Jonathan Dunne's Blog

                                             The Day Job
Jacob wasn’t happy with the sunshine. It brought too many people onto the streets. His long beard wasn’t helping either; he brushed away sweat from the back of his neck and cursed the Traffic Warden’s suit. It was too hot for this attire and more than once he’d had drivers give him a hard stare of defiance. The look of defiance was of little significance, it was the stare that worried him. He checked the parking metres, like he gave a shit. The busy London thoroughfare appeared to bustle as he steadied his breath and prepared. 
At approximately seven minutes after ten the G5 van pulled up outside the building society and one guard stepped from the van, calmly opening the back door. He appeared groggy, tired and lazy – but Jacob knew this already. Nonchalantly he unloaded two canvass bags and walked towards the bank. Jacob had timed the run. It took this fat, jaded, clown eight seconds to walk a matter of centimetres whilst it took Jacob four seconds to lift the lid off the wheelie-bin and remove the pump-action shotgun.

 ‘Put the bags on the ground and take two steps backwards,’ he bellowed.
The adrenaline coursed through his veins as the scene slowed to a crawl. In this particular moment he was calm…so calm.
Jacob knows how people react: most civilians meander through their day in a neutral state that neither perceives, nor conceives of vulnerability, but when danger presents itself, adrenaline hits…hard. The heart races, the mouth becomes dry and the superhuman kick you need to survive is so surreal that it inadvertently cripples those not use to it. During a robbery, most people subconsciously recognise they aren’t in danger; the property is not theirs to be defended or rescued; then there are the dumb fuckers who believe in civic duty that will try to intervene.
The impulse to do something which is of no benefit to them starts with a jolt of adrenaline, and usually ends with their life being snatched. A career criminal deals with naturally concocted chemicals on a regular basis and for a beginner to step into their path is tantamount to suicide. The biggest pain in the ass to a criminal is a misguided civilian with a hero complex.
The guard does as instructed without missing a beat. Two onlookers edge forward as Jacob smiles widely, showing the gaping hole where his front teeth had been. The demented smile doesn’t work; he blasts a shot over their heads - this time they stop. Vehicles grind to a halt watching the robbery unfold; it leaves ample room for a smaller vehicle to manoeuvre itself around the cavalcade. The Ducati roars into life as Jacob scoops up the bags and vaults onto the back of the bike as they hit speed.

London is a maze of CCTV; Jacob counted twenty two cameras on this particular route. Methodically, he had disabled every one of them the night before the job. His methods were crass but effective.
The getaway route consisted of five laneways, two narrow streets and an abandoned industrial eventually leading to a dirty river bank camouflaged by ancient arches and overgrown weeds. In less than seven minutes they are two miles from the crime scene. They set the Ducati ablaze along with their disguises before changing into bright running gear and heading their separate ways.
Jacob jogs slowly as the sun bounces from the glass structures of Canary Wharf. It wasn’t long before he found a popular jogging route along the Thames River. With his back-pack stuffed with cash he stays alert.
His earphones were playing the audio to scanners monitoring police activity in the area. As he ran Jacob drank a bottle of water to wash away the charcoal in his mouth. At thirty years of age, he’d a full set of white teeth; he liked to leave clues where none could be found.

 

                                                        The Hit
 The Glaswegian sat sipping his coffee as the St Patrick's Day parade rolled on by. It always amazed him that the Irish celebrated a man who unleashed Catholicism and all its ills on Ireland. They should be burning the effigies instead of celebrating them. He let the thought linger for a few seconds and cleared his mind of all distractions. He had a job to do.

It was just after midday and he wouldn't move until the band marched down O'Connell Street. The Glaswegian needed the noise to disguise the carnage he was about to let loose. Half of his contract had been paid, the other half would be transferred upon completion of the assignment. Fifteen more minutes passed as he calmly ran his thumb over the edge of his cup. The coffee was good; not great, just good.
The band began their journey into the heart of Dublin as the Glaswegian ran a crisp white cloth over every surface he touched. Nothing was left to chance. He slipped off the main street and carefully shielded his appearance from every form of surveillance. His black beard, dark eyes and protruding teeth were all false; the chances of being identified were negligent but he was meticulous in that respect.
The old structure rested halfway down a urine soaked back-street. It had a fire escape leading to several windows; he knew the window, the layout and the schematics of this building, intimately. Quietly and deliberately he made his way into the building and followed the carefully constructed holes that led to the basement. When he reached the basement he found an old lift-shaft with a long ladder leading into the darkness. From this point onwards he listened intently as the drumming outside got louder and louder. Perfect, he thought as he began his downward climb. The insulation confused him until he realised it was sound-proof, an extra precaution, to further disguise the noise of the ongoing construction.
The Glaswegian allowed himself a rare smile. This was a team he admired. They were, like him, professional in their approach to criminality. Slowly he unsheathed a blade and cut a section large enough to crawl through. As he crept into the vault, he noticed that the team of four men were working in perfect harmony. One was bagging the goods, another was manning the scanners and two were emptying the strong-room. The timer was running down and they were set to leave in exactly five minutes. Once more he shook his head in admiration. This was like running a blade across the canvass of a masterpiece - he was momentarily saddened as he pulled the pin of the grenade and threw it into the vault. He stood left of the wide hole that had been drilled in the wall. There were slight muffles as the crack of the grenade silenced the team. He threw one  more in, just to be sure.
He caught his breath, steadying his pulse before crawling into the vault. This was messy, however, he had his instructions. He checked the vitals of each of his victims and the first three were dead - he was happy. Jimmy Henshaw, who he knew well, had a pulse, of sorts. He pulled out snub-nose gun and pressed it against Henshaw's temple. He knew Henshaw would step in front of the grenade and judging by his injuries, he had borne the brunt of the explosions. The Glaswegian rarely saw that type of loyalty amongst criminals - it unsettled him. Henshaw was a bloody rag. The odds were stacked against him living the next ten minutes, let alone the next five days; when the bank reopened. He placed the gun back in his holster.
The executioner stepped away from Henshaw before taking two black duffel bags. It was all he could manage and wasn't about to jeopardise his assignment by being greedy. His contract stipulated two bags; he would deliver two bags. He looked back at Jimmy Henshaw once more wondering if he should put a bullet in his head. No, he thought, he's finished.
Today was a day of rarities for The Glaswegian. He stood in front of the vault entrance with the bags resting across his wide shoulders. 'You’re dying because of a woman, Jimmy. You were the anchor that kept her steady and he wanted you cast adrift, my friend. I owe you that much...now let go.'