The large digital clock above SunLand Savings ticks from the last minute of Christmas Eve to the first minute of Christmas Day. And out there in the middle of Richmond Street, Frank’s entire crew lies dead on the asphalt.
Frank’s the only one with any life left in him. He’s splayed out on the sidewalk, his back up against the brick wall of the bank.
There’s also Mitchell, of course. But, as of five minutes ago, Frank no longer considers him to be part of the crew, seeing as the young safecracker decided to double-cross everyone and all.
In the distance, the clang of some church bell starts to ring out.
Frank listens to it as he watches thousands of charred fifty- and hundred-dollar bills flutter about in the cold night wind, looking like snowflakes from hell. They’re all coming from the overturned armored truck out in the street and the giant fucking hole blasted into the side of it.
As usual, Hutton brought too much explosive.
Frank had told him as much earlier when they were setting out to pull this job. But Hutton assured him it was just enough. The blown-out glass from the nearby shop windows, as well as all the parked cars on the street, say it was a tad more than enough. Had things gone the way Frank originally planned he’d be chewing Hutton out right now in the car ride back to the safe house.
“Son of a bitch,” Frank whispers to Hutton’s corpse, which is lying five feet away in the gutter, still clutching the bag of remaining blasting tubes he wisely abstained from using.
Frank checks the wound at his side. It’s leaking like a bastard. That blood may as well be sand in an hourglass. Time’s running out. But Frank figures he’s still got a few more minutes left on this mortal coil.
Probably best not to waste ’em, he thinks.
He gets on his belly and crawls over bits of broken glass to Hutton’s body. He’d walk were it not for the other bullet wounds in both thighs and the one in his right knee.
Once he’s at Hutton, Frank reaches for the soft pack of Chesterfields he knows is in his explosive expert’s back pocket along with the man’s trusty gold Zippo.
From inside the armored truck comes a banging sound, followed by a laugh. Mitchell’s laugh.
Lighting up with Hutton’s Zippo, Frank watches Mitchell emerge from the truck hole. The AK he used on everyone after they finished the hard part of the job is still strapped to his back. In his hand is the metal box all this was for.
Frank coughs on his first drag, which draws Mitchell’s attention.
“Well, well,” Mitchell says, swinging the machine gun around and approaching his former boss. “Look who’s still hanging on.”
Frank takes another drag and manages not to cough this time. “Something like that.”
“Sorry for spoiling your holiday. But I saw my play and had to make it, ya know?”
“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”
Mitchell smiles at this as he takes aim. “Yeah, I guess I kinda am, ain’t I?”
“But,” Frank says, taking one last drag, “I’m meaner.”
And that’s when Mitchell hears the final hiss of all the remaining det cords still inside Hutton’s bag.
~ fin ~
Casey Stegman lives in North Carolina. His fiction has been published by Tough, Shotgun Honey, Dark Yonder, Cowboy Jamboree, Bristol Noir, and Punk Noir Magazine. He also writes the monthly article series “Murder in the First” over at Mystery Tribune. When he’s not typing up stories about miscreants and malefactors, he rescues and rehabilitates dogs with his wife. So, if you’re looking to adopt, hit him up. For more details, visit: www.caseystegman.com
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