AGuyWhoWrites
Really Experienced
- Joined
- May 3, 2011
- Posts
- 246
The phone on the Manager's desk rang ... and rang ... and rang. Peter Taylor wasn't ready to answer it; he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to answer it.
The heist hadn't gone off the way it had been so meticulously planned. He reminded himself that the traitorous asshole who'd done that meticulous planning wasn't it here with him now, with three anxious, heavily armed cohorts, twenty-four hostages, and one yapping chihuahua that, if it didn't shut up soon, Taylor was going to put through a paper shredder.
He leaned a bit, looking out the window of the small, Suburbia Savings and Loan to the street beyond. As if fantasizing that they'd gone for donuts, he thought to himself with disappointment, Yep... still there.
From where he stood, Taylor could see a dozen cruisers, sporting city, country, state, and federal decals. His crew hadn't been in the bank for more than three minutes -- hadn't even entered the little vault -- before he heard the first sirens wailing through the otherwise quiet little town.
Taylor had no proof of what had gone wrong, but he had a pretty good idea: he'd been set up. That's the last time I mix business with pleasure, he promised himself, recalling the heist's Planner, as well as the man's daughters, with whom Taylor had spent an amazing weekend. He repeated his vow, realizing that 48 hours of sex -- albeit some of the most unbelievably satisfying of his life -- wasn't worth 48 years in jail, which was what he'd likely get for his third strike.
Last ... time...
The phone began ringing again. Taylor traded a long, questioning glance with his right hand man, then shrugged.
"We have to answer it eventually," Cramer whispered, adding with distinct sarcasm, "It's not like they're gonna leave if they think no one's home."
Taylor scratched his cheek with a fully extended middle finger, and -- as the other man laughed nervously and clutched his shotgun tighter -- rushed across the lobby, snatched up the phone, and dropped behind the big, heavy oak desk.
"We have almost forty hostages," he began lying, even before a voice sounded at the other end of the line. "We've wired the doors and half of the windows ... so ... if you come through that way, make sure you pick the right one."
A voice began to speak, but ceased as Taylor quickly cut in. "I'm not going back to jail, so ... if you breech, I'll start pushing buttons ... and you can sort out the body parts later. I read that the County just got a new DNA lab, so it shouldn't be hard to figure out which leg belongs to which head."
As Taylor listened, he looked Cramer's direction and caught him mouthing out, Bombs? Taylor shrugged and, also in silence, mouthed back What ever works. A long moment passed with Taylor turning his attention back to the phone. Suddenly, he slammed the receiver down and set the phone aside on the floor.
"Well?" Cramer asked, anxiously. "What did he say?"
"She," Taylor corrected him. "It was the FBI."
"Already?" Cramer asked, almost panicked. "It's only been--"
"Ten minutes, yeah, I know," Taylor finished for his friend. "I know."
"Okay, so ... what'd she say?"
Taylor drew and expelled a deep breath, then turned to his knees and surveyed the bank lobby; across the floor, the hostages were bunched in groups of four or five, their feet all tangled together by phone cords. The Crew hadn't expected hostages; they didn't have handcuffs or rope or zip ties or any other form of binding.
Taylor reflected on the fact that by now, they should already have been lifting into the skies over the little municipal airport. Weather Channel said it was sunny and 85 in Caracas, Taylor mused. Beaches, bikinis, and babes. Fuck!
As he knelt there, he caught sight of a long pair of firm, shapely legs stretching out forever from below a tiny black skirt. The woman they belonged to was facing him, her eyes firmly on his; she was young, perhaps mid-twenties, and beautiful, and again Taylor mused to himself, Beaches, bikinis, and babes.
After a moment, the woman must have realized that Taylor's eyes were fixed upon her tan, bared legs. As Taylor shifted his gaze to her eyes, giving her a polite smile, she returned the smile, then lifted her head from the floor, whispered, "You gotta be kidding ... right?"
Taylor's smile faded. He wasn't sure whether she meant In the middle of a bank robbery you're scoping out my legs? or You don't have a chance with me, asshole! Either way, the woman's comment -- and the short chuckle and turning of her head away from him -- told him he was wasting his time.
Got lots of time, buddy boy ... lots ... of time.
The phone rang again, startling Taylor. He dropped to his haunches again, snatched up the phone, and lifted the receiver to his ear. "Yeah, what?"
He listened for a long moment, answering with a couple of no's, yes's, and other one and two word answers. He finally hung up the phone and looked to Cramer again.
"What'd he ... she say?"
"She wants to know if we would be willing to release some of the hostages."
"What'd you tell her?"
"I said it depends on what the're willing to do for us," Taylor answered. He turned to look at Legs again, finding her gaze back on him once more. He smirked, looking conspicuously to her legs and ass. He added, softer, looking directly to the woman, "Depends, too ... on what the hostages would be willing to do for me."
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