According to the blueprint Brand had stolen for me, the vault had only one bandit trap. The truck would enter through the garage door and wait. The outside garage door would close and the interior door would open. The truck would proceed into the center of the vault, where it would be unloaded and then loaded again. We would be facing the truck when we went through the gray metal employee door. The closed-circuit TV monitors and communications equipment would be arrayed against the wall to our right as we entered and manned by one guard. Cafeteria-style tables should be arranged along the near and far walls to our left. There was a platform built for a guard to stand on where he could observe the tables. There were also more cameras inside than outside—apparently Mesabi Security had a greater fear of theft by their employees then they had of an outside attack. The third guard didn’t have a designated spot. I was guessing he probably wandered around the huge room or possibly kept a close eye on the armored truck crews.
When I reviewed the blueprints, it seemed to me that three guards were not nearly enough. I wondered if the people who had built the vault thought that its location alone, so far off the beaten path, would be enough to protect it or if they had adopted that theory over a period of time. They must have had a guard stationed in the gatehouse when the place was originally constructed—why else build it? It was entirely possible, of course, that Mesabi was scamming both its clients and insurance company, showing them a well-staffed vault in order to gain business and guarantee coverage and then trimming bodies when they weren’t looking. After all, it was a down economy, and a large workforce cut into profits.
I told the woman to park close to the employee entrance. When she shut off the car I said, “The money is insured, Ms. Rooney.”
“I know.”
“This can be a story you’ll tell your children and your grandchildren or it can be a story that someone else tells your children and grandchildren. You decide.”
She looked down at me. Her eyes were cold. Her voice was colder. “You’re a sonuvabitch.”
I came thisclose to calling it off. Screw Bullert, screw ’em all. But Jill, her lovely face, her warm smile—promises were made, some I spoke out loud, others that I had kept to myself …
“Everyone ready?” I didn’t wait for a reply. “Okay.”
*
7:15 P.M. Rooney left the Jeep Cherokee. She moved to the metal employee door and punched a code into the keypad next to it. She waited a moment, her hand gripping the door handle. There was a click loud enough to be heard inside the Cherokee. I opened my door just as Rooney opened hers. She hesitated just long enough for me to cover the distance between the SUV and her. I grabbed the edge of the door, flung it open, and pushed Rooney inside, pushed her harder than I probably should have. She stumbled and fell to her knees. I stood over her sighting down the barrel of the AK-47, sweeping it from one guard to the next.
“This is a stickup,” I shouted. “Don’t anyone move.”
The words sounded so damn silly to me that I nearly laughed. No one else seemed to feel that way, though, especially the armored truck crew directly in front of me, standing next to their vehicle, drinking coffee from cardboard cups. They stared as if someone had kicked in the bathroom door, their expressions a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
Daniel, Roy, and Jimmy quickly filed in behind me. They were also wearing masks, gloves, and Kevlar and carrying the AKs Brand supplied, although Roy had his own. Roy went right and Jimmy went left. Roy leveled his rifle at the guard manning the TV monitors while Jimmy pointed his at the guard standing on top of the platform overlooking the cafeteria tables. There were several piles of cash on top of the tables, some of them neat and others not so much. A bank employee stood next to each.
“Raise your hands,” Roy shouted. Jimmy yelled the same thing. The bank employees did what they were told. The vault guards already had their hands up, and I could only hope that no one noticed it but me. One of the armored truck crew let his hand fall dangerously close to his sidearm.
“I have a machine gun and a bulletproof vest,” I shouted at him. “What do you have?”
His hands went up.
Daniel stepped behind me. “A little help,” I told him. He went first to the armored truck crew and then the vault guards, disarming each one by one while Jimmy and I kept them covered. When he finished and stepped back, I reached down, took Rooney by the arm, and helped her to her feet. “Sorry,” I muttered. She didn’t reply. “Everyone over there.” I gave Rooney a shove toward the far wall. Daniel, Jimmy, and I herded the rest of the building’s occupants behind her. Jimmy took his position on the platform above the tables and watched them intently, the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder.
I was surprised by how quiet everyone was. There was none of the screaming you often hear in TV robberies, none of the threats and warnings, although one woman was weeping uncontrollably while another offered comfort, and I knew it was a sound that would stay with me for some time to come.
I turned my attention to the guard sitting in front of the monitors. Roy had disarmed him and was now giving him a good look at the AK as if he had done this sort of thing before.
“You know he must have hit a silent alarm,” Roy said.
“I know. Where’s our friend?”