Inside the van, Dallas was chewing gum like he was trying to kill it. "Okay, listen up. We drill the vault, we take the cash boxes, we leave. Expect blues in ninety seconds."
Chains racked the slide of his LMG. "Finally. Some real action."
The Tailor was there. Not threatening. Just there . He held up a small digital timer. Sixty seconds. Then he pointed at the vault door. Then at her children's photo on her desk.
Then there was the fourth man. He didn't have a name on the crew roster. Just a silhouette. He wore a black suit so dark it drank the streetlight. His tie was a razor-stroke of crimson. He hadn't spoken in three heists.
The Tailor flowed through the employee entrance like a draft. The security lock clicked open—not hacked, but persuaded with a thin sliver of carbon steel. Inside, a guard named Ernesto was finishing a donut. He saw a flicker of movement on the thermal monitor, frowned, then felt nothing at all. The piano wire hummed once. Ernesto slid to the floor, the donut still in his hand.
As they hauled the last bag, a private security patrol car pulled into the lot—early shift change. The guard stepped out, rain plastering his hat to his forehead. He saw the open employee door. Reached for his radio.