WITH SLIGHT OF HAND

WITH SLIGHT OF HAND

~~~~ Diary Of A Bank Robbery ~~~~


By: Trevor Stephen Bryan
HurricaneWarning


................ Part 1 ................

          The phone rang twice then went silent. Max stood over it with a keen sense of excitement. It was the signal.

         The scrubby little motel room had been steadily closing in on him for the last few days and Max was at the point of calling it quits. The two short rings gave him a feeling of exhilaration and the long wait now seemed all worth while. He slowly opened the door to his room and glanced down to the expected brown box. While picking it up he gave a quick, squinted look around the parking lot. The mid-morning sun was in full bloom and gave a painful contrast to his dark and stuffy little room. Back inside, he sat the box on the bed and opened it. Everything seemed to be in order. A carefully pressed, blue cotton shirt lay on top. Max put it neatly aside. Next was a single pair of kaki pants, a brown belt, oxford shoes, a stripped red and white tie. The last item in the box was a ski mask. Yeah, the ski mask, he thought. He pulled it over his head and walked to the mirror. “Boo! You scary, son of a bitch,” he laughed. Max quickly jerked the mask off and stared into the mirror again. The smile was fading as he gazed deep into the refection of his own blue eyes. This is going to be dangerous, he reminded himself. So I‘ve been over and over everything till I can puke. How many times on paper, arraigning, rearranging, every sinking detail. Don’t forget that you have the contact at the bank. No silent alarms and no cops. Trust me, this is going to be a breeze.

          Max put everything out of his head and stepped into the shower. He knew a man in his profession couldn’t think too much about the immediate task at hand. All you can do is plan vigilantly and when all the details are sealed and the fine print read, you don’t think, you just go and get the damn job done. Max knew this well, he was a professional, yet then he was also human, and humans, like most animals, have a strong self-preservation that often allows doubt to creep in---usually at the last minute. When Max finished his shower he shaved and began dressing. The finishing touch was the red and white stripped tie. He walked to the nightstand and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Blue smoke soon hovered lazily around his head. From the drawer he took out a single car key and a small pearl handle, two-shot derringer. He could have used any gun, but this little baby was the perfect fit. The gun had been registered as stolen for over five years and could never be traced, As far as the "two-shot” was concerned, no big deal. There wasn’t going to be any shooting in this hold-up, at least not from Max. He had already decided, should things get out of hand, he would abort the robbery and simply give the two hands in the air routine----works every time unless some rookie cop decides to hype out. Max stuck the derringer into a custom-made leather holster. The holster actually went between his belt and pants, nicely concealing the little guy.

          The short drive to Florida Road and Walker Street took only ten minutes. He had timed it at least a dozen times during this exact same hour. In this game, timing is crucial for success, such as the element of surprise is crucial in attacking one’s enemy. He found a parking spot and turned off the motor. His watch read ten twenty-five, only five minutes to go. Lying close beside him was a black attaché case which contained two items, the ski mask and a postcard with carefully pasted words. From the glove compartment he pulled out a pair of latex surgical gloves and slipped them onto both hands. The curtains were ready to roll and Max was feeling a storm of adrenalin slamming hard through his head. He stepped from the car with the attaché case grasped firmly in his left hand. Making his way across the street, he paused just once as a city bus stifled him with diesel fumes. The one block walk to Eastside Federal Savings And Loan would take exactly two minutes. That would allow him thirty seconds to check out the bank lobby through its spacious sidewalk windows. Should the lobby be busy he would halt the robbery and try again tomorrow or perhaps a week later, depending on circumstances.

The late morning sun was bright and warm and Max seemed oddly at ease with himself. He strolled the sidewalk, occasionally smiling at other pedestrians. Minutes later he reached the bank but Max continued to casually walk by, peering in through the large windows. “Damn,” he said under his breath. There were three people standing at the teller windows. Max sat down on a bench under the windows and looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty exactly. Parked across the street and slightly down from the bank was a white Ford Victoria with blackwall tires and deep tinted windows. Max visually inspected it, wondering if it could possibly be an unmarked patrol car. There were no signs of a floodlight on the driver’s side, nor were there any communication antennas. No, couldn’t be. he thought---Probably belongs to some old fart. After a few seconds, two men emerged from the bank. One headed down the sidewalk, the other crossed the street. Max looked back through the window and squinted his eyes, trying to see through the glare and reflections of the bright city morning. Everything looked perfect, there was only one person at the teller windows, and she appeared to be an old lady---possibly the owner of the white Ford. Max opened the attaché case and removed the black and red ski mask and the printed postcard. Already knowing there was a security camera directly facing the entrance door, Max knew it was imperative to have the mask on when he entered the bank. Yet it was equally important that he not be seen wearing it on the sidewalk. This needed some timing. He waited patiently as pedestrians filed casually by, none even noticing him---just another nice looking businessman. Two young women passed by and one of them gave Max a quick glance and a slight smile. The two women were the last in a chain of pedestrians and now the sidewalk was clear for the moment. It was time for Max to move. He walked toward the entrance and in one swift movement, slung the ski mask over his head and stepped confidently into the bank.

          The first thing he noticed was that damn security camera glaring at him and he tried to avoid any direct eye contact with it. There were three tellers standing at the counter. The one to the far right was helping the old lady. The elderly woman had apparently dropped a great amount of papers and cash. She was stooped over trying to pick up some of the fallen items as her teller stood looking impatiently down at her. The teller to the far left was counting money and the teller in the middle was adding on a calculator. The middle, he thought. The teller in the middle is going to be my handler. As he walked in her direction, she looked up and coolly kept her poise. Max was a bit surprised, but hell, this was his first heist and he actually had no idea how anyone was going to react. But as it turned out he had made a wise decision in his choice. Kara Allen was the head teller and a professional in everyway. She calmly called out “Code Red” in a soft, assuring voice and the other tellers dropped immediately to the floor, placing their hands over their heads and angling their butts toward the robber. As funny as this may have looked, their safety training taught them this position would give their vital body parts the most protection from any gunfire. Max walked straight to Kara’s window and held the derringer’s short barrel one inch from her forehead. Kara never even flinched, she just stared into the ski mask and like a lover, deeply reached into Max’s blue, handsome eyes. Max announced the postcard and Kara’s eyes dropped away only for the few seconds needed to read it. She immediately returned to Max’s eyes and gave a quick nod. The postcard had read:

50s -- 100s ONLY
NO ALARMS
NO DYE BOMBS
NOTHING STUPID

          Max flung the attaché case through casher’s window and Kara immediately began filling it with huge banded stacks of 50 and 100‘s. He looked around the bank and saw at least three more security cameras clearly glaring in his direction. In the three glassed loan offices, Max noticed everyone was also on the floor and in the same position as the two tellers. Shit, Max thought, he was hoping he could get the job done without the outer offices noticing. Apparently, that wouldn’t be the case. The only one who hadn’t noticed him was the little old lady to his right. She was still on the floor trying desperately to pick up her cash and papers. Max watched Kara work, she was amazing. Her hands were a blur as they continued to stack huge amounts of cash into the attaché. All bank robbers have their own time limit and approximate amount of cash limit already predetermined. Kara, knew this, and she would often glance to Max who would simply nod and Kara would know whether to continue or to hand the attaché back. There was little need for communication between the handler and robber. During the extreme emotional crisis of a holdup, the handler often develops a strange, almost romantic-like relationship with their foe. Max and Kara could both feel that relationship beginning to widen and strengthen through their senses---sort of a telepathic link.

          Watching Kara load the money, Max was reminded of a beautiful, professional blackjack dealer he had once seen in Las Vegas. His eyes fell to Kara’s long flowing hair and slender body. Max began to think, "Come on honey, stack that case heavy. Eight o'clock tonight, meet me at the airport, gate six. Tomorrow we can both be lying on a quite, sunlit beach in Acapulco, would you do that, sweetie, would you really do that with me, I’m really a decent hunk of shit under this ski mask and a pretty nice guy at that." Then something happened which Max would never have believed in a million years---but then, these weren’t exactly ordinary circumstances.

          Kara thought back to him and through the telepathy Max heard every word clearly. "Oh, God, I wished I could go with you, that sound’s like something out of a fairy-tale. My life, God, my life is just a horrible mess. My boyfriend is a mad man, I can’t get away from him. If I tried, I think he would kill me. I hate my life....I can’t go on like----”


          Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream blasted Max from his right side, making him jump and fall away from the counter. As he fell, his derringer accidentally dropped to the floor. It was the little old lady. She had finally looked up and saw Max wearing the ski mask and holding a gun. A look of horror crawled across the old lady's face. Her hands were held shoulder high and shook in terror.

          “Oh, God, No! Please don’t shoot me! she screamed. “Please, please don’t shoot me.”

          Max scooped the derringer off the floor and aimed directly at her, hoping it would scare her enough to keep quiet. But he quickly discovered what a mistake he‘d made. The old lady screamed hysterically again, and in total panic, lunged for the counter, trying desperately to climb over the glass to safety. Max hurried over and tried to stop her, but when she felt his hand tugging on her shoulder, she screamed again then lost her balance. The hefty size old woman tumbled hard over backwards, and if weren't for Max’s fast reflexes, she would have hit the floor in a thundering heap. Max caught her and lowered her softly to the carpet floor.

          “My God, No! Please don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, I beg you!” she sobbed. She searched around on the floor and found a few of her dropped twenty-dollar bills. Her old hands gobbled up as many as they could muster, then she threw them all to Max. “Take it! Take it all!” she screamed. “Just please, please God, please don’t shoot me!”

          Max had just about enough of this old bag. “Lady just shut the fuck up,” he whispered firmly into her face while lightly squeezing her arm. He could see it clearly. Her face had lost all its color and her eyes looked wild and stunned. Sweat rolled off her forehead in waves and it appeared as if the old woman might be going into mild shock. “Just lay here lady, stay down and keep quiet, I’m not going to shoot you, ok?” The old lady put her head to the floor and began whimpering strange moaning sounds, much like the sounds heard from a child who’s collapsed after a furious temper-tantrum.

          Kara looked over her shoulder with grave concern. The counter had obstructed her view but she could hear Max talking quietly to the old lady as well as the weird sounds coming from the floor. One of the most critical dangers during an armed robbery occurs when a costumer or employee panics. Kara knew this and she also knew it was her job to hurry. Max pointed a strict finger to the old woman and then moved it slowly to his lips. When he stood, he saw Kara, glance at him. She was still working in a fury to stack the case. All the drawers had been totally emptied and Kara dropped to her knees and began spinning the dial on a small safe. Within seconds she had it open and with one swift movement of her hand she emptied the entire contents into the case. With rapid-fire speed she arranged all the money into one neat order. Kara, like a very good waitress, wanted to please her customer. A very good waitress always gets a nice tip. Kara was also hoping to get a nice tip. Her nice tip, she was praying, was that her head wouldn’t be blown off.

          "That’s it!" Max told her through the mind link. Kara rushed to the window and opened the attaché, showing Max what a good little waitress she had been. My God, he thought. Max had never seen this much cash in his life. The attaché case was topped over the rim with money and when Max attempted to shut it, the top portion wouldn't connect with the bottom. Max plucked up a few stacks of 50’s and pitched them behind the counter. He tried again, and this time, using a little force, he felt it click shut. He pulled the case through the window then looked down at the little old lady who was still whimpering and gave her the thumbs up sign. As his eyes slowly returned to Kara’s face, Max put the gun back into it’s secret little holster. He heard Kara let out a long held breath. Then their eyes met for one last time.


          “Thank you for not killing me,“ Kara told him through the silent mind link

          “You have to get away from him. He’s the one that’s going to kill you. Believe me, I can see it. Get the hell away from this guy!” Max spoke.

          “I can’t, I don’t know how; you don’t understand what a horrible monster he’s become.”

          “Go to the police; tell them everything about him,“ Max advised. “Get a damn restraining order if you have to. A man who's passion is to dominate a woman is not even in their right mind. Goddamit, you've got to listen to me before it’s too late.” Max glanced quickly to his watch. He had been in the bank a little over three minutes, much longer than he had originally planned. He realized he was wasting precious seconds talking with Kara though the mind link. Should someone enter the bank, the successful holdup could easily change to a disaster.

          “Thank you,” Kara told him. “Thank you for your concern. I can feel your gentleness, I know that somewhere under that stupid mask lies a genuinely warm human being. I just wished we could have met under different circumstances.”

          Kara’s one hand was resting on the counter and Max slowly slid his own latex-gloved hand toward it, finally resting it on top of hers. As he did, he felt a wonderful refreshment of beauty and love quiver through his mind. Kara did not resist the touch.

          “Why are you doing this?”Kara said, still using the mind link. “I can feel who you really are, and I know that you’re a very good and caring person, why in God’s name are you robbing a bank? Why are you throwing your life away like this?” Max pulled his hand away and took a step back from the counter. The old lady on the floor had gotten some of her courage back and was now impatiently waving Max toward the door. He looked one last time to Kara’s face, and through that stupid ski mask he cast a flashing, blue wink to her. Kara returned a small smile. The robbery was over; it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

         Like when entering the bank, the departure needed to be on the order of a magic trick. Max couldn't risk being seen taking the mask off inside the bank and he couldn’t risk being seen wearing it outside. As he walked through the lobby door, he held the heavy attaché up to his face and quickly jerked the mask off with the other hand. It was perfect timing and he realized immediately that no one on the street had even noticed the little trick. Walking briskly down the sidewalk he counted his steps. At forty-two he would turn left into a small alleyway.


         The alley was crowded with over-filled trashcans, cardboard boxes---bedding for the homeless, wine bottles and beer cans. Max stepped around these obstacles with the ease of a ballet dancer. He glanced through a small window in the alley and saw an old Cuban tailor working skillfully under the light of an ancient sewing machine. Max estimated both machine and tailor to be at least eighty. Steadily he continued down the alleyway dodging obstacles with every step. Soon he came upon a cracked, unpainted door. Max check both ends of the alley, everything seemed normal. He turned the rusty door handle and stepped inside. Once the door was closed he felt upward, pulling the light string. A small 40-watt bulb sprayed some color into the cramped little supply room. He checked his watch, knowing he only had two minutes to change cloths and shoes and be out on the street again. The new outfit had been waiting for two weeks behind the boxes of cleaning supplies. Max was thankful no one had discovered them. Thirty seconds had already passed, he had to hurry. Yeah, that timing, that goddamn timing. It means everything in this game. Why did it seem so unimportant while he was with Kara.

************ Part2 ************

          On the ceiling, Marcus Sanchez had forty-seven eyes which could zoom in and out, sometimes taking quick peeks into low cut blouses. The twelve monitors wrapped around him could easily scrutinize any area within the massive confines of Danley Department store. Eleven of the monitors stood fixed on the store’s highest crime areas: clothing, cosmetics, stationary, costume jewelry, paperbacks---small items which could easily be sneaked into a purse or a pocket. But his favorite toy in the monitor room was the large, thirty-six-inch screen which sat directly in front of him. Using the sophisticated control panel, he could roll instantly from camera to camera carefully watching every customer’s move and turn. His preferred hangout---when no one was using the woman’s fitting room---were the four large entrance doors to the store. Marcus Sanchez had a keen eye for suspicious looking patrons who were entering. Maybe it was the tattoos which gave them away or the bleached-blond hair, the oversized and often dirty clothing they were wearing or perhaps it was the large handbag they carried. Sometimes it was the very young-looking mother with a baby stroller and a diaper bag. In any case, these were his most cynical customers. Once he had them caught on tape, stealing or tampering with merchandise, Marcus would simply radio down to Bob Allis, the young and cocky floor security specialist. As the shoplifter exited the store, Bob would apprehend them on the sidewalk and guide them firmly back into the store. At this time, Marcus would push a single button on his phone, sending a call to Miami City Police. Within twenty minutes, the thief was being escorted away in the back seat of a MPD squad car. Another bust, goddamn that’s going to look good on our records. Marcus and Bob would often slap hands.

* * * *

          Max stepped from the small supply room with ten seconds to spare. He stopped momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright morning light. As he began walking towards the opposite end of the alley he suddenly froze. A racing police cruiser sped by, followed by a second one, then a third. He waited patiently until he could once again see regular traffic flowing by. He looked again at his watch and then continued toward the street. After leaving the alleyway, Max turned right, walking up Hillside Street, struggling with the heavy case of money but trying hard to look casual. The furious sounds of police car engines roaring throughout the area encouraged him to pick up his pace. At last Max reached the second phase of the robbery plan. He looked one last time to his watch then quickly crossed the street and entered Danley Department store.

* * * *

          Lieutenant, Todd Myers of the Miami City Police Department, slammed the phone down and stared intently to the photograph lying on his desk. It depicted a well-dressed young man of appropriately thirty-years-old, dark hair and eyes and a tidy strip of moustache which sported across his lip. He was stepping from a small-charted airplane at Miami International Airport. The Plane, originating out of Bogota, Columbia had been closely monitored by radar during its zigzagging trek over the Caribbean. The man in the photo was that of Marcus Sanchez, a well know Miami drug kingpin who had a great skill of slipping through the fingers of the DEA. Myers had been working closely with the U.S. Drug Endorsement Administration for nearly three years to catch Sanchez with ”The Goods.” Their last attempt occurred only last week when Myers and Federal agents stormed a large oceanfront home on Key Biscayne. The results were the same as all the others, Sanchez was gone and the house was clean.

          Todd Myers had just finished a conversation with head agent Terry Costello of Miami‘s DEA field office. The conversation---for the first time in their ten-year relationship---had ended in argument, mainly out of frustration. Costello had just informed Myers that three young teenage boys had died at Miami General Hospital. Their deaths were contributed to a new strain of highly potent cocaine that was running rampant during the last several months. This made a total of six people who had died of overdose during the last week, all of respiratory failure. A total of twenty-two people had died from “The Gem” in just the last thirty days. The new cocaine's source was out of Columbia, South America. Intelligence had it leaving Columbia by ground, crossing Venezuela to the port city of Maracaibo. From there it was being loaded onto merchant ships and carried to La Romana in the Dominican Republic where it was possessed. From La Romana the traffickers were using a variety of smuggling techniques to transfer the drug into South Florida and other markets. These included airdrops in the Bahamas and off the coast of Puerto Rico, mid-ocean boat-to-boat transfers as well as commercial shipments through the Port of Miami.

          Another chilling prospect that Intelligence had confirmed was that Sanchez had been keeping close relations with Rawle Manuel, a top drug player out of Santa Domingo. It was widely speculated throughout the DEA that Sanchez and Manuel were considering merging syndications, giving Manuel more control over the U.S. markets and allowing Sanchez to have back seat security as well as doubling his profits. This would be a DEA nightmare if this likely scenario should occur. As it stood now, they had failed to stop Sanchez, who was local and could easily be located on a moment’s notice if necessary. But Manuel would be international, where U.S. laws wouldn't apply. Every drug enforcement agent in the United States knew if Rowel Manuel gets control of the South Florida market it would be impossible to curtail his activities. Myers and Costello both knew drastic action had to be taken and very quick. There would be too much to lose if they waited, even another week.

          The Phone rang, making Myers, jump in his chair. “Hello,” he said, with a bit of irritation in his voice.

          “Sir, said the young woman officer on the other phone, “we just received a call from the Eastwood Federal Saving and Loan on Florida Road. There‘s been a robbery.

          “Any injuries?”

          “No sir, no injuries, but it did involve an arm.”

          “Did they give you an exact time? Myers asked, his voice no longer irritated but building with excitement.

          “Ten-thirty, exactly sir, we’ve have all units around the scene and the roads are being barricaded in that area.”

          “Good, how about a description?”

          “Yes sir, the officer said, but could you please hold for just a second.” Myers could hear her bark some orders into a radio, then she returned to the phone. “He was wearing a light blue shirt and Khaki pants and his head was hidden with a black and red ski mask“.

          “Where did this information come from, Sergeant?”

          “It came from an elderly woman who was standing at the counter, sir, but she was so upset she said she wasn’t sure about anything. We’ve notified EMS and they have an ambulance en route, just to check her over.”

          “Good, Idea, maybe when she calms down we can get something else out of her. What about the teller, the handler, she give you anything?”


          “Her name is Kara Allen, but she couldn't remember the direction he went after leaving the bank or even what he was wearing.”

          “Wonderful, sounds like she’s going to be a lot of help. Call the bank and tell them to begin unloading the security film, maybe it’ll help us determine the direction he left. Besides, we’ll need that stuff for evidence if we corral the bastard.

          “Yes, sir, the woman officer said, I’ll try to get through right now. Anything else why I have them?”

          “Yeah, give them my name and tell them I’ll be in charge of the case. Also let them know I need to make some phone calls to the surrounding businesses just in case this dumb-suck wonders into their store trying to hide. I should be there in about thirty minutes. Thank you, Sergeant."


          Myers hung up the phone, rubbed his hands together then flipped on the computer. He scrolled through some pages, pointed the curser then clicked the mouse. The large display screen showed a brightly-lit green map, approximately one-quarter mile radius of the area surrounding Eastside Federal Savings and Loan. Tactical Division had updated the map less than a few months ago. Every bank in the Miami area had their own computer imagery with very similar information. The purpose of the map is to discover any possible hideouts, such as old buildings, department stores, alleyways convenient stores, large utility pipes, anywhere the thief may be able to hide or maybe stash the loot until the heat cools a little. Every patrol car also carried a set of these maps according to the banks located within their patrolling zone.

          The first thing which glared out at Todd Myers was Danley Department store, only a couple of blocks from the bank. He and DEA agent Terry Costello knew the Danley store far to well. It was where Marcus Sanchez worked. Imagine, a big drug tycoon working as a fuckin security guard, arresting little old ladies, Myers and Costello would often laugh. The two men had been in the store dozens of times just to harass him. But Sanchez would always remind them: Come back when you have some real business to do, or otherwise, get the hell out of my store. But deep down, Myers and Costello knew the reason Sanchez enjoyed working for minimum wage in the city’s largest department store. Several years earlier he had earned a modest degree in Criminal Justice. But after applying for the Police Academy he was turned down after a background check reveled he’d once been busted for possession of marijuana. Myers and Costello knew the love and passion Sanchez must have had for law enforcement, it was something every good cop is instilled with, maybe since birth. They understood the hurt of not being able to do the one thing in life which you are truly born to do. Damn shame he isn’t on our side, could’ve made our job a hell of a lot easier, they often said. Myers picked up the phone and punched in the number to Danley Department store. “May I speak with your store manager, Mr. Hensley, please, tell him it‘s an emergency?”


          Sanchez was sitting close to the monitor, studying a teenage boy who had a suspicious interest in a pair of headsets when his phone rang. Sanchez knew it was Mr. Hensley. He was the only one who had access to the security room’s telephone. “Hello, Mr. Hensley, what can I do for you?”

          “Sorry to disappoint you, Marcus, but this is your old, friend, Todd Myers. How’s she beefing, pal?”

          “How the hell did you get this number, Myers?” he yelled into the receiver.

          “Relax, Marcus, your boss transferred the call upstairs. Look, I have a little favor to ask, alright?”

          “What the hell are you talking about, Myers?” Why should I do you a favor after the way you and that asshole, Terry Costello has been harassing me lately?”

          “Sanchez, just shut the hell up for a minute and listen, I don’t have much time here. The Eastside Federal Savings and Loan was robbed about twenty minutes ago. The suspect is still at large and is most likely in the area. We have the entire sector squared off so he’s probably not going anywhere. Our thinking is that he’ll try to either change cloths or stash the money or maybe both. Where and when, we don’t know. What I need you to do is closely monitor your store cameras and if you see anybody who looks the least bit suspicious, give me a call. Also it might be a good idea to review your tapes back to around ten thirty-five. That would have been only a few minutes after the robbery.

          Marcus, perked up, the edge in his voice now gone. "You telling me you have reason to believe he’s coming this way, Myers?”

          “At this point, we’re not sure of anything. His description and his direction after he left the bank are still uncertain. There were only two witnesses, the handler and an elderly woman. The handler wasn’t much help and the old lady was so upset, we can’t rely on her information. The old woman thought he was wearing a blue shirt and khaki colored trousers, but we can’t count on that. We are certain of one thing; he was carrying the loot in a large, black attaché case.

          “Damn,” Sanchez said, half in a daze, “this is some good shit. I’ll keep close tabs on the store, Myers, and if I see anything suspicious, I’ll pull you in.”

          “Great,” Myers said, “My cell number is 221-6781. Now listen Marcus, should he come your way, don’t play superman with this guy. The man is armed and extremely dangerous and the old lady said he was acting like a mad man. Call us, no hero shit, you got that?”

          “Sure,” Sanchez told him, already studying the monitors. “I got you, Myers, no hero shit.” He hung up the phone.

* * * *

          Max walked into the men’s room of Danley Department store then stopped and listened carefully. He could hear no sounds to indicate any company. His arms had become sore from carrying the heavy attaché case and he rubbed them for a few seconds before starting to work. Stepping into the third stall, he locked the metal door behind him and set the cumbersome case to the floor. Inside his jean pocket, Max removed a small putty knife and began inching it into a crack in the wood paneling above the toilet. In a few seconds he had the small, square piece of plywood removed. The secret pre-cut area in the wall had been made three weeks earlier, and the measurements and cutting had been made to fit the exact specifications of the attaché case. Taking a deep breath he heaved the case up to the wall and pushed it into the small hole. Due to Kara being such a good waitress, the attaché was more bulky than he had expected and Max had to use some force to push it down into the wall. He finally replaced the square piece of plywood and lightly tapped it into place. He stood back and admired his handiwork. It was perfect and even Max himself couldn’t tell exactly where the cut-out had been made.


          Upstairs in the security room, Sanchez was busy scanning the store, keeping the large monitor fixed on the front door while searching around different departments with the other eleven. He reached for his radio to call down to Bob Allis then remembered that Mr. Hensley had sent Bob across town to do some inventory security checks at the warehouse. He wouldn’t return until after lunch. Sanchez could find no one suspicious on the floor so he decided to run the camera tape in reverse as Todd Myers had suggested. He pressed a few buttons and began studying the film of the front doors. He was running the scan at speed “seven-reverse” while carefully studying the time rolling backwards. Suddenly his finger hit the FREEZE button. The man wasn’t wearing a blue shirt and khaki pants. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt. But his cloths had not been what caught Sanchez’s attention, it was the large, black attaché case, the man was carrying. Sanchez checked the clock on the monitor then looked at his own watch. Shit, he thought, that's been less than five minutes ago. Sanchez concluded that since the man was not on the floor, the only place he could have gone to was the men’s room. He quickly reversed camera nine to check that area. On the film he saw the man enter the men’s room, strongly hassling with the large black case. Sanchez quickly picked up the phone and began dialing Todd Myers’s cell phone number. Before it had a chance to ring, Sanchez put the receiver back into the cradle.

          Guns, under any circumstances, were not allowed in Danley Department Store, but Sanchez could have cared less about old man Hensley’s fucking rules. He quickly unlocked a bottom file cabinet door and reached far to the back and brought out a stainless Walther PPK, 12-shot automatic .380. He checked the clip and then the chamber, it was fully loaded with “stinger” hollow-points. Carefully, he slid the handsome gun deep into his pocket. Sanchez began unlocking the door to the security room when he stopped and walked back to the control panel. Reaching down he hit one single button and the entire system went dark.

          Max was just beginning to unlock the stall door when he heard someone enter. He stood silent, listening to the sound of shoes leisurely shuffling along the dirty tile floor. Some sink water ran momentarily, then he heard the sound of ripping paper towels. The shoes were slowly coming in his direction. Max tried to clutch his breath but his heart was beating too hard hold it. “Get on the fucking floor, now!” a rough sounding Spanish voice yelled into the stall. Get on the floor, right now or
I’m putting twelve shots into that goddamn door!” Max knew the game was over.

          How in the hell did a fucking cop follow me in here? he thought angrily.
Max squirmed to the floor, stretching his arms outside the stall door.

          Now crawl out of there, you son of a bitch, and keep your hands away from your body.” Sanchez demanded. But Max could see the shoes and he knew immediately they were not the uniform shoes of a Miami city cop. “Get on your fucking feet and keep you hands up,” Sanchez continued to bellow. Max slowly raised to a standing position then suddenly Sanchez grabbed him and tossed him against the wall. Sanchez frisked him thoroughly, finding only the putty knife, then spun him back around. “Where the hell’s the case you brought in here, is it still in the stall?” Sanchez insisted.

          “And who the hell are you?” Max sharply asked.

          “Santa’s little helper,” Sanchez said with a sharp smirk on his face. “Marcus Sanchez, store chief security officer.” He was still holding the Walther to Max’s chest. “I just received a call from Miami police, I know all about the robbery and I saw you come in here with a large attaché case. Now where the fuck is it?” Max’s eyes rolled towards the stall and Sanchez own eyes followed them. “Get over there by the sinks,” Sanchez yelled, pushing Max in that direction.

          Sanchez took a deep breath and kicked hard on the locked stall door. The sound of ripping metal could be heard but the door stayed totally intact. A shade of embarrassment crossed his face. “Need some help?” Max taunted.

          Sanchez spun around and pointed the Walther at him. “You....you just shut your goddamn mouth,” Sanchez howled. He turned and kicked a second time. This time the door broke clean and slammed hard against the inside stall knocking the toilet paper dispenser off the wall. A roll of toilet paper went sailing across the floor leaving a long, white trail behind it. Sanchez’s eyes dashed around inside the stall, then to the back wall and finally rose to the ceiling. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, looking wildly in every possible direction. Sanchez jerked open the doors to the other two empty stalls, then turned and glanced under the sinks. In one last disparate attempt, he began digging through the large wastebasket. “What the hell did you do with it?” Sanchez screamed out of frustration. “Where the hell is the case?“ Max knew this was a hopeless situation. Sanchez was going to turn him over to the police with or without the money. When the cops returned, they would surly rip every board from this bathroom, piece by piece, until the money was found. There was only one way to perhaps salvage the robbery.

          “Got a deal for you, Sanchez,” Max said.

          “I’m listening,” Sanchez mumbled, still rummaging through the wastebasket.

          “Good, now listen hard. I'll tell you where the money is and we split it down the middle, fifty-fifty. I go my way, you go your way, the cops know jack-shit, we both live happily ever after.”

          Sanchez grew a dumb look as he contemplated the deal. “How much is it?” he finally asked.

          “Not sure,” Max told him, “but the handler was cooperative and she only used large bills. I only got a quick look, but I would estimate, maybe five hundred grand.

          A half a million dollars in cash/ Sanchez thought. Jesus, fucking Christ. “It ain’t our money!” he snorted back

          “It could be,” Max corrected. Now do you want to know where it’s at or not?” Sanchez just stood there, holding the Walther on Max, shaking his head slowly up and down, like a shy little boy, waiting for candy.

          “Hand me the putty knife,“ Max said. Sanchez plucked it out of his back pocket and tossed it across the floor. Max picked it up, stepped into the stall and went to work. After removing the paneling, he reached in and heaved the heavy case out of the wall then sat it onto the long row of sinks. Max began to open it.

          “Wait a minute,” Sanchez said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. After securely locking the bathroom door he strolled back to the stall and stared at the hole in the wall. “How long has that been there?”

         “About three weeks,” Max told him.

          “Son of a bitch, and I’ve been taking a shit in this stall every day.”

          Max slowly opened the case and the money glared back at them like sparkling diamonds. Sanchez’s stared at the cash in total disbelief. “Holy, fuckin shit,” he quietly said to himself.

          “Half of it yours,” said Max. Sanchez reached down and pulled a large banded wad of 100’s from the case and flipped through it like a deck of cards.

          “You might be right about the amount,” he told Max. He put his hand deep into the money and fished around and pulled out several more wads of bills. Among them was the small pearl handle derringer which Max had hidden away. Sanchez began to laugh. He squinted an eye then pointed the derringer into the mirror. “You robbed a bank using this little pea-shooter?”

          “Yeah, did the job, didn’t it?” Max replied. Sanchez stuck the derringer into his pocket and pointed his Walther up to Max’s head. He slowly walked backwards towards the door then unlocked it.

          “Tell you what I’m going to do, pal,” said Sanchez. I ain’t going to turn you in. I’m going to give you your goddamn freedom I’m going to let you walk free.” No cops, nothing. Just get the hell out of my store, now.

          “What!” Max yelled, I thought we had a deal. You’re going to keep all the fuckin money aren't you, you asshole.”

          “Now that ain’t really none of your concern,” said Sanchez. “Why don’t you just run to the cops and tell them that the mean playground bully just took all your little lunch money.”


          You son of a bitch,” Max screamed, “Watch your back, you bastard, because I’m going to find your sorry ass, and when I do, I’m going to blow your goddamn head off.”


          “Don’t threaten me, you miserable hunk of shit,” Sanchez shot back. “I’ve got connections in this town that’ll stomp your ass like a fuckin bug. Now get the hell out of here and if I catch you hanging around me, you’ll find yourself floating around out in the gulf stream.”

          Max turned for the door and gave one last glare to the man who had just taken half a million dollars from him. All the details and months of planning were wiped away in less than five minutes. And by who? a goddamn store security guard. “We'll meet again, Sanchez, that’s a promise.” Max said as he walked out the door.

          Sanchez was careful in getting the heavy attaché case up to the second floor. He avoid any employees and always staying on the back isles. He knew the security cameras had been shut down and there would be no recording. Across from the security room was another door which opened into a large merchandise storage area. Sanchez sat the attaché down and pulled out some heavy boxes of new electronic equipment. After a few minutes he found his way to a fully assembled computer workshop. He opened the printer door and placed the attaché inside. After pushing all the boxes back into place, he stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him. It would be three days before he opened it again.

************ Part 3 ************

          Kara Allen’s Coral Gables apartment building had once been a large sugar processing plant in an earlier life. It sat directly facing the beautify green waters of the Atlantic Ocean where years earlier, large cargo ships, loaded with freshly cut Cuban sugar cane, slowly inched their way toward long wooden docks. Today it was considered to be one of the finest apartment complexes in South Florida. Most of the tenants were professionals, typically doctors, lawyers and wealthy business owners. Being a simple bank teller, Kara had once felt lucky to live in such a lap of luxury. But she easily would have traded it away to free her life of the living nightmare she was trapped in. Her boyfriend faithfully took care of the rent, but it came with a high price. When she first met Joel Turner, two years ago, he seemed like a dream come true. His dad was wealthy, owning thirteen of the largest shopping malls in South Florida, including many others around the country. Kara had loved Joel not for the money but simply for the fact that he had treated her with kindness and respect. But as time went by, something changed in him and little by little, the very person she had once dearly loved, now terrified her. He had emerged into a monster of dominance and the power he held over her was horrifying. She was his prisoner and her only escape was going directly to work and back. On times when she needed to go out for personal reasons, it was always with his permission and his schedule. His death threats were common. She had heard so many over the last few weeks, Kara was fearful of falling asleep at night. Joel rented an adjacent apartment and through a large bay window, he could easily keep close tabs on her.

          It had been an extra rough day for Kara. The very first thing she remembered was waking up and seeing Joel standing beside her bed. When she screamed, he fell onto the bed and slapped her across the face and then raped her. If that wasn’t enough to start her day there had been the bank robbery later that morning. She knew she could have easily lost her life---but would it had been so bad, considering her miserable life. After work she was asked to give a three-hour statement to Todd Myers and four other agents regarding the robbery. Kara was exhausted and hurting, both physically and mentally during the drive home. It was almost eight-thirty in the evening when she pulled her car into her parking space. In all the confusion she had forgotten to call Joel to tell him she would be late. Was this day going to end like it began? What else could possibly happen? she wondered.

          Kara glanced up to Joel’s window, his apartment was dark. As she stepped from the car she immediately noticed a black shadow swiftly move somewhere to her right. In the pale glow of the parking lot she walked fast, franticly searching for her door key. Suddenly the dark shadow leaped from behind a parked car and grabbed Kara by the hair, jerking her hard onto rough asphalt. She screamed and hit solidly on her knees and palms. Immediately she felt the skin peel away and then a warm trickle of blood ran down her arms and legs. Someone was beating her hard over the head and back. “Oh God,” she screamed. “just kill me...please just kill me...I don’t want to live anymore....”

* * * *

          Marcus Sanchez glanced up to the large black and white clock hanging on the wall. It was almost five. Three days had passed since he hid the attaché case in the storage area. Last night he called Rawle Manuel, his drug ally in the Dominican Republic, and told him about his good fortune. They both had a laugh over the way Sanchez had fallen into a half a million bucks. Manuel had suggested he keep the cash in several Caribbean bank accounts. Sanchez admired the idea of parking the money out of the country. He would deal with that later. The task now was to get it out of the fucking store.

          Shortly after five, Sanchez unlocked the storage room, struggled with the large boxes of electronic equipment and made his way back to the computer workshop. The attaché case was even heavier than he remembered. The thought of counting all that money, probably keeping him awake most of the night, brought on an exuberant rush. In the hallway he locked both the storage room and the security room and made his way down the stairs and exited the building through a side door. Other than a few arguing seagulls, the employee parking lot was quiet. Sanchez opened the trunk lid to his new Chevy Blazer and carefully laid the attaché on the floor then covered it with some towels. If the five o’clock traffic on northbound I-95 was cooperative, he would have the money safely home within thirty minutes. He would count it tonight then place it into a secure storage unit until the transfer to the Caribbean could be made.

          Sanchez slipped into the front seat and inserted the key into the ignition. With blazing speed and before his mind could comprehend the event, both front doors to the Blazer flung open and Sanchez found himself staring into opposite barrels of two Simi automatic handguns. “Hands on the wheel!...Now!” someone screamed. The next thing he remembered was a brawny hand ripping at his collar, dragging him out of the Blazer and onto the hot parking lot. A heavy knee pressed agonizingly into his upper back and someone was crushing hard onto his legs. He felt his arms being whipped together, then he sensed the cold sensation of steel handcuffs clicking tightly into his skin. It was like a dream in slow motion, a vivid nightmare which was impossible to awaken from. Sanchez, was in a daze, having no understanding of what was happening. After being jerked to his feet he was thrown up against his Blazer and heavily frisk. Someone yelled and reached into his pocket pulling out the pearl handle derringer which he had taken from Max. The next thing he remembered was being shoved into the back seat of a large black sedan and staring out the window, watching at least ten men probing through his Chevy. They all dressed alike, wearing blue jeans and white jogging shoes and black shirts. On the back of each shirt bore the horrifying letters that screamed “FBI.”

* * * *

          It took a little over two hours for Sanchez to be booked, fingerprinted, mug shot, stripped searched and given his lice preventative shower. Dinner consisted of beef and potatoes, chopped carrots, coleslaw and rolls. Dessert was a refill of either iced tea or hot coffee. Shortly after finishing his meal, a tall, callous looking jail keeper unlocked his cell and motioned for Sanchez to follow. He was handcuffed and led down a long hallway where an opened elevator awaited. They rode two flights down to the third floor. As they stepped out, Sanchez asked the jail keeper, “Where we going?”

          “Shut up and keep walking,” he said to his new inmate. A few doors down they stopped. There was a name on the door and Sanchez expected it to read, Todd Myers or Terry Costello, but it was a name that he was totally unfamiliar with.


          As soon as Sanchez was led in, the man in the room nodded for the jail keeper to leave. The well-dressed man was seated behind a huge mahogany desk that was trimmed in fine leather. The walls were adorned with beautifully framed diplomas and special service awards that he had earned over the last ten years. Sanchez stood cold, staring down at the man in total
disbelief. “Better have a seat, my friend, looks like you’ve just seen a ghost,” the man laughed. Sanchez slowly sat, never once taking his eyes away from him.

          “What the fuck?” Sanchez asked in a weak voice that was mixed with anger and bewilderment. The man sitting behind the beautiful and spacious desk reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a badge holder. He flipped it sharply in front of Sanchez’s face. On top was a shiny gold star and on the bottom section was a photo of the very man Sanchez now sat across from. The writing under the photo read:

Maxwell Kinsley
Special Agent
F.B.I

          Max opened a drawer and took out the small, unloaded derringer and laid it on the desk. “By the way, I want to thank you for keeping this little baby safe for the last three days. She's my pride and joy, won it off agent Hollister two years back in a department-shooting tournament. Can you believe the damn thing’s registered as stolen? They'd kick my can out of here if they knew I had it,” Max told him. Sanchez just starred blindly into Max’s blue eyes. He was numb and speechless.

         Sanchez swallowed deep then yelled, “I should have killed your ass the day I found you in that bathroom, you cheating son of a bitch.”

          Max leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Oh, so I’m the cheater now. Is that what you're implying, I’m the fucking cheater, now? What about that case full of cash we just plucked out of your Blazer, had you prints all over it.”

          “It’s a goddamn setup is what it is, a goddamn setup,” Sanchez screamed.

          "You know, I’m really starting to admire your intelligence,“ Max ridiculed. “I’m amazed how quickly you’re catching the big picture here.”

          “Well, it ain’t going to work," said Sanchez. "I’m getting me the best fucking lawyer that I can find and I'm telling him the whole story. I might get in trouble for hiding the cash but at least I can prove I didn’t take it from the bank.”

          “And how are you planning to do that, Sanchez?”

          "I’ve got the tape, the store security tape, the one that caught you carrying that black case into the men‘s room.”

          “Marcus, Marcus,” Max said shaking his head and opening the drawer again. “Do you really think we would be so stupid to actually let you keep this little roll of sugar?” Max said, laying the cartridge of film beside the derringer. “We picked it up from your condo about ten minutes after your arrest.”

          “That ain’t yours, it proper evidence,” Sanchez loudly complained.

          “Well in about an hour it’s going to be, proper destroyed.” Max said, smiling. Sanchez just sat there thinking how in the hell was he going to get out of this shit.

          “The bank tapes!” Sanchez yelled. “And my clothes, I can prove what I was wearing that day and so can some of the other store employees. You can’t destroy the bank tapes, the court will demand them and if you can’t provide those tapes there won’t be enough evidence for a convection.”

          “Oh I suspect the Grand Jury will be quite pleased,” Max told him. “In fact, the bank tapes are the one thing we’re counting on.”

          “What in the hell are you talking about?” Sanchez asked nervously.

          Max got up from his chair and walked over to the TV monitor and pressed a button. Sanchez stood at his side as the monitor came alive. “It’s the bank’s tape,” Max said. Both men watched the three-minute robbery in total silence.

          “The bank manager was the only one who knew what we were doing. He had the silent alarms turned off, otherwise it could have been a disaster.”

          “That’s exactly what I was wearing that day. “How the hell did you know what I was wearing?” Sanchez asked furiously.

          }Now that was the tricky part. We waited two weeks, watching as you left home every morning. But you kept wearing that loud, Spanish shit, something we couldn’t quickly duplicate. Then one morning you decided to wear something Plain-Jane, like the rest of the fuckin world. It was delivered to my motel room and your little set-up was on it‘s way.”

          Sanchez looked at Max standing beside him. Both men were exactly the same height and practically the same build. Marcus Sanchez knew only the ski mask hid the true robber’s identity. His shoulders began to slump, defeat setting in rapidly. “Just tell me something, Kinsley, how are you going to live with yourself knowing you sent an innocent man to prison?”

          Max reached over and grabbed the chest of his red jumpsuit, pulling him nose to nose. “I’m going to live with it just fine,“ Max said. “Just like those six mothers whose teenage sons are laying in a cemetery tonight. Those six mothers and I are going to live with it very damn well.”

          “What are you talking about?” Sanchez said, shaking.

          “The ones who died, last week, snorting your fucking, cheap cocaine,” Max informed him.

          “I still don’t know what you‘re talking about,” Sanchez said, jerking away from Max.

         The handsome F.B.I. agent walked to the door and signaled for the jail keeper. When he arrived Max shoved Sanchez hard into the hallway. “I'm sure it’ll come to you. We’re going to give you a long time to remember.”

************ Part 4 ************

          Max’s ride home that night took him on a planned detour to Miami General Hospital. Two days earlier his office had received word that Kara Allen had been harshly beaten outside of her apartment. If not for the headlights of an unexpected car, Kara, most likely, wouldn't had survived. Max checked earlier in the day on her condition. It had been upgraded to “fair” and she was now allowed general visitors. A large bouquet of flowers lay on the seat beside him. Max smiled and placed his right hand over them. There was also a large get well card which had been signed by her co-workers at the bank as well as the FBI agents who had worked the Sanchez setup. The card read:

“Get Well Soon, Kara
We're All Pulling For You.”

          On first word of Kara’s assault, the FBI became involved, thinking it may had been related to the bank robbery. But during her treatment, Kara confessed that her assailant was Joel Turner, a very mentally unstable ex-boyfriend. Joel was arrested on simple assault and battery charge. Three hours later he was free on bail, thanks to the quick work of his father’s attorney. Max parked in the visitor’s area, grabbed the flowers and card and walked into the hospital. It was getting late and most of the visitors were already filing out of the building. Max was glad he’d called earlier, letting Kara know he was bringing a small gift from her bank and his agency. He rode the elevator to the seventh floor and stepped out onto a long corridor. Max sniffed hard from the strong aroma of disinfectants which rattled his nose. Posted on a wall were the seventh floor room numbers. He studied the sign for a few seconds then turned right and walked slowly up the long corridor, carefully reading each room number. When he reached room 728, he stopped. The door was partially closed. Max took a deep breath and tapped lightly. “Come in,” a small voice called from inside the room.

          The last time he’d seen Kara Allen was through the cutouts of a ski mask. Max wondered the unlikely possibility that she may recognize the eyes. And what about the mind link? Would it still be there? Everything was uncertain. Max easily pushed the door open and peered in. A small surprise appeared on his face when he saw that Kara was out of bed and sitting in a chair beside the window. “Hello,” she said, trying to smile and feeling somewhat self-conscious of her bruises.

          Max stepped into the room and instinctively reached for his identification badge. He caught his rising hand before he had the chance to make an idiot of himself. “Hi, Kara, I’m Max Kinsley, I called you earlier.”

          Kara, still smiling, pointed to a chair. Yes, Max, please come in, I’ve been expecting you.” Max started to hand her the flowers and the get well card but then he noticed that both of her hands were heavily bandaged, like huge white mittens. He laid the flowers on a table then opened the card and handed it to her. “Thank you, they’re so beautiful,” she said, looking at the flowers. I don’t have a vase but I’m sure the nurse can find one.” She looked at the card and slowly read the names of all who had signed it. “I know all the names on the card except for these three,” she told Max, pointing a big mitten awkwardly to the signatures.

          “Those are three agents who are working the robbery with me,” Max explained.

          “That was so special for everyone to go to so much trouble.”

          “Ah, no trouble at all, Max said while taking a seat beside her. “Everyone’s just glad to see you’re getting better.”

          “Well, I’m a lot better than I was a couple of days ago, anyway,” she said with a quiet laugh. Kara’s face was noticeably swollen and large black and blue bruises covered her face, arms and legs. Max shivered at the thought of what the rest of her body may have looked like. She held up the two white mittens. “He really did a job on me, this time. My doctor told me I may need some skin graphs to my palms and maybe my knees, it‘s too early to tell just yet.” Max was feeling a little uncomfortable. He knew about the boyfriend who’d beaten her and he also knew the man was no longer in jail. The conversation was turning in that direction and Max wasn’t sure whether to proceed or change the subject entirely. Kara must have sensed his uneasiness and took control. “You know he’s out on bail, don’t you?” she asked.

          “Yes," he said, "I heard. Are you planning to press charges?"

          “Kara's smile disappeared and her eyes dropped to the floor. “At this time I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” she said. Max could feel his anger building like a boiler. What the hell do you mean you’re not going to press charges against this asshole? You’re going to let him beat the living shit out of you, almost kill you, and you’re just going to forget it, like that? You’re going to let the son of a bitch go free? Are you fucking crazy?

          Max took a deep breath and gathered himself. “I guess that has to be your decision,” he told her. “One of the reasons I stopped by tonight was to let you know we caught the guy who robbed your bank.”

          A surprised face turned to Max. “Are they absolutely sure?” Kara asked.

          “Positively,“ Max assured her. “Ironically, he was a store security guard. Worked only a couple of blocks away from the bank. We’re assuming that instead of taking his normal morning coffee break, he decided to rob a bank.”

          “How did you discover who he was?” Kara asked.

          “We got a tip,” said Max. Yeah, a really nice tip, the bastard stole the money right from my own two hands. “We think it might have been an employee, but we’ll never be sure. We watched him closely for three days, then one afternoon we caught him loading the cash into his truck. Name is Sanchez, Marcus Sanchez.”

          “Marcus Sanchez,” she said to herself. “I assume he’s Hispanic?”

          “Quite so,” Max replied, “Porto Rican if I’m not mistaken.”

          “An accent,” Kara asked, “does he speak with an accent?”

          “Yes, a rather heavy one at that,” Max told her. “Why do you ask, Kara?”

          “Well, I may be mistaken but I could've sworn he never spoke with an accent.”

          “In your statement, you mentioned you never heard him speak.”

          “I may have,” Kara, said. “You know, I was under a lot of stress at the time. He never said anything directly to me, but now I recall him speaking to the old woman. I’m positive he didn’t have an accent.”

          “I’m sorry, Kara,” Max apologized. Please don’t think I came here to question you. That wasn’t my reason at all. Besides, we have plenty of evidence for a conviction. I’m just sort of curious about something. He was wearing a ski mask, by any chance did you notice the color of his eyes?

          Kara looked at him with a straight face. “No, I’m sorry Max, I didn’t notice,” she lied. “You mentioned evidence, what sort of evidence do you have, if you don‘t mind me asking.?”

          “Well, for one thing” said Max, “We can’t just walk up and arrest someone for having a large amount of cash, but when the total comes to $434,680, the exact same amount that was taken from the bank, that’s going to be pretty convincing to a Grand Jury. Second, we have him on all the bank cameras wearing the identical clothes we later found in his Condo. And the final clincher was inside the attaché case, along with the money. It was the same derringer and ski mask he was using. Thanks to the bank’s cameras, we were able to match up everything Sanchez was using. Those cameras were a big help on this case.”

          “I suppose so,” Kara said, now more confused than ever. “I’m sure you have the right man, that’s your job. How long do you think he’ll get?”

          “He’s a first timer, so there’s the likelihood they’ll go easy on him. But he has a felony drug conviction on his record. All in all, I’d say he’s likely to get twelve years. If he keeps his ears clean, he’ll be out in maybe four.”

          They both sat awkwardly silent for a moment, then Kara broke the quietness. “They’re letting me out tomorrow morning but I’m not going back to my apartment. I’ve made arrangements at a local hotel where I’m just going to rest for a few days. I guess after that, I’ll be packing up and moving.”

          “Have any idea where you’ll be going?” Max asked

          Kara turned her head and looked out the window. “I’m moving to San Diego.”

          “San Diego?” Max exclaimed, “Boy when you move, you really do move.”

          Kara looked back and smiled again. “I have a sister who lives there. I called her this afternoon and she’s really excited about me coming out. Besides, Max, I could never live here anymore, you do understand that, I’m sure?”


          “Of course I do,” Max said. "I think it’s very smart thinking on your part.” He looked at Kara and saw tears beginning to roll down her cheek. He reached over and placed a hand over one of her white mittens. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

          Kara tried hard to suppress her tears but it was useless. She began crying like a small child. “Oh Max, I’ve done something horribly wrong,” she sobbed. “Just horrible.” Max got up from his chair and walked to the nightstand and pulled a few tissues from a box. He handed them to Kara and sat down again, patting her arm.

          “Now tell me Kara, what was this horrible thing you did?”

          Kara was about to speak when a baggy, heavyset nurse entered the room. She checked the time on her watch very deliberately , then gave Max a frown. She then glanced to Kara who was wiping her eyes, and the frown quickly left her face. Sitting a glass of juice on the nightstand the large, shapeless nurse quickly made a beeline for the door. By this time, Kara had pulled herself somewhat together and was ready to talk.

          “This morning, around ten, this guy showed up here at my room,” she, began. “I had no idea who he was. He was dressed in an expensive looking dark suit and wore sunglasses. He told me his name, Alex Dawson, attorney at law. As it turned out, he was a specialty lawyer which Joel’s father had hired. We talked a while about my assault and then he began asking all sorts of weird questions about our relationship.”

          “You know you didn’t have to tell him anything,” Max interrupted.

          “I know,” Kara said. “but I was sort of curious to see where he was leading with all these questions. When he started getting too personal I bluntly told him, ‘Mr. Dawson, I’m not feeling well, could we please get to the point of this meeting?’ That’s when he opened his briefcase and offered me a check. When I glimpsed at it, I almost fainted. It was for $75,000 and made out to my name. Oh, Max, Kara sobbed, he told me the check was mine if I agreed not to press charges and leave town immediately.”

          “So what did you do, Kara?” Max softly asked.

          Kara stopped crying and began dabbing at her eyes with the tissues. “You’ve got to understand something,” she told Max. “Joel, literally had me kidnapped for the last two years. I was only allowed to come and go on his terms. My car is in horrible shape and Joel made sure it stayed that way. He was paranoid I was going to leave in the middle of the night. My paychecks went directly to his own account. He would give me just enough money for my basic needs. He constantly threatened to kill me if I went to the police or caused any trouble. It was like living in a dark cave, trapped by this....this horrible creature.”

          “So you took the money?” he asked. Kara reached into her purse and handed Max the check. “You know what you both did was illegal, don’t you?” Kara began wiping away fresh new tears while slowing shaking her head up and down. Max carefully took her white mitten hand into his. “But you know what, Kara? You would have been a damn fool not to have taken it,” Max told her with a devilish smirk on his face.

          She turned to Max and let out a slim laugh. “Hell, I figured about half of it was mine anyway,” she chuckled. “This money is what I’m planning to use to get to California. I’ll need to buy a decent car and new furniture when I get there. Max, I’m just going to use the money to get myself into a new life, that’s all. I feel I deserve at least that much after all I‘ve been through.”

          Max turned and flashed his bright, handsome blue eyes at her then nodded in total agreement. Kara’s face went numb and her mouth fell slightly open. She had seen those eyes before. There was no mistake about it. Those eyes were forever imbedded into her memory, not a memory of a horrible experience but rather a memory of something very comforting and reassuring. Kara knew exactly where she had seen them.

         “When are you planning to get your personal belonging out of the apartment?” Max asked.

          “I’m not sure, my car is still at the apartment. Tomorrow morning, I guess. I’ll call a taxi. Thank heavens I can at least afford that now.”

          “I’m not sure if that’s such a wise idea,” Max advised her.

          Kara placed an intentional dim look on her face. “You might be right, Max, it’s something I’ve been sort of anxious about. Even with the taxi driver present, Joel still might try to start something.”

          “I would feel much more comfortable if I escorted you, Kara. What time are you being discharged in the morning?” he asked.

          “The doctor said he would check on me at nine-thirty, so I’ll guess I’ll be leaving around ten.”

          “Fine, ten it is then. Tomorrow’s my day off anyway, so there won’t be any conflict with work.”

         Kara laughed, her eyes now quickly drying, “Imagine, me, being escorted by a tall, handsome FBI agent. What an honor.”

          “Oh, no,” Max blushed, the honor’s mine.”

************ Part 5 ************

          As Max’s polished red corvette pulled into the Coral Gables parking lot., Kara pointed in the direction of her apartment. Max pulled his new sports car into an open slot directly beside of Kara’s battered Ford Taurus. “Now that’s one piece of junk I’ll be glad to say goodbye to,” she committed while sliding out of the car. Max helped her load a few articles of clothing and some personal items into the back of his trunk. It only took a few minutes since there was little she cared to drag across the country. Kara began to lock her apartment door for the last time when she stopped and slowly pushed the door back open. Standing in the doorway she starred blindly into the quiet apartment. Max gave her a moment then gently put a hand on her shoulder and closed the door himself. Instead of locking it, Kara simply placed the key beneath the doormat. Max and Kara walked hand in hand, silently back to his car. Looking into the window of the Taurus she saw nothing worth taking. Max opened Kara’s door and she slowly slipped into the soft leather seat, still sore from her bruises. Just as Max was beginning to open the driver’s door he heard a light scuffle behind him then felt a strong hand grab hold of his shoulder. As Max spun around to confront his opponent he heard Kara scream. It was Joel Turner and he had the look of an enraged psycho drawn across his face.

          “Where the hell do you think you’re going with that bitch,” he screamed to Max. Joel’s fingers dug in sharp and painful and Max quickly knocked the man’s hand free of him.

          “That’s none of your business,” Max informed him in a cool voice. “And if I ever catch you near her again, I’m going to break your fuckin neck, he added.

          “You ain’t going nowhere with that little bitch,” he yelled. Joel stepped back and pulled a small pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Max’s face. “Get out of that goddamn car!” he screamed to Kara.

          “No, Kara, stay in the car!” Max instructed her. But Kara saw the gun and realized that Max’s life was in great danger. “Stay in the car!” Max repeated, but Kara wasn’t listening. She dashed from the car and circled around the front then leaped through the air at Joel. Just as she hit him from behind, a boisterous blast from the gun rumbled throughout the apartment complex. Max fell backwards, holding his chest, then hit the pavement in a rigid heap. Blood oozed heavily through his white cotton shirt, draining steadily onto the black asphalt. Joel flung Kara off of his back then gripped her tightly while thrusting the gun to her temple. Despite bleeding heavily and in agonizing pain, Max managed to reach to the back of his belt and pull the .9 mm Beretta Cougar from its holster.


          “Drop it! Joel Screamed. “Drop the gun of I’ll blow her goddamn brains out.” Max staggered to his feet and placed his gun on top of the car. Joel began moving backwards, holding Kara tightly by the neck and inching closer to the apartment door. As they approached the doorway, Kara dropped her eyes just enough to see the doormat that Joel was backing up to. With a quick scuffle of her feet she kicked its edge causing it to curl up. Joel grabbed the doorknob; still keeping his eyes closely fixed on Max. For a brief second, Joel had to remove the gun from Kara’s head in order to twist the doorknob. But for the trained F.B.I. agent, that brief second was plentiful time to get the job done. With swift precision, Max swiped the gun from the car top and fired three rapid shots into Joel. Two hit the left chest and one punched ugly into the stomach. Joel screamed and fell backwards, tripping over the curled up doormat and falling bluntly into the apartment. Kara kicked the gun from his hand then trained her angry shoe towards his head, screaming and viciously attacking it like an animal devouring it’s prey. Max staggered into the apartment and quickly pulled her away. Max held her close, rocking back and forth, soothing her until her cries emptied into just a hushed whimper. Max suddenly felt dizzy and weak and he slumped to the floor. As Kara loosened his blood soaked shirt, she could hear the distinct cries of sirens.

          “Use your phone, call 911,” Max told her in a weak voice. Kara slipped a pillow under his head and dashed to the phone. The 911 operator informed her that a neighbor had already reported the shooting and that help was on the way. She laid the phone down and looked closely at Joel who was lying in a puddle of bloody carpet. It was hard to believe that with all the bullets he had taken, he was still breathing. Kara walked slowly toward him, and angled another foot at his head. From behind her she heard Max‘s reassuring voice. “Don’t do it, Kara, it’s over with....it’s all over.”

************ Part 6 ************

          It would be three days before the doctors would allow Max to have any visitors, but when that day arrived, Kara would be his first. Strolling into the room, she carried a huge arrangement of flowers. She smiled at Max then kissed him lightly on the cheek. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she laughed.

          “Are you all set for your flight today?” Max asked, hoping her answer would be, No! Are you crazy? I canceled it, I’m never going to leave you! But then he had been the one, earlier on the phone, to talk her into keeping her plans.

          “I guess,” she replied in an unsure voice. “I just wished there were some other way. Do you know how guilty I feel, just running off, leaving you here in a hospital bed?”

          “Kara, listen to me, I talked with the doctor this morning, I’m going to be released in a few days. He told me I was going to be fine.” Now I want you to get on that plane and start your life over. There’s no need whatsoever for you to feel guilty.”

          “I know Max, it’s not only the guilt that bothers me, it’s...it’s...”

          Max took her bandaged hand into hers and began caressing it. “I know, Kara, I know. And I feel the same about you” he said. Kara slowly dipped her head and began to cry.

          “It too risky for you to stay in Miami,” Max told her. The doctor also told me that Joel was awake and doing a lot better.

          “I know, I heard” she said. “It’s a miracle he’s alive. How could he possibly have survived all those bullet wounds?”

          The doctor said that all three shots were clean. The only one that was serious was the belly shot. They had to remove a part of his intestine, but they’re sure he’s going to make a full recovery.

          Kara gave Max a grave look knowing full well that she had no choice but to leave. Besides, she had already accepted the check and she didn’t want any problems from Joel’s attorney.

          Kara and Max sat and talked for a while until a nurse entered the room and told Max that he had another visitor, his supervisor, Lance Kirkland.

          “Well send him in,” Max told her.

          The nurse shook her head, “Sorry, doctors orders, only one visitor at a time.” Kara looked at the nurse and raised one finger. The nurse got the message and left the room.

          “This is it,” Kara said, her eyes swimming in tears. “I know that I’ll never see you again.”

          “Shh,” Max whispered, wiping away a tear. “Now you don’t know that, do you? Kara opened her purse and took out a pen and a small piece of paper and wrote something.

          “Here is my cell phone number, you can reach me anywhere in the country,” she told him. Please call me whenever you want, it would really mean a lot to me.”

          Max took the paper and briefly studied the number. “It’s a deal,” he said. “And it’s also a promise.” Kara reached down and gently hugged him for the last time. Max softly stroked her hair. She walked slowly to the door, then turned and smiled. Waving a big white mitten into the air, Kara was gone.

* * * *

          Max and his supervisor, Lance Kirkland had an enjoyable chat. The big red headed fellow was curious to see how “His boy” was getting on after the shooting. It was a friendly talk that lasted almost 10 minutes, but Max could sense something was not quite right. The conversation trailed off then Lance looked down and cleared his throat.

          “Max, something’s come up, something big that we need to talk about.”

          “I’m all ears,“ Max told him.

          “I received a call yesterday from, Allen Inders, in D.C. As you know, he’s “Head Dog” of all the southern field offices. Anyway, he’s a little concerned about the way we set up Sanchez, sticking him with this Robb...

          “What are you getting at, Lance?” Max interrupted.

          “With all the agencies we worked with, the DEA and the Miami PD, there’s just too damn many people who know the truth in this matter. He’s worried there might be a leak somewhere.”

          “Tell him to relax, Lance. There’s just a handful of people who had full knowledge in the case. I mean, even the arresting agents at the scene had no idea this was a setup.”

          “Doesn't matter, Max. I could hear it in his voice, Inders is acting like a scared rabbit. Sanchez’s lawyer called him personally and told him they’re going to fight tooth and nails to bring out the truth. Inders wants everyone who seriously worked this case to be removed from the Agency, effective today.

          “Removed!” Max exclaimed. “Are you telling me that I’m fired from the FBI?

          “Well, not exactly, let’s just sort of call it an early retirement.” Lance chuckled.

          Max shot up to a sitting position, then grabbed his shoulder in pain. “What the hell is so funny, Lance?” he yelled. “I’ve put ten hard years of my life into this agency and I’m only thirty-five years old. What the hell am I supposed to do with the rest of my life, walk a goddamn cop’s beat every night?”

          Lance’s smile had withered and a sober shade of seriousness now filled his face. “Don’t be ridicules, Max, we’re going to set you up with a nice retirement. One hundred thousand a year with full medical benefits. Hell, a lot of professional athletes retire at your age. I suggest that you bring out the golf clubs and relax from here on in.

          “That’s not my lifestyle,” Max shot back.

          “Well, it might be a good idea to start thinking about it,” Lance suggested.

          “What’s going to happen to the other agents who had knowledge in this case?” Max asked.

          “They’re going to be taken care of them just like you, Max.” But there’s one point that I need to make very clear. Under no circumstances can you or the other agents have any communications. If you do, the retirement will be suspended. Is that understood Max?”

          “I hear you,” Max replied, sounding totally apathetic.

          “Fine, just as soon as you’re released from the hospital, you’ll need to come in and clear out your office. By the way, Pal, everyone thinks you’ve put in for a transfer. You may want to think of a place to tell them where you‘re going. It’s part of the deal, Max, you have no choice but to leave the state and never return.”

         Max sat up in the bed slowly, as to not hurt his shoulder again. “You want to know something Lance?" he asked. “It’s sort of strange, but for the last couple of years I’ve been kicking around the idea of opening my own private detective agency. Nothing real big or fancy, just a small two or three room office, maybe a pretty secretary to sit out front, someone single, like me."

         “Sounds good to me, Max. Let’s see, Maxwell Kinsley, private detective, sort of has a nice ring to it,” Lance chuckled, shaking his head at Max's sudden burst of creativity. "You have anywhere particular in mind?"

         Max took the piece of paper that Kara had given him and stared at the number again. A curious smile grew across his face. "Yeah, I think I do,“ he said. “I've always wanted to live in San Diego.”

****** THE END ******

Thanks for reading

-Trevor