the guards and their weapons. He didn’t want them to try some act of heroism. Although he had already surmised that would be unlikely.
“9. 10. 11…” Hoops droned on. Her cadence slow and flat. Declan had already started moving back toward his car. Both containers swung awkwardly from their hinged handles. The unbalanced weight caused Declan to strain as he attempted to stabilize. He was glad that he had trained with the water jugs. Carrying the sloshing water in training paid off now.
5:12 p.m.
Declan got in the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He intentionally lifted the ski mask up, exposing his darkened skin. He threw the containers on the floorboard of the back seat and covered them with a blanket. The Toyota sped out onto the road, heading north into Hartford.
Khaled sat on the bench of the bus stop across the street from the Clover Leaf Bank, watching as the red car pulled into the lot. He recognized this car, but not the man sitting in the driver’s seat. It was not the “Golden Man.” It was not Enright.
Golden Man. The thought of her brought him back to Alnaeim, and for a brief moment, he could hear Sonia’s voice resonating in his ears. It never seemed to lose its hold over him. A whirlwind of memories, like fireflies trapped in a jar. This disorientation only lasted for a moment before he saw what was taking place across the street in the bank’s parking lot.
He pocketed his notepad and stared in disbelief at what he was seeing. The dark-skinned man in Enright’s car had parked and waited in the vehicle. An armored truck rounded the building and stopped in front of the ATM. The dark-skinned man exited the red car and moved across the parking lot. His movements were quick and purposeful as he crossed the asphalt toward the two uniformed truck personnel.
With the precision of a trained sol
dier, the dark-skinned man was able to neutralize the male guard and render the female useless in a matter of seconds. The gunshot was loud, but Khaled did not see the red mist he’d become so accustomed to after a headshot. But the male guard collapsed to the ground. Khaled recognized the absolute skill to take on two armed guards during daylight hours. He was now convinced that this man was in fact Enright. The Golden Man had gone to great effort to conceal his identity, but Khaled had long studied this man and now saw clearly through his deception.
An interesting turn of events. The Golden Man had sat on this very bench two weeks ago while Khaled was doing his own reconnaissance. What were the chances that two men acquainted in the desert of Iraq eight years ago would run into each other in a small town in Connecticut? Khaled laughed to himself. He knew that chance had nothing to do with it.
6
“Nick, come in here when you get a chance,” Jake Nelson called out from his corner office.
Nick stood with his desk phone pressed against his ear and gave a silent thumb’s up, acknowledging his boss’s request before returning to his conversation. He sat back down in his chair and pulled the phone’s receiver close so that others around could not hear the exchange taking place.
“No Mom, Patrick is not playing hide and seek. He’s not home.” Nick struggled to mask his frustration as he spoke.
The voice on the other end was silent for a moment and then a small laugh broke the tension. “I know that sweetie, I was just testing you,” his mother said in a sheepish tone.
“I have to go now, Mom. Push the red button on the controller.” Nick heard the television come to life in the background. His mother hung up without saying another word.
Nick had sadly become accustomed to this routine. The genesis rooted in his brother’s death a few years earlier. Patrick had survived some intense combat while overseas, but the residual impact had greatly affected him. Nick had also lived through similar experiences as a U.S. Army Ranger. The chest full of medals bore testament to this. Nick left the military psychologically intact, but Patrick was forever changed. Everybody processed traumatic events differently.
Pat slipped into a deep depression that drained the light from his boyish grin. He made the decision to end his life without much warning. At the time, it had caught the family completely off guard, but in retrospect, the signs were all there. Hindsight gave clarity to those red flags, bringing with it the burden of failure that only an older brother can know. Nick was supposed to look out for his younger sibling. To shield and protect him. Time had not lessened that guilt, and it was his alone to shoulder.
As his mother’s mental health began to deteriorate, she began to ask for Patrick with more frequency. She spoke as if she had just seen him. Initially, Nick tried to explain to his mother that Patrick was dead. That had disastrous results and had sent her into an inconsolable screaming fit. Nick had started placating his mother, telling her simple things like “Pat went out for milk” or “He’s over at a friend’s house.” As time passed Nick had learned to listen carefully to his mother’s comments because they would tell him what age Patrick was, in her mind. Nick would ensure that his responses were appropriate to that time.
It was a tedious task, and it drained Nicholas more than he cared to admit. The only solace he took was that his mother was spending time with Patrick, even if it was only an illusion. He knew that this was not an optimal plan for handling his mother’s declining mental health, but it was a band-aid until a more permanent solution prevailed.
“What’s up boss?” Nick said as he walked into Nelson’s office. Nelson prided himself on being an approachable guy. And he was, for the most part, although he and Nick had butted heads on more than one occasion. Their relationship remained professional but guarded.
“The locals are working an armored truck robbery that occurred yesterday around 5 p.m.” Nelson said this in the excited tone that supervisors got when assigning a new case. Nicholas knew that this excitement quickly died down as people higher in the food chain found something else to focus on. Law enforcement supervisors were the ficklest of creatures and Nick had learned patience in dealing with them.
“Okay, so what do you have so far?” Nick felt like this kind of information should not need to be solicited. Nelson enjoyed knowing more than others even if it was only short lived.
“A shot was fired and one of the guards was injured. I don’t have all the details yet, but the lieutenant that I spoke with said they have good video footage from multiple angles. It should be pretty simple,” Nelson said. He handed Nicholas a sheet of paper covered with his chicken scratch notes, containing the address and some contact numbers for the local police department in Wethersfield.
“I’m going to grab Martinez to assist.” Nicholas found that it was always better to tell a supervisor what you were doing rather than ask permission.
Nelson nodded. Nick went over to the cubicle of Isabella Martinez. He leaned against the poorly constructed partition and looked down at Izzy who was busy scrolling through some bad guy’s Facebook profile. She looked up and smiled. “What steaming bag of shit did El Jefe give you?” Nick loved how she always cut to the chase.
“Armored car job. It may be fun. Do you want to come play?” Nick trusted very few people, but Izzy had made the short list of those he did. He knew she would always have his back. She had proved that early on.
Isabella was attractive. Her shoulder length black hair fell straight and framed the delicate features of her face. She could have been a model, but she was called to law enforcement, following in the legendary footsteps of her father. Nicholas saw her as a good cop and nothing more. It was rare in this profession that a female could transcend gender, but she had done it and was considered one of the guys. Albeit a better-looking version.
“Anything for you.” She mockingly gave an exaggerated wink. “To be honest, I need to get the hell out of this office for a bit. I feel like I’m losing my mind staring at this damn computer.”
Movies made it seem like FBI agents were always out on some crime scene wearing their blue windbreakers with bright yellow lettering. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Most of the grunt work took place in the sterile environment of an office cubicle. The slow grind.
“Coffee?” Nick never showed up to a scene without a cup in his hand. It was probably his most important investigative tool, aside from his mind. He was considered by most to be a gifted agent whose skill was only matched by his tenacity.
“Do you really need to ask?” Izzy said. She grabbed her notepad and stood.
Nick stopped at his cubicle and removed the gun from his desk drawer. He hated wearing it while seated in the office. It always felt odd to type all day with a gun strapped to his hip. There were periods of time that he had gone several weeks without taking it out at all.
Izzy drove so that Nick could make the call to the local PD. He dialed the number on the sheet of paper that Nelson had given him. The note said, Point of Contact: Lieutenant Patterson - Wethersfield Police Department.
“ Lieutenant we’re on our way and should be there in the next thirty to forty-five minutes. It’s not our intention to step on any toes. I was just assigned the case this morning and I’m behind the power curve. I’m going to piggyback off anything your patrol or detectives have done up to now. I promise that I’m transparent and will work with your people, keeping them in the loop throughout.”
“We are looking forward to your assistance on this one. I’ll meet you in the lobby and bring you to our detective bureau where we can get you up to speed,” Patterson said in a welcoming manner.
Nick noted that Patterson gave off a professional demeanor during the brief conversation. He’d learned that agents were typically considered outsiders. Every local agency reacted differently to the FBI’s presence. This would be the first time that he had any experience with the Wethersfield guys, but his initial impression was that they were receptive to the federal assistance.
Coffee in hand, Izzy and Nick walked into the main lobby of the Wethersfield Police Department. For a small PD, the facility was well designed. Some decent money had been dumped into its construction, an indication of a good tax base and supportive population.
Patterson entered the lobby from a secured door and approached the agents with a broad smile. His friendly face matched the personality conveyed over the telephone. He shook their hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Patterson took them in through the secure door, up to the second floor of the building and into the detective bureau. The office space contained six cubicles of modest design. Not much different from the one that Nick and Izzy used. The Lieutenant approached a heavyset male seated in his swivel chair.
“Darryl, this is Agent Lawrence and Agent Martinez,” Patterson said, sweeping his arm back in the direction of the guests.
Darryl Reynolds stood. He was a short stocky man. A light glisten of sweat shone on his brow just beneath his unkempt, matted hair. He wiped the palms of his thick hands against his khaki pants before he shook with both agents. “Welcome to the shitshow.”
Nicholas could see the stress lining Darryl’s face and felt it in his moist handshake. “I’m Nick and this is Isabella.”
“Call me Izzy,” her voice gently interjected. Rank and titles got in the way of police work. It had its place in the military, but in policing it was more of a hindrance than a benefit to the investigative process.
“I’m not sure what you’ve been told so far, but the robbery was a success as far as bank jobs go. Still waiting for the bank’s official loss. They gave me an initial estimate and as it stands now they’re looking at $60,000 plus on the hit,” Darryl said. The tension present in his voice exposed the likelihood that he had not handled a robbery of this magnitude before.