Goose

by Hildreth, Scott

  “So, he told you about all the work he was planning on doing? The jobs?”

  “If he was planning on doing a job, I knew about it.”

  “Well, convincing you that he trusted me ought to be easy, then.”

  His eyes thinned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” I explained. “If he told you everything about his jobs, and I tell you about a job that he told me about, you’ll know he trusted me enough to tell me, right?”

  He blinked a few times. “He didn’t tell you about shit.”

  “Bakersfield,” I said. “A man who sold kiddie-porn. Ghost was planning on doing that job, but he died before he did it. After his death, I researched it, went there, and did the job.”

  His mouth fell open. As did three others. Goose’s was the only person besides me that wasn’t in utter shock.

  “You did the Bakersfield job?” Cash blurted.

  “Is that enough proof for you?” I asked.

  Cash looked at Baker.

  Baker shrugged. “She had just as much right to it as anyone. Like it or not, there wasn’t a label on it. If Brother Ghost told her about it, and obviously he did, it was free for the picking when he died.”

  Cash swallowed hard. “I still want to see you open a bank vault.”

  “Well,” I said. “When you work up enough guts to do a job with me, I’ll open it for you. How’s that?”

  31

  Goose

  Reno, Tito, Cash and I were relaxed on the sectional with our legs propped on the edge of the coffee table. Ally sat beside us in a chair she’d taken from the clubhouse dining table. It was the first time I’d seen her wearing jeans, and I liked what I saw.

  Baker ended his instructions regarding our upcoming bank job, advising Tito to find a small-town bank with transaction accounts in excess of 50 million. Such banks, he said, are required to keep ten percent in cash reserves. Although they could keep the reserves in the Federal Reserve Bank, most typically kept a good portion of cash in the vault.

  Ally looked at him as if he was completely bonkers. She then glanced at each of us, seemingly searching for anyone else that agreed. After receiving nothing more than errant looks, she shifted her focus right back to Baker.

  “Back to something you said in the middle of your instructions,” she said. “Is there a reason you only use one car? The getaway car?”

  Midway through stroking his beard, Baker paused. With his beard clenched in the web of his hand, he lowered his chin and looked right at her. “Is there a logical reason I’d use more?”

  Ally was asked to attend a meeting in the clubhouse to plan a bank job. I hoped she’d reveal methods, procedures, and past experiences that would make me proud to have recommended her, not argue the advantages of using a convoy of escape vehicles.

  I lowered my head in shame and let out an inaudible sigh.

  “See what you think of this suggestion.” She stood and continued, using her hands to assist with her explanation. “Two vehicles are used instead of one. One sits outside the bank, empty. It’s parked in an alley, adjoining parking lot, or at a place of business beside the bank. Not in the main street in front of the bank’s entrance. It’s the getaway car. The other car sits in front of the bank, out at the main street. It has someone in it at all times. The vehicle that’s manned is the rabbit. It’s used as a decoy. If the cops show up, the rabbit takes off, luring the cops away from the bank. Not a high-speed chase, just enough to lure them away along a predetermined route. If the cops don’t show up, the rabbit tails the getaway car until the getaway reaches the highway. If the cops intervene between the bank and the highway, the rabbit lures them away. The rabbit is a legally owned, registered and insured car. Typically, a rental car. If the rabbit gets pulled over—and he hopes he does—all the paperwork’s in order, and everything’s legit. The rabbit is a sacrificial lamb. At worst, the driver of the rabbit may receive a traffic infraction, but it prevents the cops from chasing the real getaway car. The rabbit does not go to the clubhouse. The rabbit goes to a diner, coffee shop, or bar. Then, after an hour passes, the rabbit goes home.”

  “So, technically, the rabbit’s not involved in the robbery?” Reno asked.

  “Not at all,” Ally responded.

  “It’s like a feigned retreat,” Reno said. “We use it in combat. The frontal force fakes a retreat, drawing the enemy in deeper. A reserve force then attacks. The frontal force is what you’re calling the rabbit.”

  Ally pointed at him. “Exactly. Small-town banks are patrolled by small-town cops. Small-town cops spend their entire life waiting to get in a car chase with a bank robber. It’s their dream. So, when the rabbit takes off, the cop will chase it, no matter what. In most small towns, there’s only one cop to worry about. If he’s chasing the rabbit, the getaway car’s in the free.”

  Baker folded his arms over his chest and gave a sharp nod. “I like it.”

  So did I. We’d never done anything like it. I now wondered how we’d gone so long without getting caught. I looked at each of the men, beaming with pride.

  “We’ve got six people,” Ally continued. “That’s one rabbit, two lookouts, and three in the bank. Everyone has a throwaway phone. Everyone except the rabbit uses their phones. The rabbit’s phone has one call logged on the call list. To the closest local auto repair shop, which of course, is closed. That’s the rabbit’s excuse if pulled over. The car was overheating. The engine was mis-firing. Something. The rabbit’s phone cannot be linked to the other five phones. All throw-away phones are destroyed and then thrown away at the end of the job. They’re a direct job cost, just like fuel, shoes—”

  “Shoes?” Baker gave her a look. “Why would shoes be a job cost?”

  She sighed. “Shoes. You can’t wear the shoes to a robbery that you wear on the street. They’re almost as easy to match as DNA. All they need is one shoe scuff on the floor, one shoe print in and out of oil, or for someone to step in a fucking mud puddle, and the FBI will have that exact shoe print. They can match a shoe print to a shoe as easily as they can match a thumbprint to a thumb.”

  I was even more impressed. I’d worn the same boots at every bank job we’d done. I now wondered how many FBI agents had impressions of my boot bottoms.

  Ally surveyed the group. “Another thing. I’m sure you’ll think I’m nuts but hear me out on this. Costumes.”

  Ten eyes stared at her in disbelief.

  “I suggest the three who work the bank wear them,” she said. “Most people who rob banks have a preconceived notion that they should wear black pants, black shirts, a black stocking cap. That’s not the case.”

  We’d worn disguises on daytime robberies. But, all-black was exactly what we’d worn on each night job we’d done. I waited to see what her “costume” suggestion entailed, and why she thought it was necessary.

  “Imagine you’re a cop,” she suggested. “And you roll up on a bank at one in the morning. You see three guys wearing all-black, carrying heavy duffel bags. What are you going to suspect?”

  “If we’re wearing all-black, we’re basically invisible,” Cash argued.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “If you’re the same cop, and you see a girl wearing a college cheerleader outfit, followed by two guys in college football jerseys, what would you suspect? Especially if the robbery coincides with a college football game?”

  Four of the five heads that were listening nodded in agreement.

  Baker looked at each of us. “Sound like she knows her shit, fellas.”

  Cash, the odd man out, snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

  Ally acted like she didn’t hear him, but I suspected she did. Cash’s tone was a difficult thing to dismiss. Although he hadn’t directly opposed Ally’s introduction to the group, he’d made it clear though his actions, comments, and shitty looks that he wasn’t happy about her involvement.

  I hoped his opinion of her changed with the passing of time.

  “Any volunteers to d
rive the rabbit?” Baker asked.

  “Fuck, I’ll do it,” Reno said. “You don’t need anyone on explosives if she’s cracking the safe.”

  “Normally,” Ally argued. “That slot goes to the brains of the operation...”

  My eyes shot to Baker. Although he didn’t speak, his eyes argued Ally’s recommendation.

  “The rabbit always escapes,” Ally explained. “Even if the other five get caught, there’s nothing to link the rabbit to the crime. No phone calls. No texts. Nothing. The rabbit, at worst, will be detained for fifteen minutes. If something goes awry, the remaining five will need the brains of this operation to secure attorneys, plan our release from jail, and get any and everything that could be used against us removed from our homes—or wherever it needs to be removed from—before they get a warrant to search our premises.”

  Baker’s look went from argumentative to one of content. “You make a good point. Looks like I’ll be the rabbit.”

  “If you don’t know how, I’ll teach you how to do a pit maneuver. It’ll come in handy if a cop gets between us,” she said.

  In the past, Baker objected to any offering that opposed his pre-conceived plans. We soon learned that it was Baker’s way, or no way at all. Considering our success rate, arguing with him regarding procedure when it came to a job was a difficult thing to do.

  Having Ally offer an alternate plan—and seeing Baker accept it—was mind-boggling.

  As she looked at Baker, waiting to see if there was anything else to be discussed, I admired her. Simply allowing her in the clubhouse meant things were changing for the Devil’s Disciples.

  After his death, I realized Ghost was the glue that held the club together on each and every one of our escapes. Be them simple or complex triple-digit all-out escapes from the law, Ghost’s mere presence gave each of us something to believe in.

  Ally didn’t have Ghost’s physical stature, but she certainly possessed talent. Her record at Lime Rock Park proved it. Only time would tell if that talent could be utilized to the club’s benefit.

  After a moment, she noticed me looking and met my gaze.

  I grinned, pridefully. Regardless of what the future held, I was proud of who she was, the ideas she offered, and of her talents.

  I hoped one day the other men could see her in the same light.

  Sadly, things would have to go to hell for her to show her true talents.

  32

  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.

  We paused, caught our breath, and removed our headgear. Goose sent Cash and Reno a pre-written text message. Tito opened the door. I drew a deep breath and stepped through it.

  The well-illuminated alleyway gave full view of the adjoining parking lot, where the SUV was parked. So far, everything looked like it was going our way. Doing our best to look like three people on a leisurely stroll after a night at the bar—but probably walking faster-paced than we realized—we made our way toward the vehicle, which was fifty yards away.

  Despite the operation’s lack of obvious fault, my heart was beating out of my chest. Based on experience, I knew it would continue until long after I got home and into bed.

  On our way to the car, Reno and Cash stepped to our side.

  “Good haul?” Cash whispered.

  “It was a bust,” Goose replied. “Ally couldn’t get the safe cracked. You were right.”

  “I fucking knew it!” Cash said through his teeth.

  “Just kidding,” Goose said, mid-stride. “We got a huge haul. No idea how much until we get where we can see it. It was dark as fuck.”

  I reached for the door handle. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The car’s key fob was programmed to open all the doors and illuminate no lights as soon as I touched the handle. The door locks clicked to the open position. We were so close to escape I could taste it.

  Cash opened the rear door. “I can’t take that bitch seriously when she’s wearing that cheerleader outfit.”

  My muscles tensed upon hearing him call me a bitch. I realized many men—especially biker
s—used the term loosely. Regardless, I detested it—and I wouldn’t stand for it.

  I opened the door, tossed my bag on the passenger floorboard, and hopped in. After pulling the door closed, I sat with my jaw clenched tight.

  “C’mon,” Goose said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I reached for the rearview mirror and adjusted it, so I could see Cash’s reflection. I drew a long breath and let it out. “I’m not going to stand for you calling me a ‘bitch’, asshole.

  “Whatever.” He glanced over each shoulder nervously. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you apologize.”

  “Fuck that,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll sit here until the cops show up,” I assured him. “Apologize.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with her?” Cash asked, directing his remark to Goose.

  “God damn it Cash, apologize!” Goose snarled.

  “All I did was say I can’t take that bitch seriously. So fucking what.”

  “Apologize,” Tito insisted.

  Cash leaned forward so close I could feel his breath against my neck. “Drive the fuck out of here, you mouthy little Bitch.”

  I was a woman that had been tossed into a testosterone-rich all-man crew. I didn’t regret accepting the offer. In fact, even after Cash’s comment, I remained elated that the club had given me the opportunity.

  But.

  I refused to work with someone who treated me disrespectfully. Cash didn’t have to respect me, but I wouldn’t allow him to openly disrespect me.

  Tension was mounting. Everyone started shouting. Some demanding we leave, others that Cash apologize.

  “Everyone stop!” I screamed.

  I turned in my seat until I was facing Cash. Reno and Tito, seated beside him, stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths.

  “Out of respect for the other men in this crew,” I said through my clenched teeth. “I’m driving out of here. Before we leave the clubhouse tonight, you will apologize. If you don’t, you’re not going to have to worry about how you’re going to spend your cut.”