by Sofia Aves
COLLISION
Blue Blooded Brothers Book 1
Sofia Aves
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Ⓒ Sofia Aves 2020
Dedication
Blue Blooded Brothers Series
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BLINDSIDED
Copyright Ⓒ Sofia Aves 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it on a website, or distribute it by any means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed within are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Sofia Aves asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
Sofia Aves has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet WEbsites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within has endorsed the book.
First Edition
Cover Art by Vibrant Designs
Editing Services provided by A. Strom - Edits with a Coffee Addict
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Published by Little Quail Press
www.littlequailpress.com
ISBN 978-0-6486947-3-1
Dedication
To any writer who thinks they can’t;
you can.
Blue Blooded Brothers Series
Collision
Politics & Paperwork
Blindsided
CHAPTER ONE
MILA
Tiny feet pattered the worn carpet, glitter coating it with false splendour. The little girl wended her way between patrons. Some were blessed with stars, some with promises of happiness and love; others became apples and bananas. Too much Ben and Holly, I recalled from when I’d been forced to babysit for my best friend.
I tried not to look over to my left, the red shoe that– I spun away, and refocused on my task. The man behind me shuffled his feet. I flinched as he dug the pistol into the small of my back, and shivered — skin prickling.
The small office of Central Bank was being held up, and no one outside had noticed. Business operated as usual in the main street through the broad, glassed front as it did every day.
“Oooh, sweetheart, you cold there? I’ll warm you up.” Fetid breath beneath a rough growl assailed me. I repressed the urge to turn away or vomit, knowing it would only provoke him further. Clammy warmth rubbed my side. My stomach clenched, fighting the numbness that spread through me until I was ice.
A beep sounded at my last keystroke. It was a welcome distraction from my self-analysis. As the thug moved away, I squinted at a screen I’d never seen before.
“It’s asking for a password.” My voice was husky from lack of use, or maybe it was from screaming silently inside.
“What? No, ...Oi! Nerd! You never said nothin’ ’bout no flamin’ password!”
Black wire glasses appeared above the divider between the teller cubes. A tuft of dark hair wobbled above a brow furrowed in concentration.
“Seriously, already? Hang on, how far has she got?” Glasses grimaced at me theatrically from his seat at the opposite counter, rolling eyes in the direction of the stale-breathed thug. I returned the sentiment, if only mentally. There was no way I wanted any of these aggressors believing I sympathised with them.
“I’m as far as the login for the manager’s screen,” I snapped, short breaths puffing through a clenched chest.
Get it over, quick and easy; then they’ll be gone.
It was the mantra that had been running through my head for the past twenty minutes.
Get it over, over.
Behind the partition, another patron was being turned into a banana.
We thought we’d been well prepared for an armed robbery. The thin booklet on personal safety was required reading. Give them what they want, and they will leave. Sound the silent alarm behind your terminal.
Karen had tried to do that.
I refused to look at her desk again, my stomach heaving. HR’s strategy hadn’t worked this time. Maybe I should send them a memo on it, come Monday.
If I was still breathing then.
“Only the login? That’s disappointing.” Glasses’ brow furrowed deeply. “She should have passed that, already. I gave you the codes for those, before...well,” he waved a hand behind himself, where a body lay: Karen — the teller who had manned the desk where Glasses now sat before she was yanked from the line of hostages. A swell of emotion blurred my eyes. I blinked tears away angrily.
Don’t think, don’t think. Over. Get it over and done.
Focus.
Tapped the keyboard, wiggled the mouse. Breathe.
Don’t engage. Don’t.
“Passwords?”
I was proud my voice didn’t shake. My logical brain informed me it was shock and nothing that was under my control. The emotional part didn’t answer; it was as numb as the rest of me.
Glasses raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He flicked a brief salute. A scrap of paper fluttered from his fingers, landing beside the keyboard.
“Fluffy22? Really?” I couldn’t help commenting. “Cat or dog?”
“Likely the goldfish. Some people have no idea, truly,” Glasses responded with a roll of his eyes. We shared a look. I realised what I was doing and quickly returned to the screen: Staring, willing tunnel vision.
Don’t, don’t.
Heavy footsteps reverberated behind me where the bank manager’s office sat. A heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder. Too hot, too overly familiar. His thumb rubbed the sensitive spot on my collarbone, forcing an unwelcome shiver through me.
I willed myself still, to not react, desperate to return to the blank nothing that had consumed me only a moment before, though the urge to jerk away lingered when he spoke. Deep and cold. The same voice I had heard beside Karen.
Before.
“How’re we going, we in yet?”
“Not yet, boss; gotta put these in,” Glasses indicated the passwords, “Then we should have full access.”
I still couldn’t believe it. These guys were going to bungle their own robbery. My screen had no way to access the electronic locks for the safe, and anyway, it was such a small
branch, surely nothing they held would be sufficient to risk years of incarceration. Reflex had my mouth open to say as much until my brain kicked into gear. My mouth closed with a snap. The three men turned to look at me, and I started guiltily.
“Something you’d like to add, lass?” The question was delivered with some small humour and a touch of annoyance. I shook my head mutely.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road.”
I chanced a glimpse up at the man behind the robbery: tanned skin, longer-than-average dark hair, hard jaw. Tall and lean. You were supposed to remember details like that for the police, right? His face swivelled my way, displaying ice-cold eyes, unsuited to the rest of his handsome frame.
The devil within, I thought numbly. That wasn’t a face that would be easy to forget. I’d have no trouble describing him later, I knew. With hands beginning to tremor from the proximity of the man responsible for the death of my friend, I entered the passwords as the prompts came up. A tiny box popped up in the centre of the screen that I had never seen before.
“…And we’re in.” Glasses leaned over the divider, meerkat style. “Thanks, love.” He winked at me, tapping furiously on a portable keyboard he’d rolled out on the desktop. “Ta-daa.”
With a dramatic flourish over his head and the tap of a final keystroke, my screen winked, flickered to blue, and reopened. The little cursor moved around with a mind of its own, opening areas, changing settings. Glasses was manipulating my computer remotely.
More tapping, a little head bobbing, and a clunk came from the rear of the office space — the safe. The lights flickered briefly, and I looked around. The three men moved away in a synchronised motion that made me wonder if they’d practised it. Suddenly left alone and grateful for it, I exhaled a long breath that left me more empty than before. One of the men sauntered back out, standing beside the last person in the row of hostages.
Every one of them tensed, and I wondered if they were thinking of the same sound as I did as it ricocheted around my head. Clangs and swearing came from the rear of the bank. I realised I knew less about the bank I’d worked in for three years than I had thought.
Distracted by a swirl of glitter, I looked over at the rows of patrons lining the wall opposite my station: the little girl tracing invisible pictures on the neutral carpet with a sparkling princess wand; a lone, glossy, red shoe, involuntarily discarded upon impact. A stockinged foot, partly visible, protruding behind a cubicle. I dragged my gaze away.
Sit still. Don’t think. Don’t.
A shadow flitted across the windows that looked out onto the street from the front of the small bank. From their positions on the floor pressed against the wall opposite the teller stations, customers — hostages — shifted uncomfortably, attempting to appear insignificant. Up top, I was exposed, the downlights above me driving sweat around my collar, though it ran down my back cold. I wasn’t sure if it was fuelled by fear or heat.
My water bottle cooled my palms, and I slugged down water like a thirsty camel, placing it back on the desk. I shuffled pencils in their holder, ordering them neatly by height. It gave my hands something to do. I took a long, deep breath and tried to settle, to be calm. Letting my eyes close out the rest of the office, I focused on my breath, trying to ignore the sounds behind me. It took a few tries, but I almost had it down, the panic beginning to recede, until I remembered that Karen was the one who had taught me the technique.
My heart pounded anew as I tried to erase the image. Numb fingers fumbled my water bottle, slipping on the condensation coating the clear plastic. It spun in the air, too fast for water to escape, though its movement seemed slow enough to me.
I almost had one hand — who was I kidding; it was the tip of my finger — on the bottle when a loud clang startled me. I fumbled the bottle a second time, wide-eyed as it hit the floor, emptying its contents. I jerked as a small, black wooden box appeared in the corner of my vision and slid forward.
Tanned hands attached to thick forearms reached across my desk. I would have loved them if I hadn’t known who they belonged to. I was a sucker for well-muscled forearms, but not at this moment. Fine, white linen sleeves, rolled to the elbows, looked so out of place — an involuntary glance once again gave the impression of a wealthy businessman, not a bank robber.
Murderer.
Gaze fixed, he cradled the box, caressed the lid. It was such an intimate gesture; it felt as though I was intruding on a personal moment. I inched away discreetly until the edge of my chair bit into the backs of my thighs.
Fear permeated the thickened air — from me, and the gallery on the floor. The man behind the robbery stared at the dark, little box with greedy eyes. Glasses appeared, hovering in my peripheral vision.
He annoyed me, and I wanted to bat him away. A twitch in the robber's shoulder left me thinking he felt the same.
Stop sympathising with them.
Reluctantly, one tanned hand released its prize, extended in a beseeching gesture. A tiny tremor quaked through the limb. With no small amount of ceremony, Glasses produced a minuscule key, placing it into the hollow cup of his upturned palm.
The little, silver scrap glinted dully — antique looking — until the tip. I squinted and leaned forward, trying to discern the markings at the bottom of the filigree blade. The end curled upward, screwlike. The inserted key would have to be twisted or wound, like an old music box.
Reverently, the key was lowered to the lock, almost touching. Silence reigned; within the little cluster, no breath escaped.
The moment shattered abruptly, along with the glass of the large, street-front window. A dark shadow blasted through, into the foyer of the bank, showering everyone in glittering shards. Scarlet and indigo lights reflected in the glass littering the carpet. Voices cried out — a high, thin shriek piercing above the rest.
“Daddy!” A little sob accompanied the cry. The group surrounding me broke up, the small, black box forgotten in a surge of movement. The two men who had held the hostages at bay accompanied their leader toward the mess of glass, weapons fluidly drawn as one.
These men have worked together before.
I studied the changed scene before me as though I were the one behind glass; a shiny, black Jeep protruded into the cavity that used to be the front of the bank. Blue and red lights hung slightly lopsided, the odd flash blinding and disappearing in a staccato motion, adding to the surreality of the image.
Lots of extra attachments I was sure wouldn’t be on a regular, stock model hung from the vehicle. A loud whoop came from within the open-topped cab, the flashing lights turned off, and everyone in the bank froze.
Two heads emerged from behind the black utility dash. One, a shag of blonde hair bearing a cheeky grin out of place in the sombre atmosphere. The other, a weather-worn face, covered in a beard that looked more suited to a motorcycle gang. He bore a resigned expression.
The shaggy-haired driver hoisted himself onto his seat in full view of the three men, who aimed their guns at him. His mouth moved, some throwaway line I missed. What a cowboy. The thieves evidently agreed; from my view of their backs as they moved forward, their leader shook his head, his fine shirt barely creasing with effort as he raised his weapon.
“Hold on there, John Wayne,” he drawled with a tinge of sarcasm, “this here’s my bank.”
Shaggy gave a cocky, lopsided grin. “I’ve always fancied myself more as Wyatt Earp. At least he could shoot.”
He held out a hand — rather pompously, I thought — and the man still seated in the passenger seat of the Jeep tossed him a long firearm. No expert on guns, I watched the exchange with fascination.
“Oh, let him have his small moment of glory.”
Shaggy drew and aimed, managing to pose at the same time. I fought the urge to roll my eyes, unable to feel the fear I knew I should — entranced by the drama unfolding before me. Shaggy’s firearm was matte black, matching the Jeep. Clean and pristine.
“And I half expected it to be a six-sh
ooter.” The dark man tilted his head briefly to the side. “Step aside, now. Your time in the limelight is over.” A sideways glance to his team, speaking just loud enough that I could hear him, “It’s time to go.”
“Hold it, gents!” Shaggy seemed surprised he had lost control over the situation — if he’d ever had it. His partner started to stand also, groping the bench seat behind him when a sharp report broke the unreality of their playacting. The hostages ducked in a wave as the man to the left of the posse’s leader fired a single shot.
Shaggy’s partner disappeared beneath the dash. The young cop attempted to do the same, but seemed to slip, teetering comically sideways for a moment before toppling over the back of the driver’s seat with a short yell. There was a thump as he landed. The moment the cop was down, the three men in front lowered their weapons, advancing towards the newly-created exit in unison.
Glasses scurried up, collected the key with a quick wink, and followed the team outside, flanked by the man with bad breath. A white transit van drew up to the curb, and the men disappeared inside.
The van moved off. I sat, frozen completely, unable to process the situation. Sirens approached from the opposite direction. Lights lit up the bank interior like Christmas, reflecting off broken glass scattered on the floor in a kaleidoscope of colour.
Reversing, the Jeep disappeared back through the hole it had created in the bank’s only window, following the direction the white van had taken. Emergency vehicles rushed past in a string of flashing lights.
It’s like something out of a movie.
Dazed hostages paused, watching. Glances were exchanged, though no one spoke. Fear and uncertainty still hung in the air. After a moment, the spell was broken, and movement resumed. Customers stirred, no longer cowering beneath armed aggressors. Soft chatter filled the ruined bank.
I knew I should ask them to sit alone, quietly, so their stories wouldn’t be confused by each other’s interpretations of what they had just endured. My training kicked in, my brain screaming at me to move, but I couldn’t.
