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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Chapter Notes:

As per my usual style, the first few chapters will involve character development and introduction before GTS interaction.

Botched

Samuel Haynes crouched down on his haunches, back against the non-public side of the counter separating the bank tellers from the public of the west side branch of First National Savings and Trust. Head back, his eyes closed, Colt M4A1 assault weapon with ACOG scope standing upright between his legs. The bullet wound in his side, just inside the opening in the Kevlar body armor, burning like a sonofabitch, the sticky wet feeling of blood seeping out and into his dark colored clothes.

Rolling his head to the side, pullover Halloween skull facemask concealing his sweaty face, sweaty despite the climate controlled air conditioning. Sam opened his eyes and looked over at the crumpled heap of the similarly masked and dressed Patrick Swayne and the dark ruby pool of congealing blood he was lying face down in.

“We are so fucking pooched!” Cameron Stroud said, his own face also covered by a mask identical to Sam’s coming in low beside the crouching man, eyes sweeping across the half dozen police cars outside the bank, lights staining the interior of the financial institution red and blue through disheveled blinds and broken plate glass.

“Just stick with the plan,” Sam growled through clenched teeth, beads of perspiration trickling down the side of his face inside the mask.

“The plan is fucked man, Pat’s gone!” complained Cameron, voice high pitched and full of panic as he looked over at their dead companion.

Sam kept quiet, the original plan was fucked. It had been simple. Four man insertion team, another man waiting outside as a getaway driver and another to neutralize the alarm system remote, that was Wyatt Taylor’s job, six minute reboot time, perfect window of opportunity, cell phone signal jammer in the van, armored truck arrives exactly at 9:15. Wait for the unload, catch everyone in transition, the time lock on the vault would be open, get in, grab the cash and hit the specifically identified numbered safety deposit box with the punch, and get out. Simple, two minutes max window. Variables, six bank employees including one armed security person and one manager, a half dozen customers, two in the truck. Nice slow typical Tuesday morning. Not bad for an expected for a high seven figure payday split seven ways.

Truck was four minutes late, and for whatever reason the bank was packed with more than triple the expected number of customers. Someway, somehow, somebody alerted the cops and his team walked right into an armed response when they attempted to leave the bank two minutes and forty-eight seconds after arriving.

The exchange of gunfire that followed saw Pat take a bullet, catching him high in the neck over the armor. George Mendel had drug him back inside and despite their best efforts there was nothing they could do and Pat bled out. Jeff Tanner was shot and presumed while trying to make a break for it in the escape van which just wound up rolling to a stop against the cement impediment across the end of the open esplanade overlooking the ocean.

Sam himself was hit in the side, not to mention the two other bullets he took in the armor, knocking the wind out of his lungs and leaving him wondering if he might have broken ribs.

By some stroke of good fortune, Cameron and George both avoided getting hit all together, but Cameron was starting to panic, and when Cameron got nervous, he got an itchy trigger finger, and that was the last thing Sam needed right at this precise moment.

“Back up plan,” Sam said in a gravelly voice, pain seeping into his tone.

“We need the van,” Cameron said. “That’s the only way, man. This shit won’t work if we can’t use the van.”

“I know the contingency,” Sam replied calmly, “I just need you to keep your shit together for a little while longer.”

Cameron shook his head, the whole thing was sliding sideways fast and Sam was being too goddamn nonchalant about it. Standing up, “Nobody fucking move!” he screamed, waving his weapon over the gathering of people laying spread eagle and prone on the faux marble floor.

Sam pointed at a young looking female dressed in a light grey skirt and nice white blouse lying face down a few feet away, her eyes screwed shut as she trembled, “Sweetheart,” he said, voice coarse. The man lying beside her saw where Sam was pointing and shook the woman gently on the shoulder, she jumped and made a high pitched squeaking sound.

“Sweetheart,” he repeated, “You got a first aid kit somewhere in this place?” he asked, tone calm.

“I don’t know,” she replied, voice breaking.

“She doesn’t work here, there’s one down the hall second door on the left in the coffee room, it’s hanging up you can’t miss it,” said the man who had nudged the girl.

Sam inclined his head to the man.

“You catch all of that darling?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously, honey blonde ponytail bouncing, pretty little tear stained face a mask of fear as she looked at him with great big blue eyes. “In the coffee room,” she said, dulcet voice quavering.

George walked over, weapon secured against his shoulder. “I say we start dumping hostages, let them know we’re serious right from the get go,” he said, his own voice deep and filled with barely constrained rage.

Raising a hand to him and ignoring George for the moment, “Go get the first aid kit,” Sam said to her. Looking at Cameron, “Take her and bring it back, be nice.”

“On your feet,” Cameron said gruffly pointing his weapon at the side of her head. Climbing to her feet, she held her hands up, whole body trembling as she and Cameron wandered deeper into the building.

“Did you hear what I said?” George demanded.

Sam looked up to him. “I heard you, I just didn’t think you were being serious because it’s a really stupid fucking idea, these people are currently the only leverage we got right now and the only thing between us and the cops outside,” he advised.

“Fuck them,” George replied, “And fuck the cops.”

“Listen,” Sam started, trying calm George, “I don’t know if we tagged any of those pigs out there or not, but if we did and one of them dies, or one of these hostages die, it’s the death penalty if we get caught,” he finished.

“I’m not going back,” George avowed, shaking his head slowly from side to side, four years in Folsom was enough and now Pat was dead. “No way,” he repeated, voice low.

Sam nodded slowly, “I know, nobody wants to go back, but if we want to get make it through this, we need to be smart about it to make it work. We start killing hostages, they’re going to have zero choice, and they’ll just come in and start blasting. As long as everybody is making nice nice, time is on our side. Alright?” he asked.

George looked down and Sam didn’t need to see his face to know the other man was still pissed, him and Pat were best buds, had been since they were kids and Sam knew George wanted to inflict some serious hurt of his own to purge the ache in his heart, but Sam also knew George wasn’t stupid. George lowered his assault rifle and nodded, pointing at Sam’s side, “Looks like you’re leaking pretty good,” he said.

Sam nodded. “It’s okay,” he said, glancing down.

 

Chapter End Notes:

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