1
Quillon’s mouthturned down in a deep frown of annoyance. It wasn’t because of the long line in the bank lobby. Every Friday afternoon at four thirty sharp, he took in the weekly deposit from the machine shop, and every Friday at four thirty, the place was packed. It wasn’t because people were staring, even though his size and shape resembled a Steelers’ linebacker. It wasn’t the cut on his back, declaring him to be a member of Pittsburgh’s Iron City Knights motorcycle club. He’d grown used to the looks and wide berth people gave him because of it. People in this city feared them simply from reputation alone.
They weren’t exactly choirboys, but they weren’t a one-percenter group either. At least not anymore. Turf wars in the early ’70s stopped that shit. Now the club owned a strip joint, a machine shop, and a forge.
The shit that ticked him off was the three dumbasses who decided to rob the bank at that hour.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He ground his back teeth while he kept his arms up as instructed. He wished like hell there weren’t so many people around. Late morning was a better time. Less activity, which meant a fast in-and-out. At least twenty bodies filled the smalllobby—fearful ones to boot. More hostages, but also more targets if one yahoo got trigger-happy. If he stepped in and took care of business with these assholes, someone would get hurt or dead.
“Don’t get any ideas, you motherfuckers!” one man yelled while waving his gun at the cluster of people.
Whimpers and curses came from several throats. Quillon wanted to growl in frustration. The jagoffs didn’t corral the crowd or do any kind of isolation. There was no clear pathway from the counter to the door. If one teller tripped a silent alarm and the cops showed up, there would be chaos.
Again, someone would get hurt or dead.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Any other time, he wouldn’t give two shits about some bank robbery. Typically, they got caught. If a miracle occurred and they didn’t, the cash return seldom made the effort worth it. No, the most annoying problem with this situation was the pretty teller currently jamming fistfuls of cash into a pillowcase. A fucking pillowcase of all things!
She was the main reason he came here directly. He could make most of the shop deposits and other accounting via the phone app. There was no need for him to frequent the bank as much as he did, but he came here just to see her. Tracie.
Four months ago, he walked into the bank on a snowy afternoon, pissed as hell that he had to go there for a checking account error, and ended up at her window. He’d been coming ever since.
Now she stood in that same spot with a gun to her head as she stuffed money into the cloth bag with yellow daisies on it. Her chocolate-brown eyes remained downcast behind her glasses. Quillon had noticed she had a collection of different colors and frames. Today, she wore the round blue ones to match her navy blazer.
All three men wore medical masks, like that would keep them anonymous. One had already pulled it down under his nose so he could breathe. Quillon recognized the guy from the neighborhood, a well-known tweaker who lived in his parents’ basement. The dumbass didn’t have enough sense to go to a different suburb.
This shit gets better and better.
Quillon kept his eyes trained on Tracie as she worried her lower lip. She glanced up at him, and he saw fear on her face. Tweaker stood behind her and pushed the Beretta’s muzzle into her skull, just above the giant barrette that held back her straight coppery-brown hair. Quillon had never seen it down.
“Move your ass, bitch!” the man yelled. From the tone of his voice, he was panicking. Panicky people made mistakes.
She closed her eyes and winced but kept going.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!That asshole was going to die.
Quillon moved his gaze to the other two men. One had a long blond braid hanging down his back under the black mask. He held another 9mm handgun—a CZ, and probably a basic model from what he could see. This guy also lived in the neighborhood and thought himself a badass. He held the gun sideways in one hand like he’d watched too many gangster movies. He’d tried to prospect with the Knights, but they laughed him out of the club on sight.
Fucker didn’t even have a motorcycle.
The third man was the one who concerned Quillon the most. He had an AR-15 with an extra-large magazine that could hold more than the standard thirty rounds. The bulge in his pocket was likely a second mag, so this guy had prepared. The rifle wasn’t automatic and wouldn’t spray bullets in a single burst. One pull equaled one shot, but it had a fast load, and if timed right, the gun could empty sixty rounds in under a minute. Hewas the only one of the three who had on a full mask and sunglasses, obscuring his face completely.
Tweaker pushed Tracie, making her stumble to the next window. “Open the next one!”
“Okay, okay, I’m doing it.” Her voice was soft and shaky.
“Hurry the fuck up!”
Quillon hoped she kept it together. He admired her control but noticed her stance was too tight. If she locked up too hard, she might get dizzy and faint.
Breathe, baby,he instructed silently.Breathe.
Her eyes darted up and connected with his as if she heard him. She didn’t smile as she usually did when he came to her station. Her watery gaze stayed with him, and she let go of her lip.
Fuck, her mouth held the stuff of fantasies. Her upper lip plumped slightly bigger than the lower, and more than once, he’d wanted to take it between his to test its ripeness.
