41. Cassidy #3
Bindi gestures to a spot in the middle of the lobby, a few paces in front of us. The manager complies, the teller sniffing back a whimper.
“Is there anyone else here? Any other staff? Customers? Think real carefully before answering.”
The manager shakes his head quickly. “No, no. Just us. We just opened. P-please . . . take whatever you want.”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do,” I say as I toss the canvas bag at Bindi, and she catches it. “You.” I nod at the teller. She flinches. “What’s your name?”
She squeaks out. “Cl-Claudia.” Tears spill down her cheeks now.
“Okay, Claudia. My friend here”—I gesture toward Bindi—“is going to come over and you’re going to fill this bag with cash. All the cash you’ve got in the drawers. No dye packs, no tricks, no alarms. Understand?”
“Y-yes. Okay.”
The manager starts to say, “Listen, just don’t hurt her?—”
“No one’s hurting anyone if you both just stay calm and do as we say,” I snap.
Bindi moves behind the counter with agility, keeping some distance so as not to spook Claudia too badly. She tosses the canvas bag onto the counter in front of the teller’s station. “Fill it. Fast.”
Claudia scrambles to open her cash drawer. I hear the clink of coins and the rustle of bills as she grabs handfuls and stuffs them hastily into our bag. Her breaths come in hitched sobs. She’s mumbling a prayer. The poor girl is terrified out of her mind, but at least she’s complying.
The manager shifts slightly, drawing my attention. He’s inching closer to Claudia as if to help or protect her, hands still up. I fix him with a hard stare. “Stay right where you are, old man. Don’t be a hero. ”
He freezes, nodding vigorously. “I’m not . . . I’m not,” he assures me.
Bindi peeks into the back office from behind the counter as Claudia works. “Clear back here.”
I hear more bills being shoved into the bag.
Claudia empties the first drawer and then, surprising me, moves to a second drawer further down.
She yanks it open with unsteady hands and begins grabbing those bills too without being told.
She just wants us gone, I realize. She’s cooperating to the fullest extent.
Smart girl.
My eyes flick to the security camera dome in the ceiling corner.
It’s undoubtedly capturing all this. Our faces are covered, and with the sunglasses and hats, I’m not too worried about recognition.
Still, I instinctively avoid looking directly at it.
In the back of my mind, I also wonder if these cameras have microphones (likely not, small banks like this usually just video).
Regardless, by the time anyone reviews that footage, we’ll be far away.
“How are we doing, V?” I call out, using just a fake initial.
“Almost done.” She looks at Claudia. “That all of it?”
Claudia nods rapidly, emptying the last fistful of cash into the now bulging canvas bag. “That’s everything from the tills. I swear that’s all we have out front.”
I consider if we should try for the vault or safe in the back, but that could be time-consuming and potentially locked or even time-locked. We’re about a minute in, maybe more. Stick to the plan—just the tills. Quick, in and out.
“Zip it and toss it over,” I instruct. Bindi zips the bag and hefts it, tossing it gently over the counter. I catch it with my free hand. The bag bulges bigger than I thought, fat with crumpled stacks. It looks like more money than I’ve ever seen in one place.
At first I think the sirens are in my head, just blood rushing in my ears—but no, they’re faint, still distant, maybe a few streets away. Someone must’ve hit a silent alarm the second we walked in.
Or maybe someone saw us through the damn window. Doesn’t matter now.
My eyes dart to the manager and Claudia. Their faces flash with hope at the same time mine floods with panic. How? No alarm was pulled that I saw. Did a silent alarm trigger automatically? Or did some passerby see us through the window and call 911?
“Shit,” Bindi hisses. She heard it too.
No time. “Move, move!” I bark. I wave the gun to herd the two bank employees toward the far corner of the lobby. “Get down and stay down!” They comply, the manager shielding Claudia as they huddle on the floor behind a desk.
Bindi vaults back over the counter impressively and rushes to the door, unlocking it swiftly. The siren is getting louder, just a street or two away now.
I grab the cash bag and sprint for the door where Bindi is.
She’s already got it open and is scanning the street.
I join her, and see it immediately: a police cruiser coming from the south end of Main, maybe four blocks down, red and blue lights flashing.
They’re not in sight of us yet due to distance and maybe other buildings, but they will be in seconds.
“Fuck! They’re coming. The alley, go!”
Bindi doesn’t need further prompting. We both bolt out, turning to race along the side of the bank building toward the alley behind.
We skid around the corner into the alley, and I fumble with the car keys from my pocket as we run.
There’s sweat in my eyes blurring my vision.
The siren is loud now, but it’s unclear if they know we’re in the alley or if they’re going to the front of the bank first. Either way, we have seconds.
The blue sedan is right where we left it, maybe fifteen yards ahead in the alley, so we sprint. Bindi, lighter on her feet, reaches it first and yanks open the passenger door. I’m a step behind, already pressing the unlock button on the remote in my hand.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement at the far end of the alley.
A second police cruiser skids to a stop there, its headlights and flashing bar lights now flooding the alley.
They must have tried to cut off escape routes.
Two officers are inside; I see the driver already throwing his door open.
“Cass—” Bindi screams, but I’m already reacting. Fight or flight kicks in fully.
I rip the pistol from my waistband and level it at the cruiser, then fire a shot, just to make them duck. The pistol cracks, recoiling in my grip. I see the driver, who was halfway out, jerk back in surprise, scrambling for cover behind his open door.
I never let go of the gun—my hand’s cramping around it now.
I shove it back into my waistband, and, not waiting to see more, I dive into the driver’s seat of our car, key already in my hand.
In one motion, I slam the door, jam the key in the ignition, and turn it. The engine comes alive with a roar.
“Down!” I shout to Bindi. She’s already crouched low, one hand white-knuckled on the dash, the other clutching the money bag to her chest.
I ram the gear into reverse and floor it, tires squealing on the asphalt. We lurch backwards down the alley, away from the cops at the far end. The car fishtails as I struggle to control it at high speed in reverse.
As soon as we clear the alley into the cross street behind the bank, I wrench the wheel and slam the brakes, shifting to drive in a heartbeat.
A cruiser is coming from the front of the bank now, siren blaring, but we’ve popped out behind them.
The sudden maneuver buys us a precious second as they overshoot the mouth of the alley.
I punch the gas, and the sedan leaps forward down the cross street, away from Main. “Hold on!” I shout .
Bindi is pressed back in her seat, eyes wide. She’s twisting to look behind us. “They’re turning around!”
In the side mirror, I see the cop car screeching to make a turn onto the street we’re on. The second cruiser in the alley might be following from the other side if they got out.
We race down a quiet residential block, doing sixty in a twenty-five.
Houses blur past and I blow through a stop sign, nearly clipping a garbage truck that’s lazily crossing the intersection.
Up ahead is a larger road—maybe the highway we came in on.
That’s our ticket out of town if we can reach it.
“They’re still on us!” Bindi shouts, ducking as if it will help avoid a bullet. I hear a faint pop. Gunshot? The cops might be shooting, but nothing hits us.
There’s traffic on the highway up again, a few cars cruising at morning speed, but I don’t slow. We burst out onto the highway, cutting off a van that blares its horn and swerves. Tires squeal as I push the sedan to its limits, weaving between a pickup and a sedan.
A glance at the speedometer—eighty miles per hour and climbing. My heart is a jackhammer. I grit my teeth, hands locked on the wheel. We have maybe a quarter tank of gas. Should be enough to get some distance.
Red and blue lights flash behind as the police cruiser comes into view on the highway, struggling to catch up after our daredevil maneuver. They must be calling for backup. We’re on a main route now; if they get a chopper or roadblock, we’re toast. We need to get off the road—hide.
“Take the next exit and then the back roads!” Bindi urges, as if reading my mind.
We hit the off-ramp. The car thumps and bounces; I brake hard to make the turn at the end of the ramp. We swerve onto a two-lane country road flanked by fields and a few distant farmhouses.
The cruiser follows off the highway, a bit behind. They’re still in pursuit, but at least it’s just one that I see for now—maybe the second car lost ground or is coming another way.
I spot a narrow dirt road on the left and make a split decision.
I yank the wheel and we veer off the paved road onto the dirt path, dust exploding behind us.
It leads toward a grove of trees, maybe a farm-access road.
The sedan bounces violently on the uneven ground.
Bindi grips the “oh-shit” handle above the window, eyes clamped shut as we jolt and rattle.
Our car careens behind a copse of oaks and pines, momentarily out of sight of the main road. I keep going, following the dirt track as it curves.
I slam the brakes on a thick clump of overgrowth and kill the engine.
Moments later, I hear the police cruiser roar past on the dirt road, overshooting where we turned off, siren blaring like an angry banshee.
I put a hand on Bindi’s back; she’s trembling. “We did it,” I whisper, breathless. “We got away.”
She looks at me in disbelief. Her eyes are wild, hair coming out of her beanie in sweaty strands, bandana still up.
Then, to my surprise, she laughs—a slightly unhinged, hysterical laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.
“Holy shit,” she gasps, pulling the bandana down off her face to breathe easier. “We . . . we actually did it?”
“We’re not clear yet, probably not for a few more counties,” I say.
“How much . . . how much do you think is in there?”
“Feels like a lot. A few thousand at least, maybe more.”
She lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob.
Impulsively, I lean in and kiss her. Through the adrenaline and sweat and dust, I just need to feel her, alive and here with me. She kisses back, just as fiercely, fingers digging into my shoulders. When we break apart, I press my forehead to hers. “You okay?”
She lets out a shaky breath. “I . . . I think so. Are you?”
A wild grin breaks on my face. “Never better.” Which is a lie.
My nerves are shredded. But under the panic, I feel fucking alive.
This is the exact kind of madness that I crave.
And I’ve only felt this high when I’m with Bindi.
There’s a mirrored look in Bindi’s eyes.
She’s terrified, yes, but there’s a light there I haven’t seen before, a flame kindled by adrenaline and victory.
“We need to keep moving. They’ll search this area. ”
Her eyes meet mine, and suddenly I see them fill with tears. Her laughter’s half hysteria, half relief. “I was so scared, Cassidy. I thought . . . When I heard those sirens, I thought it was over. But then . . . we were in it and I just . . . I can’t believe I . . . that we?—”
“I know. I was scared too. But you were amazing. I couldn’t have done it without you.”