They walked up to the building, heads down, and entered.
Guns were immediately drawn. Cole shoved his .357 into the security guard's face right before the man had a chance to go for his weapon, a simple nightstick. He whacked the man across his face with the gun, knocking him out.
Derek headed to the manager's office.
Cole pointed his gun at each teller and told them to get their hands up or he'd fucking kill them all.
Dirk rushed over to the accounts desks and covered that area, making sure no one alerted the cops.
The three customers in line—a teenager, a woman in her fifties, and a farmer who Cole recognized—all had their hands up. The fifty-year-old was crying.
Keeping his gun trained on a plump teller wearing too much makeup, Cole said, "We all know what this is, so get with the program. I want all hands to remain in the air. If I or any of my associates see a hand dip below to set off a silent alarm, you get a bullet, no questions asked. If the cops arrive, you all die and my friends and I take the suicide route. We ain't going to prison. All we want is the government's money. Do as you’re told. It's fucking simple."
"Please, I need to leave," the fifty-year-old woman cried.
"No one's leaving, lady. Now get the fuck down and put your hands over your head."
He thought he'd have problems with her, but she cooperated.
Derek came out of the manager's office, shoving the balding man forward.
The other teller, a pretty brunette with perky tits and nipples showing through her blouse, lowered her arms a few inches. Cole fired a shot over her head. Screams sounded all around. "I said not to fucking lower your hands. Next one goes in your head." The woman nodded as tears slid down her cheeks.
Derek ushered the manager over to Cole and then took up pointing his gun at the tellers. He tossed his black duffel bag at the chubby chick. "Fill it with twenties and tens. If you put a dye pack in there, I'll come to your house and kill your entire family."
"We'll give you whatever you want," the manager said. "There's no need to—"
Cole slapped the man, knocking his glasses askew. "Don't tell me what to do. Just do as I say." The man adjusted his glasses and stood straight, his cheek reddening. Cole then pressed the barrel of his magnum against the man's temple. "I'm giving you one chance and one chance only to open the vault door. I know it’s open during the day and only the cage door is used. I also know it requires two keys to unlock it. You've got one. Who has the other?" He pressed the gun harder against the man's head. "Lie and you don't get to see your wife and kids ever again."
"I've got it," the plump teller said.
"Cooperation," Cole said, grinning. "You see how that works, folks? Toss this man here your key, beautiful." The woman smiled for a second, then removed the key from a chain that was around her neck and hidden under her blouse. She tossed it to the manager who bumbled the thing before getting a hold of it.
Cole grabbed the man by his shirt collar and ushered him over to the vault where the prison cell-like door stood locked. The bank manager quickly inserted his key. Cole then inserted the teller's. They turned the keys together and the lock clicked open. Cole opened the door, feeling his flesh prickle with excitement. He shoved the manager inside and followed.
There were walls of lock boxes. What he'd give to see what was inside them. But there wasn't time, of course. He was here for the cash, which he knew was located within the cabinet-size safe against the far wall.
Cole forcefully guided the man over to the steel beast. "Open it," he said, and pressed the gun's barrel against the back of the man's head.
With a shaky hand, the manager turned the knob to the left, stopping on 24, then right to 8, and finally left to12. He then pulled on the handle and the safe opened. Shelves lined with stacks of cash rested before him.
Cole felt his mouth drop open, then shook off the amazement. He slapped a duffel bag against the man's chest. "Fill it with twenties, and if they run out, give me tens. No hundreds. I hope you remember what I told the teller about the dye packs and killing your family if I find one."
The manager worked quickly, beads of sweat pouring down his face. When the first bag was filled, Cole handed him the second duffel. A minute later, it was bulging with cash. There were still stacks of green inside the safe, but he had what he came for. To stuff his pockets and waste more time might prove their downfall.
They exited the vault, Cole with one bag over his shoulder, the manager holding the other. He draped his arm around the man's neck as if they were old pals. "You see, now that wasn't—"
Cole saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The fifty-year-old woman was making a run for the door.
"Stop," Derek shouted, but kept his gun trained at the tellers, a bulging black duffel bag at his feet.
Dirk pivoted from his position by the accounts desks and aimed his rifle.
Cole saw it unfold in slow motion. He wanted to tell Dirk to stop, knowing what he was about to do by the look in his eyes. But then the SKS went off. Flame sprouted from the weapon's muzzle like some exotic flower. The report was deafening. The fifty-year-old woman's head turned to mist as chunks of bone, brains, and flesh splattered against the glass door.
Screams erupted from all around.
"What the fuck?" Cole shouted.
"He . . . he killed her," Derek said, visibly shaking as he stared at the headless woman.
"Damn right I did," Dirk shouted. "And if anyone else makes a move, I'll kill them, too."
Cole's head was spinning. He hadn't wanted any dead bodies on his hands. Why couldn't the bitch just have stayed down? Robbery just became murder. Not that it mattered. The government looked at robbing a bank much more seriously than murder, especially if they didn't recover the money. On average, bank robbers and thieves spent more time in prison than violent offenders, even murderers. But it was more added heat they didn't need.
"I warned you people not to do anything stupid," Cole said, making sure to sound strong. He couldn't allow anyone to think the woman's death bothered him. "That's what happens when you don't listen." He shoved the manager to the floor and the duffel bag came free from his grasp, plopping down in front of the man. Cole told his brother to pick up the bag at his feet and the one the manager had dropped.
"It's time to go, boys," Cole said.
With duffel bags gathered, Derek, Cole and Dirk headed over to the exit doors, guns pointing in all directions, making sure no one moved. Cole left first, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans and covering it with his leather jacket. Derek followed, and then Dirk.
The bank robbers hurried across the parking lot to the stolen Toyota when gunshots sounded. Dirk cried out. Cole spun around, drawing his weapon at the same time. The security guard was firing at them. The guy must've had a concealed weapon. Shit, Cole thought, wondering why he hadn't tied up the man and checked him for a gun.
Cole and Derek returned fire. Dirk was down. He had two bullet holes in his back at lung level, his denim jacket darkening with crimson. He lifted his head and coughed up blood. "Fucking rent-a-pig," he said.
Cole felt a bullet whiz by his head, but kept on firing, his gun booming with each powerful shot. The security guard took multiple hits all at once as his and Derek's bullets hit their mark. The man's blue uniform shirt fluttered as he jerked backward and fell to the grass.
"Fuck," Derek yelled, and wiped a hand over his head.
Dirk wasn't moving. Cole tried getting him up, but the man was a sack of dead weight, only wincing in pain. The cops were surely on their way. He put his gun to Dirk's head and cocked back the trigger.
"What the hell are you doing, man?" Derek asked.
"If he survives, he'll talk," Cole said, coldly. "He won't want to, but the feds will make him." Cole's cheek muscles bulged. He felt a tear creeping up in his right eye. He was going to kill his best friend. The guy was most likely dead or dying anyway. He pulled the trigger and his gun clicked. He was out of bullets.
"Come on, Cole," Derek said, pulling on his sleeve. "We got to go."
They took off running as sirens sounded in the distance. Cole thought about telling Derek to give him his gun so he could go back and finish off Dirk, but every second mattered in their getaway.
Cole opened the back door of the Camry and tossed his duffel bag in, then hopped into the driver's seat. He had the car started in seconds. Derek had already tossed his bags in the back and was sitting next to him.
Cole drove out of the parking lot. He removed his stocking mask. Derek did the same. He drove the speed limit, feeling the need to speed, but knowing it was better not to. The car had to blend in with traffic.
"Oh shit," Derek said, as a police car headed toward them.
Cole placed a hand on his brother's lap. "Stay calm."
A few seconds later, a City of Helena police cruiser raced by. Cole's breath hitched in his chest. His eyes shot to the rearview mirror.
"Is it turning around?" Derek asked, staring out the windshield.
Cole watched the cruiser grow smaller until it turned into the bank's parking lot.
"No, we're good," Cole said, breathing again, and took a right on Hickory Street. The business district disappeared and was replaced by residential houses. The Toyota drove on for two more blocks before taking a left onto another street.
Cole drove along the back roads and worked his way to Interstate 15, and took it north towards Canada. Derek was playing it cool, but Cole could tell his little brother was losing it.
Cole turned on the radio, the scanner on the floor in the backseat, and listened to the news stations for talk of the bank robbery.
Thirty minutes later, Derek tossed the duffel bag the teller had filled with bills out the window. This was part of Cole's plan, Cole figuring before the robbery that regardless of him threatening the tellers, that they would plant a dye pack or some kind of tracker into the bags, either device small enough to fit in any stack of bills. When the feds traced it or found it thanks to some Good Samaritan, they'd be led in the wrong direction—hopefully, thinking the bank robbers were heading for Canada.
"Where the hell are we going?" Derek asked. "The job's over with. I think you can let me in on your plan."
"Soon enough, little brother," Cole said. He kept his escape plan a secret from Derek and Dirk. He didn't need either one blabbing, but more importantly, if one of them was nabbed, he didn't need anyone screwing up his getaway.
"You're an asshole," Derek said. "Mr. Fucking Secretive. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were playing me. Not telling me where we're going so you can leave me somewhere and take off with the cash."
Cole bit his lip as anger shot through him. He began swatting his brother upside his head.
Derek covered up and leaned against the door.
"Don't you ever say that shit again."
Yeah, he was a cold bastard, but he loved his brother. He hadn't accepted that Dirk was no longer with them, not really, and that he'd never see the man again. He was still riding the high of the robbery. But he knew he'd get over it. Dirk wasn't family.
"Okay. Okay," Derek said. "I'm sorry. I'm just fucked up in the head."
Cole stopped hitting his brother. He felt eyes on him as a Buick was passing him on the left. An elderly female passenger was staring at him. He smiled, then gave her the finger. Her eyes widened and she shook her head as if disgusted. A few moments later, the Buick was ahead of them.
"I mean, what the hell, man," Derek said, sitting normally again. "We're so screwed. If Dirk isn't dead, the feds will get him to talk. Our faces will be all over the news."
"Stop that shit," Cole said, and swatted his brother in the back of his head again. "We stick to the plan. Nothing's changed with it."
"Stop hitting me."
"Stop being a pussy."
"What do you mean? They're going to know it was us." Derek turned toward the backseat and grabbed one of the stocking masks and held it up. "This fucking thing was pointless."
Cole snatched it out of Derek's hands and tossed it in the back.
"You need to relax, bro," he said. "You saw Dirk. He didn't look like he was going to make it. He won't be telling anyone shit."
"That's another thing," Derek said. "I mean, Dirk was your best friend. Don't you care that he's dead, or worse, going to spend the rest of his life in prison?"
"Of course I care," Cole said. "But what do you want me to do about it. Fucking rent-a-cop got the drop on us. Dirk knew the risks."
"And what if Dirk isn't dead? I mean, how can that not affect us?"
"We'll be long gone by the time the feds even know where to begin looking for us. Yeah, it'll make it a little harder for us if the feds find out it was us, but I don't think that's going to happen. But even if it does, I'm not worried." Cole rubbed Derek's head. "Relax. We're fine for now and we've got a shitload of cash."
Cole had a great plan. One that would've worked much better if Dirk was with them. He hadn't told anyone where he was heading. Even if Dirk talked, he could only tell the feds who had been with him. The super pigs wouldn't know where to look. And if Dirk was dead—which he imagined was the case—then he and his brother were in the clear.
A month before the robbery, he and Derek had told everyone they knew that they were leaving Helena and moving to Arizona or somewhere thereabout. Just hitting the road and not looking back. The day they had said they were leaving, they had actually headed up to the cabin behind Dirk's place, a real shithole on eighty acres of land and far from anyone. Only Dirk had known they were there.
Now, when the feds identified Dirk's body—if the man was dead—they would try and find out who the man hung around with. His associates. Cole would come up, but everyone would say how he and his brother had left the area a month ago—unless Dirk had opened his mouth about hiding them out in his cabin. If that was the case, he and Derek would have a much harder time escaping.
So even if the feds tried to track them down, they'd be nowhere to be found. Enough time would pass, a month or two, and things would die down. New crimes would take priority, leaving room for the Garrett brothers to get out of the country.
"I don't mean to be a pest," Derek said, "but can you tell me where we're going, I mean, the heist is over."
"I want it to be a surprise."
"Oh, c'mon, Cole. Give me something."
"We're going to pick up the Charger."
Derek looked stricken. "I thought you sold it."
"Nah, just told you and Dirk I did."
"Man, you sure are a sneaky son of a bitch."
The brothers traveled north for about an hour and a half before getting off the Interstate and taking a few winding back roads. Cole turned the Camry onto a harvested hayfield. He drove along the rutted tractor path that ran alongside the plot of land and then into the woods to a clearing where the former red, now black, 1968 Dodge Charger waited under a camouflaged tarp. The car was Cole's baby and the only thing he truly cared about besides Derek. He'd wanted to redo the body and tune up the engine—though it ran fine—but had used the money in preparing their escape and figuring out where they were going to hole up.
Cole parked the Camry in the center of the clearing. The brothers exited the car, taking their weapons and the two bags of money. After setting them down, they peeled off the tarp.
"Oh, shit," Derek said. "You painted it."
"Figured it was better that way. Just in case there was a BOLO out on a red Charger. One extra thing to make it harder for the pigs to catch us. I knew we couldn't keep the Camry for more than a day. It was only a matter of time before it was reported stolen. It served its purpose. We'll only need the Charger for a bit anyway. It's easier to fix than a modern car. No electronics or computers. I know my baby like the back of my hand. If something breaks on her, I'll know what to do. Be able to find a part in a junkyard or automotive store fairly easily. Soon enough though, we'll buy us a new car using our new names."
"New nam
es?" Derek asked, then nodded slowly. "I like it. Now we're talking. You got a guy who can do that for us?"
"A few. When I asked around about such a thing, I was pointed in a small number of directions. A guy in California. One in Arizona. Another in New Mexico and one in Seattle. Figured it best to talk about all possible places we might head to just in case someone talked to the feds."
"Good idea," Derek said. "I think I'll be Kurt Middleton. Sounds wealthy, don't it?"
"Bro, you can call yourself whatever you want," Cole said. "All we have to do is sit tight for a month, maybe two or even three."
"Damn, three?" Derek asked. "One is long enough."
"You don't even know where we'll be holed up," Cole said, picking up one of the duffel bags and tossing into the backseat of the car."
"I know it ain't going to be no luxury suite," Derek said, handing Cole the other bag. "Why can't we get the new I.D.s now?"
"We need to go into hiding. Let things cool down, remember? Especially with the Dirk situation."
"So what, we're going to pitch a tent right here?"
"Nope," Cole said. He knew Derek was dying to know where they were heading. Teasing his brother was too much fun. "But aren't you glad I didn't tell Dirk where we're going? We'd be in deep shit if he knew and the cops got him to talk."
"Hell yeah, I'm glad. But I'm blood. I'd never tell."
Cole looked at his brother. "If you want to keep a secret, a real secret, you tell no one. No. One. I mean, if it was face life in prison or rat out a friend and get twenty-five years with eligibility for parole, what do you think Dirk would take?"
Derek shook his head. "I'd hope he’d keep his mouth shut."
"And if they threatened the death penalty if he didn't talk?"
"Shit . . ."
"You see. We're good now. No one knows where we'll be hiding out."
"Are we close to where we're going?" Derek asked, tossing his rifle in the back of the Charger.
"No."
The Sludge Page 2