Everything had been going fine, tripped alarm notwithstanding. The tripped alarm worked out in their favor as now they could use the emergency exit to move the bags to the van. Cleo and Dixie had a decent assembly line going. Cleo was bagging up sculptures and then tossing the bags out the fire door to Dixie, who in turn tossed them through the open doors of the back of their driver’s van.
“Loving this efficiency, Dixie,” Cleo said. “It’s truly some Henry Ford shit.”
“I know! I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many bags at once,” Dixie agreed. She swung another bag into the van. It landed on the pile of bagged sculptures and made both a crunching and a shattering glass sound. Dixie winced.
Cleo looked up at the sound and gave Dixie an admonishing glance.
Just then, Southern burst into the gallery. He and Nero, their crewmates on this job, were supposed to be in the lobby holding off the cops.
“Nero’s just been killed! We need to leave!” he said.
“Are you sure?” Cleo asked, leaning to look around Southern, into the lobby. If Nero were only injured, they had a responsibility to make an attempt to get him out of the scene.
“Positive,” Southern said. “This antsy pig on his first day of class got spooked and shot him right through the eye. I killed him back, but we gotta go or this is gonna turn into a bloodbath.” He rushed through the emergency door and climbed into the back of the van.
Cleo and Dixie didn’t need to be told twice. Cleo zipped up the last bag, threw it through the door to Dixie who tossed it in the van, and jogged the rest of the way. They both climbed in, careful not to step on the bags, and pulled the doors shut behind them. Southern banged his fist on the back wall to signal the driver to leave.
The ride to the warehouse the Syndicate had provided was silent. Southern got out his phone. The light from its screen illuminated his face as he reported Nero dead in the Hole-in-the-Wall app. The pointed absence of a fourth crewmate killed the jubilation that should have come with a score so big as to be swimming in duffel bags.
The post-robbery workload of such a large score dampened the mood too. They had stolen twenty-seven expensive sculptures from the art gallery and only broke two. Now all those sculptures had to be inventoried, individually packed, and loaded into a truck. From there, Southern – who was lead on this job – would be responsible for delivering them to the Syndicate’s nearest depot.
Again, the assembly line was put into place. Cleo itemized each sculpture, making note of descriptions. Dixie would then wrap them in bubble wrap. Southern was in charge of building boxes and packing them.
“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “it’s not all bad. The split will be in thirds instead of fourths. We’ll all make more.”
Cleo raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. Dixie didn’t even look up from her bubble-wrapping.
“No, it won’t,” she told him. “His cut goes to whoever he left in his will. It’s in the manual.”
Southern faltered in taping the box he was sealing shut. Cleo spied on him over her clipboard, watching his expression. He looked like he was struggling to swallow, but he kept working.
They went on like that for another half hour, completely quiet except for the sound of packing tape being rolled out. As such, they all heard when a car pulled up outside. All of them froze and listened to the sound of a car door opening and shutting. It could be the police, and they’d be out for blood since Southern had killed one of them. Killing each other made the terms of The Agreement hazy. The locals often took it personally.
The sound of approaching footsteps thudded through the walls. Dixie was the only one of them still carrying her weapon. Cleo and Southern carried shotguns and so had set them aside to make the pack-up easier. Dixie hovered her hand over her revolver. They all watched the door.
The knob jiggled, but didn’t open. When they arrived earlier, they found the door sat unevenly in its frame, making it hard to open and close. They hadn’t been able to get the deadbolt to turn either. A moment later, the door flew open and banged against the wall, kicked in by the person on the other side. Dixie yanked out her gun out of its holster and pointed it at the intruder.
It was Nero.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, furious face scanning the room, then his head snapped to focus on Southern. Nero pulled something out of his pocket and threw it at Southern. It glinted in the fluorescent lighting as it flew through the air, seeming to unfurl a little as it traveled. It hit Southern in the face and fell to the floor with a metallic clatter.
“Motherfucker!” Southern said, reaching for his mouth. Nero rushed at Southern and pushed him down. Southern reached out behind himself to catch himself as he fell backwards. His mouth was bloody, cut open from the thing Nero had thrown at him which they could now see was a pair of handcuffs. Nero kicked Southern in the side. Southern tried to roll away. Nero kicked him again. And then again. And again.
All this time, Dixie still had her revolver trained on Nero. She looked to Cleo to see what she made of this.
“Nero, what are you doing?” Cleo shouted.
Nero didn’t look away from the ass-kicking he was dishing out, but he explained in between kicks.
“This son of a bitch,” kick, “watched me get tased”, kick, “and he just stood there,” kick, “and let it happen.” Nero gave Southern one hard final kick in the stomach to ensure he wasn’t going to be pulling any surprises. Southern curled himself into a protective ball. “And then he watched them cuff me and drag me off to the police van. Didn’t lift a finger. I was lucky I had my clip key on me.”
“Is that true?” Dixie asked, turning her gun on Southern.
He didn’t answer. He only gurgled out a moan through his mangled mouth.
“It is,” Cleo said. She joined Nero to loom over Southern, to further discourage any sudden moves. “You thought if you let him get arrested, the take would be split three ways instead of four.”
Southern squeezed his eyes shut and whined.
“We were lucky he couldn’t carry that many bags by himself,” Cleo said to Dixie.
“Well, what are we gonna do with him?” Dixie said, coming to stand over Southern too. She still had her gun pointed at him.
“We’re going to ruin him,” Nero said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the app, but he groaned in frustration. “Ugh! He marked me dead so I can’t review him.”. Nero kicked Southern again for putting him out of his way.
“We still can though,” Dixie said, whipping her phone out her back pocket. Cleo pulled hers out of the breast pocket of her jacket and they set to work.
“Watched… one of our… crewmates… get arrested…” Dixie dictated as she typed out her review with her thumbs.
“Lied to us about a crewmate dying under the false assumption that fewer surviving crewmates would net a higher cut,” Cleo read aloud as she typed out a much longer treatise on the circumstances of this job.
“Zero,” Dixie finalized.
“Zero,” Cleo concurred. “I assume you’ll be giving him a zero when you get reinstated?” she asked Nero.
Nero just kicked Southern again in reply.
“Well, his career is over, but I’d feel better if he were taken out of play entirely,” Cleo said, crossing her over arms and staring down at the pitiful pile of kicked ass at her feet. “He’s clearly a danger to the entire profession.”
“You can have it quick,” Dixie said to Southern, straightening her aim, “or Nero can kick you to death.” Southern’s eyes widened in terror.
“I have a better idea,” Nero said. He fetched the handcuffs he’d thrown at Southern. Then he picked a tiny object off his belt and used it to unlock them.
“What is that?” Cleo asked.
“A clip key,” Nero said. He held it out in the palm of his hand so they could see. It was a tiny – less than an inch – but functional black plastic handcuff key. It had a clasp, so it could be clipped to clothing. “I never leave home without it.” He clipped it back on to his belt loop and turned his attention back to Southern.
Nero grabbed Southern by the hands and dragged his slack body over to a support column. Propping Southern up against the pole, Nero handcuffed him to the post. Nero stood up and surveyed his handiwork.
“Do you ladies have any ‘incriminating evidence’ that you’d be willing to part with?” he asked. “I know it’s less money, but I think it’s worth the sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice, my ass,” Dixie said. She went over the to the bags of sculptures that had yet to be unpacked and collected the two bags they had set aside. They contained the broken sculptures. “We ain’t losin’ a dime over this.” She swung them underhanded towards Southern. They slid across the floor and into his support column and let out another broken clatter on impact.
Southern looked up at Dixie miserably.
“Don’ look at me like that,” she said, sneering. “You play dumb games, you win dumb prizes.”
“We’ll call the cops on him once we get this stuff in the truck and on the way,” Nero said. “I’m sure they’ll be real happy to see him since someone strangled a cop on his way out of the police van.”
“Wow, how’d ya do that?” Dixie asked.
“If they’re fool enough to cuff you in the front, what they’ve really done is given you a garrote,” Nero said, demonstrating how one might loop their bound hands over someone’s head and strangle them from behind.
Dixie watched this pantomime and nodded her approval.
This story was part of my 2019 TRL event.
Cleo and Dixie are at a safehouse with another Syndicate member just after a job. Their fourth guy isn’t there because he got shot down by a police sniper.
Or rather, that’s what C and D were told by the other guy. But the 4th guy bursts through the door, and he looks LIVID at the third guy.
Also, I’d like to pitch the Syndicate guy’s names this time. How about:
Serpent for the guy our gals get to the safehouse with, and Nero for the guy who came back?
-Paupers Run
Comment