6.
The Morsemere Community Bank stood on the corner of a county road, hemmed in by a cul-de-sac. Tony sat curbside in the pocket, facing railroad tracks. Bank to his right, Routes 1 & 9, in his rearview. A quick U-turn, bang the left. Grab fun pad 46.
Eastbound. Bee line to the George. Four miles and change. He wanted to pull across the street, pointed closer to the escape.
Yellow paint wrapped the curb. No dice in mind the rules Morsemere.
Tony sailing big time. Booster speed. Joining the Yankees of bank heisters. The call didn’t come through Leo. While tapping into the money pad, their regular driver tapped into the smack. A bit too much. Murderer's row were forced to lay back, and fish out a top-gun getaway driver. They dimed Tony Scram, dangling thirty-five large. About fuckin’ time. The no joke gang. Well oiled, and disciplined. The M.O. was to scope a bank, make the hit, and dive underground. No shoot 'em up Dalton stuff.
Three guys left the car. Business suits, hardware tucked in jackets. Tre hombres breezed the bank. Tony checked his watch, scoped the mirrors. In the windows, ski masks weaved. In seconds, the entire bank was floored. One bandit stalked. The wing men sacked a large, walk-in vault. Three minutes later, Tony spotted three black stockings cruising for the entrance. Tony shifted in Drive, foot hard on the brake.
Tony idled as business suits and gym bags packed the vehicle. Scram sprang the brake. Halfway through the turn, the alarm sounded. So did an explosion. Another. The getaway car stumbled. Tony punched the gas. The ride dragged, coming to a stop.
A perched sniper took out the driver’s front and rear tires. A platoon of Crown Vic's swarmed the cul-de-sac, penning them in.
A SWAT team busted from a hidden corner. Wrapped in body armor, pointing high-power assault rifles.
The Dalton's sprung from the car, guns blazing. The guy riding behind Tony, struck in the head. Bones, blood, and brain matter erupted like popcorn, smearing the window. The dead bandit caromed off the car, falling to the street. Tony prayed a fast end to this shit storm. The two others used the ride like a bunker. Great. The doors, then Scram. Shot to shit, Santino style.
Tony crunched. Brain frying. If he leaves, he’ll be struck. If he sits, he’s a darn goner. Ammo rocked the ride. The windshield pocked. The head lights popped. Tony ducked below the dash.
Badge frogged the circle, squeezing them in. Two of the bandits moved off the pill box, shooting to escape.
In their second steps, both were cut down. Once the bullets stopped, Tony heard the screaming cops. Swarming the ride, ending the life of crime. For today anyway. Tony spilled out of the car, and rolled face down to the ground, empty hands to his side, in plain view.
Tony played the regular angle. Never knew or met these guys until they inquired about a driver. The bug-work backed it up. Aiding and abetting a bank job carried a five year minimum.
Real, federal, hard time.
Honcho badge wanted to tango. Tell us about the old man.
Leo would never sanction a hit this close to his crib. That’s not what we asked. Tony refused the cut-rate insurance. No chance he’d ever jack the old man. No chance. Thanks, but no thanks, amigos. They kept it up. C’mon pards, flip this scene. Boss man in the hot seat. Sniffing out a stoolie. Fall guy time. Bank robbery is a federal crime. Mean ass stretch ahead. Your ass is grass, and we’re the lawnmower stuff.
Wake up Scram. Don't let the pride fuck your skull. Flip the scene. Boss man and his cronies, they gonna forget your name, cover your ass? What's it gonna be, Scram? Sorry boys, you got the wrong guy.
The system smacked Tony up with an extra two years for not playing ball. When the numbers settled, Tony hitched a seven year ride.