33.
It could have been a scene plucked out of a 50’s crime noir. Safe house special. A seedy hotel room, neon bones branched in a window. HOTEL throbbing in fragile tubes. A chipped marquee over a needle ravaged alley.
A perfect spot for a gang of arch criminals holing up, talking score. A card table beneath a funnel lamp. Cigar and cigarette smoke mugged the room. The Hotel sign splashed the fog with small nebula bursts. The crew, assembled, fanning the table.
Bones, Whitey, Tony, Rocky, and Shorty.
"This place is just beggin' to be hit," Bones said, "They got a small staff, and even a smaller fleet. Five or six vans."
Two-man teams. One drives, the other rides shotgun. The armored van makes a stop. A younger guard gets out, and enters a business. Five to six cars crawling on any given day. Ten bucks an hour. No ex-military, no ex-badge.
Whitey reminded the gang over gunshots. No cowboy shit.
The depot doors are rigged. Any fireworks set off the sensors. The bay doors race down, and bolt. None of the house guards have those codes. They'll be boxed in. The sit-down broke up. Scram strategized a work car, and escape routes.