Page 91 of Goose

Ally

Although I once did, I no longer stole for the money. Making that claim seemed rather cliché, but it was true. The feeling of accomplishment and the rush were the two main reasons I did it. Nothing could compare to the heart-pounding thrill of opening a bank’s vault and stealing their cash reserve.

The energy-sapping tension—or the feeling of accomplishment—of outrunning the law in a high-speed chase kept me high for several weeks following the event.

The money?

The money was secondary. I had more of it than I could ever spend, I certainly didn’t need more.

It was the thrill that kept me in the game.

I grabbed the handle, paused, and then pulled down on it. As the wheel began to turn freely, I glanced in Tito’s direction. His glowing-green image grinned.

“Eleven minutes for a bank vault isn’t all bad, huh?” I asked.

He tossed Goose one of the backpacks. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe she’s robbing a bank in a cheerleader getup,” Goose said with a laugh. “Good job, Baby.”

Hell, I’d rob banks just to hear Goose call me Baby.

With my heart beating in my throat, I turned the safe’s massive wheel. When the pins were all retracted, I reached for the handle. My hands were shaking. “C’mon, help me out. This thing’s heavy.”

Robbing a bank’s vault can be a rewarding experience or a gut-wrenching disappointment. One never knows until the vault door swings open.

Banks with transaction amounts below 13.3 million aren’t required to have any cash reserves. Banks that range between 13.3 and 89 million are required to maintain a 3 percent cash reserve. Banks with transactions in excess of 89 million must maintain a 10 percent reserve.

The reserve can be kept in the Federal Reserve Bank. Most banks take advantage of that secure interest-earning option. Larger rural banks on Friday nights tend to have more money than most, as they anticipate many Saturday cash withdrawals, and don’t want to upset loyal customers by making the statement, we’re out of money. The wealthy don’t like hearing that “their” money isn’t in the bank.

A Wells Fargo Bank in a small town that’s surrounded by the wealthy is a perfect location.

That’s exactly where we were.

Rancho Bernardo was a one-hour drive from San Diego, in traffic. At one am, it would be half that.

When the door opened, it was immediately apparent it was going to be a rewarding experience.

A push cart in the center of the vault had stacks of banded bills sitting on it. Upon seeing it, my already overactive heart began to beat even faster.

In mid-step, Goose stopped in his tracks. “Is that cash?”

“It sure is,” Tito said. “Hurry the fuck up. Let’s get it and go.”

I was frozen in place. After taking an instant to relish in the thought of adding another heist to my mental repertoire, I patted my hand against Goose’s back and headed for the cart.

Using our night vision for visual assistance in the pitch-black room, we grabbed fistfuls of bills and stuffed them into the backpacks, paying no attention to the denomination. When the cart was empty, I turned toward the door.

“What about the deposit boxes,” Goose asked in a shaking voice. “Should we drill a few? See what’s inside?”

“No,” I blurted. “Too much risk. We’re in the clear. Let’s go.”

“Agreed,” Tito heaved, nearly out of breath from excitement. “Let’s go.”

Prior to entering the bank, Tito wired around the alarm and put the cameras on a two-image loop—permitting them to continuously show the images they were filming—but also allowing them to show the correct time of day. If anyone checked them, and it was highly unlikely they would at one am, they would be none the wiser about the break-in.

After a tool check and a quick scan of the area, we rushed to the exit.

“Night vision off before you step through the door,” I said.