I keep moving toward the bill changers.
Stop at the nearest one. Pull out nothing. Feed it into the slot anyway, fingers going through the motion while my eyes track the front corner of the room—lot, road, entrance, lot again.
“I don’t see any cameras,” I say, not looking at Gage.
The light above the door buzzes. Something loose rattles faintly against metal somewhere I can’t place.
“We’ll know for sure once Cruz gets in the office.”
Cruz is already crouched at the office door, one tool in the lock, his head tilted slightly like he’s listening to it. Twelve seconds, maybe fifteen. The door swings inward.
I don’t breathe until he’s inside.
He reappears in the doorway. “Old TV. No hardwire. No back door.”
Gage checks his watch. “Sweep it again. Bell—entrance. Seven minutes.”
Cruz disappears back inside. I move to the front corner, half-behind a machine, one hand resting against its edge. The other opens and closes at my side.
Gage drops to his knees, unzips the duffel, and pulls out the safe kit—a plug spinner, a tension wrench, a short-handled pry bar. Things I recognize. Things I’ve seen used before.
“There’s nothing in here, man. Barely any paperwork.” Cruz’s voice carries from inside the office. “There’s a drawerful of whiskey, though.”
I keep my eyes on the door. The parking lot. The street. The motel sign across the road, its vacancy light stuttering on and off in a rhythm that doesn’t quite resolve.
Cruz jogs out of the office and drops down beside Gage. I hear the low scrape of metal on metal, then a sharper sound—something giving way.
“How’s it going?” I call over my shoulder. My pulse is loud in my ears. I keep my feet planted.
“Almost,” Gage says.
There’s a dull pop, then a creak of the panel swinging open on its hinge. A pause.
“Got it,” Cruz says.
I glance back once.
The face of the bill changer hangs open. Inside, the cash cassette sits in a shallow tray—banded stacks, loose bills pressed flat by the weight of more loose bills. More than I expected.
Cruz lets out a low breath through his nose. “Alright, Gage.”
Gage grins as he pulls out the tray and dumps it into the open duffel bag. “I fuckin’ told you, man.”
“Time?”
“Three minutes. Enough time to get the second one open if we hurry,” Gage says.
The road is still empty, but the way the night clings to dawn’s impending embrace feels palpable. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my senses snap into place.
Behind me, metal grinds against metal. Then headlights crest the hill.
My hand flattens against the glass. “Shit. I see headlights.”
“Hurry up,” Cruz says.
My fingers start to tremble from the adrenaline and lack of sleep. It feels like my very molecules are vibrating, and the urge to run is at its peak.
“I’ve almost got it,” Gage says, breath punching out between words.
