The Dash

The alarms went off a good thirty seconds before the thick wall between the staff bathrooms and the safe exploded into a fine dust. Six people rushed into the room, packing duffle bags with cash, gold bars and expensive paperwork.

One of them signaled that time was running out, so each grabbed two fistfuls of whatever was close and sprinted from the safe. As they exited the way they came, bullets flew. One of the robbers laughed through their mask and sprinted from the bathroom, holding the heavy bag close to their chest. Half seconds between each one of them sprinting from the bathroom, the second to last robber got shot in the head, the helmet they wore flying forward and onto the floor.

“KEEP RUNNING,” the last robber said, sprinting behind them, firing back to keep distance between their group and the guards wide enough to escape. They grabbed the helmet, tossing it out the window the others had jumped from as well as their own bounty before sprinting down another hall.

Several guards blocked their path, as to be expected, but what the guards didn’t expect was the robber to skid to a halt and jump through a closed window from the 4th floor.

Months of planning and preparation went out that window as the thief flew through the air, watching the ground come up fast while they felt like they were moving in slow motion. One of their companions, however, knew this person better than most and waited behind. Hearing the bullets ring out, they circled the building on their motorcycle, trying to do the impossible.

They leaned back from their handlebars, arms stretched out in front of them, as their companion fell into their arms at the last second. The motorcycle shifted, the balance off, but the rider managed to regain control before driving off into the dark.

As they left the parking lot of their hit, police lights were at their back. The jumper pressed their chest into the rider’s, their chin on their shoulder, as they aimed their gun at the police cars behind them, shooting out a tire, grazing an officer in the shoulder, hitting one in the neck, before they turned down an alley that was too small for cars to go through. They wove through alleyways for what felt like hours, before a van pulled up to their way out, the side door sliding open.

The bike skidded to a halt as the two riders hopped off and jumped inside the van, cackling with their comrades as they drove off, passing incoming police vehicles as if they were normal people enjoying a night drive.