One, two, three. I burst through the front door of the bank and level my shotgun at the clerk before growling the lines that I had rehearsed twenty or thirty times in the mirror the night before in order to make sure that I didn’t forget anything in the heat of the moment, “This is a hold up. Give me all the money; empty the drawers and nobody has to get hurt. Screw with me and you will wish that you hadn’t.” Not bad, John mused, almost believable. His heart was pounding in his chest now; he couldn’t believe that he was going through with it. He didn’t need much, really. Just enough to get him through this rough patch, and he would clean up and never do anything like this again. That’s what he told himself, but he didn’t believe it, deep down. He knew that by going through with this, he was somehow crossing an invisible line. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel that there would be no going back from here. “Don’t you dare touch the silent alarm, either. It’s been cut,” he lied, hoping that the clerks would be too terrified to call his bluff. He approached the nearest clerk, an older woman with gray hair, streaked white. Although her face was lined with care, he could tell that she had been lovely in her youth, and there was a kindness in her eyes that he wanted to forget. She reminded him of his own mother, and he felt a pang of guilt. Why was he doing this? He wasn’t that kind of person. She was terrified, shaking, but she kept calm and complied with each of his requests, slowly and carefully. “Hurry up,” he barked, looking around nervously, sweating profusely, expecting to see police cars any moment, peeling around the corner and surrounding the bank building like in the movies.
Suddenly, he heard a gunshot behind him and whipped around, quicker than he would have thought that he could react, leveling his shotgun in the direction of the shot. He could feel his heart beating, thundering, out of his chest. Was he hit? He didn’t think so. Before him stood another man, also wearing a ski mask, with an AK-47 shouldered. He was short and broad-shouldered. “This is a good, old-fashioned bank robbery. Give me all the money and nobody gets hurt,” the newcomer yelled. He had fired a warning shot into the ceiling, apparently. The newcomer noticed John at that moment, because John had jumped over the counter and had been standing over the clerk, watching as she emptied the drawers into his duffle bag when he entered. “Who the fuck are you?” asked the newcomer, confused. “Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?” John growled. He thought that he was going to have a heart attack; he had never felt his heart beat this furiously. Was he going to die here? He almost laughed, despite himself.
Crash! John jumped and jerked his shotgun around to face the direction of the sound, something like metal crashing on the tile floor behind the clerks’ stations near the vault, in the further corner of the building away from John and the newcomer. John could see what it was – the grate had been unscrewed from one of the large air vents and sent careening to the hard floor, the tinning of the grating resounding in the large, open space. A small, thin man, forgettable and unassuming, leapt from the air vent and landed on his feet on the tile floor. The small man smirked when he saw John and the newcomer pointing their firearms at him. “Well, great minds must think alike,” The small man laughed. He was calm, under control, his expression, with an easy, friendly smile, unreadable. “You can call me Mr. Plaid. Real names are obviously not in order,” the small man mused. “You can be Mr. Argyll and you can be Mr. Tweed,” he said cheerfully, pointing at John and the newcomer, in turn. “Now boys,” Mr. Plaid continued, “The way I see it, we can go about this two ways. We can do the police’s work for them and blast each other full of holes, or we can work together and split the profits. All for one, and all of that. Mr. Argyll, Mr. Tweed, what do you say?” John was speechless. Mr. Tweed stammered, “Well, shit. Why not, I guess. Let’s do this and get out of here.” “Good man!” exclaimed Mr. Plaid, clapping his hands together. “And you, Mr. Argyll?” John shrugged, “Sure, let’s go.” He lowered his shotgun and returned his attention to the clerk, who had her finger on the silent alarm. She met his gaze, and her eyes widened in terror. “Fuck, she hit the silent alarm,” Mr. Argyll barked, furious. But he was afraid; he didn’t want to hurt her, but she had left him no choice. “Shoot the bitch and let’s get moving,” yelled Mr. Tweed. “No reason to escalate things, my friends. I already cut the silent alarm. Her effort, while valiant, was sadly in vain,” explained Mr. Plaid. Mr. Argyll released the breath that he didn’t even realize he was holding and, not unkindly, said to the clerk, “You had better not try anything else, ma’am. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Quickly and methodically, Mr. Plaid and Mr. Argyll zip-tied the patrons and clerks and cleared out the registers, one by one, while Mr. Tweed, with his AK-47, barred the front doors and watched for the police. Within minutes, they were ready to go. Mr. Argyll and Mr. Tweed shouldered the duffle bags and proceeded towards the front doors, ready to make a run for Mr. Tweed’s van, which was parked outside. Mr. Plaid waved them off. “You boys go ahead, and enjoy your takings. I’m not here for money. I have something of personal importance to get from the vault.” Mr. Argyll and Mr. Tweed exchange a glance and then burst through the front doors in unison without a word to their former cohort.
Mr. Plaid laughs and shakes his head before walking over to the security room, shooting the lock off the door with a small sidearm which he had concealed in a shoulder holster, and entering the small, dark room. He rips the hard drives out of the servers, one by one, and places them in a duffle bag before entering the vault and strode with purpose towards Box No. 3752. He pulls the cell phone out of his pocket and dials 911. “Yes, hello. I would like to report a bank robbery at Wellington and Lexington. Two awful gentlemen in a blue van, plate number KDJ 495. They are headed down Lexington towards Chestnut. You will be able to find them at the abandoned warehouse on Chestnut. The left tail light is busted. Thank you,” Mr. Plaid said calmly before hanging up. He snapped the phone closed before removing its SIM card and shoved both back into his pocket. He opened Box No. 3752 slowly, afraid to disturb its fragile contents. It had been so long. Could now be the moment? Were the prophesies true? He carefully unwrapped the object, which was swaddled in rough cloth, and he could feel the etching on its surface beneath his fingertips. He held the object up to the light. Dear God, he gasped. It is true. This is it. EX NIHILO NIHIL FIT. Shaking, he hastily re-wrapped the object and tucked it into the duffle bag that contained the security room hard drives. He exited through a side door and got into an awaiting vehicle, a black SUV. Mr. Plaid whispered an incantation, and his face fell away, to reveal a woman’s face with dark eyes and long, thick dark hair. Her voice was no longer his, either. She smiled, pleased with her work. Now is the time. Finally, after all these years. The SUV started, although no one was in the driver’s seat, and turned onto Lexington, heading the opposite direction.
Several miles away, Mr. Argyll and Mr. Tweed were in the blue van, trying to work their way through traffic without looking suspicious. “So, what’s your real name, buddy? We’re already in this deep. I’m Jim,” said Mr. Tweed. “Yeah,” laughed Mr. Argyll, wearily, “I’m John. So, I have to ask. What made you want to do this? This seems like a crazy thing to do.” “Well,” said Jim thoughtfully, weighing his words carefully before he said them, “I was contacted by this woman – I don’t know her name, and was promised a reward to rob the bank. I could keep the money that I stole; I just had to rob the bank on this exact date at this particular time, and she would make me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. It seemed too good to be true, but I’ve been on hard times and my kid needs surgery, so I did what I had to do.” John’s mouth was agape and his eyes widened, “Did she tell you to go to the abandoned warehouse on Chestnut to get your reward?” “What,” Jim spat, “How did you know that?” “She made the same promise to me,” John replied. As they turned on Chestnut, too confused and shocked to speak, they could see police lights at the abandoned warehouse; there were police cars blocking the street ahead of them and police officers with guns drawn and pointed at them. They had been set up.