Unfortunately the security guard happened to be African-American, and Stew Manson, who’d had his usual Olympian quota of beer, went berserk. He shouted “nigger” at the guard, who was unarmed, and smashed him over the head as hard as he could with a heavy-duty plumber’s wrench. The man’s head squashed like an uncooked egg, skyrocketing the risk of the mission. Instead of participating in a robbery, they were all suddenly accessories to a murder. Curt was determined to avoid comparable surprises on this mission.

“What did Nat do?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” Curt said. “I didn’t see.”

The police cruiser rolled past. Curt craned his neck to watch the car’s progress in his rearview mirror. Luckily, it didn’t stop. Rather, it turned right on Banks Street. Glancing ahead, Curt saw that Nat had stopped at the intersection and two figures had gotten out. The passenger door closed and the truck disappeared around the corner. The men stepped into the shadows.

Curt let out a breath of air. He’d not been aware he’d been holding his breath.

“Let’s hope that means they won’t be back for a while,” Clark said from the back seat.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Steve said.

“I’m with you,” Curt agreed. “But we’ve got to get the truck.”

“How about coming back tomorrow night?” Steve suggested.

“It would be no different,” Curt said. “And we promised Yuri we’d get it tonight.”

The four men sat in silence for a few minutes as the tension rose. Eventually Mike spoke up: “Anybody got any beer left?”

“No drinking until the mission is over!” Curt snapped. He couldn’t believe how juvenile his troops could be. There were times he thought they had no common sense whatsoever.

Just when Curt was becoming concerned that too much time had elapsed, the communicator in his hand vibrated. He pressed the “listen” button and, through static, heard Nat say that everybody was in place. That meant Kevin and Luke on Willow Street, and Matt and Carl on Banks.

“Ten-four,” Curt said. He pocketed the small radio. “That’s it, everybody, let’s go!”

They piled out of the vehicle. Clark had a Slim Jim and a flashlight. Mike had a couple of small screwdrivers, a pair of wire cutters, and several lengths of insulated electrical wire. Curt reached into the bed of his truck and extracted a pair of heavy bolt cutters that he’d borrowed from the firehouse. He slipped them under his jacket. The steel jaws felt cold through his thin T-shirt.