29. Knox #2
As soon as the kid walks back across the street to his podium, Dominic comes up to the car and bashes the windshield out with a sledgehammer, igniting a chorus of shrieks from the sidewalk, followed by pedestrians running away.
And it’s just in time for me to throw a Molotov cocktail into the car’s new opening.
The inside lights up like a Roman candle, and the commotion from the street earns everyone’s attention inside the restaurant, including Stepmother Dearest. At first, she looks confused and freaked out like everybody else, until she realizes whose car has been made into a bonfire.
The street lights overhead illuminate my black-clad figure, and I know she can see me as I give her a wave, because her expression immediately shifts into fury.
I doubt anyone is paying attention to either of us, however, seeing as how everybody near the front of the restaurant begins screaming and scrambling away from the windows as Dominic and Jax charge at it.
The latter tags the front door with a spray-painted “gang” symbol commonly seen around the Valley from random teenagers as Dominic takes a garbage can and smashes it right through the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling window.
The restaurant is plenty spacious, so nobody’s remotely close to the glass, but the customers are screaming so loudly you’d think Dominic hit them instead of the window.
And just as quickly as we arrived, we’re out of here, disappearing down the street to our next four destinations.
We hit up two boutiques that are only a few stores down from one another, smashing the windows and spray painting the front of the shops as well, before heading to the vacant building on the corner of Sanderson and Parkway.
It’s given similar treatment, with the addition of its own Molotov cocktail that begins burning the collection of folded cardboard boxes stacked up in the middle of the floor plan.
Now, don’t go thinking I’m an asshole. Well, at least not in this situation.
I’m never one for vandalizing an innocent business, and it’s none of their fault that their landlord is a cunt.
But none of the damage can be blamed on them.
Not a single one of these businesses will be held responsible for the repair cost.
Lillian will be.
Our reign of “terror” spans over only a ten-minute period, and the whole of the Borough’s village is losing its shit. You’d think bombs were going off.
As Michael takes us to our final destination for the night, I shoot Moretti a text to give him the green light.
It’s human nature to grow complacent, and the members of PCPD up in the Borough are no exception.
Unlike their brothers down in the Valley, they’re not used to dealing with petty street crimes, drug dealers, drive-by shootings, or vandals, so it’s no surprise to hear the confusion play out in real time over the police scanner.
Before the boys down south can redirect their efforts to assist, everything blows up.
Literally.
Calls start pouring in about an explosion at the abandoned factory down by the river, as well as reports about gunfire.
This is what we in the criminal world like to call a diversionary tactic.
Leave the police so busy responding to other emergencies that they take their eyes off of the actual target.
And don’t worry. Moretti already did full sweeps of the building to confirm that no one was inside or around the property. It’s also owned by the state, but they haven’t done anything with it except let it rot for the past eleven years.
As expected, the units on or near Main Street are redirected to address one of the attacks, gifting us the perfect opportunity.
After news broke about the robbery, Westfall Jewelers at the Borough location boomed with public interest and people looking to “support” the business.
A.k.a rich housewives found an excuse to give their husbands so they could blow money on shit they don’t need.
And because the last few weeks have been so profitable, Lillian has been riding that gravy train, ensuring that Westfall’s inventory carries anything and everything for these faux supporters.
The security has definitely improved, the door and windows reinforced.
The customers also have to be buzzed in now, something that never had been an issue before.
This way, the wrong sorts of people couldn’t mosey on in and start smashing the display cases like last time.
All four of us could throw as many bricks and trash cans at the windows as we’d like. It wouldn’t break. Not even if we shot at it.
Good for us we’re not doing any of those things.
As soon as the light turns green, Michael pulls out onto Main Street, slowing down enough so that we can put some distance between our stolen SUV and the traffic ahead of us.
The hidden camera we installed across the street confirms there’s no one in the front of the shop, and just as the car behind us lays on the horn, Michael floors it, swerving the vehicle sideways and driving right up the curb when we reach the store.
That’s the thing, Lillian. Bulletproof glass only goes so far.
No additional safety measures were taken.
I’m not sure if she hasn’t had the time yet or if she’s just that much of a cheapskate, but she only did the bare minimum, likely assuming no one would be that stupid to target the store again.
Especially so soon. No barriers or structural reinforcements were installed, and she didn’t even bother with bulletproof glass on the inside cases.
The shop is just about to close, so we don’t have to worry about any customers still being inside, but we get to traumatize a whole other group of employees, seeing all new faces behind the counters.
Oh, but there’s a certain someone inside we recognize.
In fact, it’s the very reason we chose the location and time.
We could have hit any other Westfall Jewelers in the area.
There are five stores within a fifty-mile radius, and none of the others have the new entrance policy.
We could just as easily have executed the plan we did last time, making it out the door in under seventy seconds.
But Officer Benedict Holt isn’t working part-time security at any of those locations now, is he?
Since Keith’s death, Lillian appears to be having difficulty filling the full-time security guard position, because Jax noticed a couple of weeks back while surveying the new safety installations at Westfall that Holt began spending every one of his days off from the precinct at the shop.
And then come nightfall, the officer could be seen inside wearing his new uniform.
And we just couldn’t resist.
A couple of the staff members are too stunned to even move, but everybody else is screaming, tripping over themselves and stumbling away towards the far wall as the glass in the front window falls away.
Holt recovers from the shock of watching an SUV barrel inside the store better than anyone else, but he still doesn’t process the scene fast enough to fully comprehend what’s happening until it’s too late.
By the time he draws his gun, Jax hits him with the taser even from a good twenty feet away.
Dominic was prepared to shoot him with an actual gun if necessary, but our friend here obviously needs some hands-on therapy, and we’re not about to stop him.
I go about my business, smashing out the glass and confiscating the most sought-after jewelry as Dominic works crowd control and Michael backs out of the shop to see if the vehicle can still run.
We have a backup parked nearby just in case it doesn’t, but we’re given the thumbs up.
And we leave Jax to his own devices.
Instead of bringing the sledgehammer he had on our last trip, he’s opted for a crowbar this time around, taking it to Holt’s knee…
and then his fists to everywhere else. He’s wearing protective gloves like the rest of us to prevent his DNA from getting anywhere, but he’s also laced his with brass knuckles to ensure the biggest bang for his buck.
After all, he only gets fifty seconds to exact his revenge, and he’s alarmingly good at it.
Once the alarm goes off on Dominic’s watch, we turn our attention to pouring bleach into the display cases.
It wasn’t necessary last time since there weren’t any fibers or DNA they could lift, but we at least have to make an effort not to look like we’re the exact same people playing off of the exact same handbook.
Since I’m the only one working the display cases, our haul doesn’t have nearly the same amount of items, but they’re worth infinitely more given Lillian’s new stock.
And unlike last time, nobody’s trying to fight back.
The employees know better, and Holt is on the ground, his one functioning eye barely open and his face a mask of red.
The guy looks more like a Halloween prop than a human, and I’m only jealous I didn’t get a turn at him.
As tempting as it would be to slam my boot into his face half a dozen times, we don’t have a second to spare.
The second alarm sounds, indicating we need to haul ass.
And again, unlike last time, the three of us simply run out of the front and hop into our getaway vehicle without any problems, tearing out of there and disappearing into the night before we even hear a police siren.