Exposure

Martin jumped to his feet.

“Stay where you are!” The man in the lead pointed a gun at his chest. “Hands in the air.”

“You too.” The second gunman aimed at Shelley and Olga. His voice sounded like stirred gravel. “Get your hands up now.”

Shelley’s thin arms rose, shaking. Her gray eyes bugged, her mouth hanging open. Olga stacked both hands on top of her head. Her lips pressed, a defiant expression on her rectangular face.

“Back up against the wall.”

The women obeyed.

Martin’s heart rammed against his chest. His eyes cut from his coworkers to the gunmen. The leader was tall and lithe, the second very short but stocky. Even though the man was fully clothed, Martin could tell he was all muscle. The third and fourth were moving so fast he could hardly tell their sizes. All four wore black from head to toe, including gloves. The cutouts on the ski masks were small, barely showing their eyes, noses, and mouths.

The two carrying duffel bags threw them on the floor near the vault and hustled back outside. They quickly returned, each carrying four more bags.

“Come out front.” Man Number Two kept his gun on Shelley and Olga. “Hands stay up. Hurry.”

The leader ran to Martin, Man Number Three beside him. The third man whipped a pistol from his pants pocket. Martin flinched.

Lorraine. Tammy.

“Where are the keys to the vault?” the leader demanded.

“In my long desk drawer.”

“Stand back.”

Martin stepped aside while the leader grabbed at the drawer. Man Number Three kept his gun on Martin’s face. In that horrific second Martin pictured his head blown away.

He glanced at the two women as Olga shoved through the teller’s swing door with her thigh. Shelley followed. They stopped in front of the counter five feet from Man Number Two.

“Over there. Move it.” The robber gestured with his chin toward the rear of the bank. Both women scurried toward the vault. One of the men herded them to stand off to one side. At their feet lay the empty duffel bags.

The leader yanked Martin’s keys from the drawer and tossed them over. Martin’s arm jerked up to catch them.

“Open the vault.”

Martin swallowed. He looked at Shelley and Olga as they huddled, white-faced, staring down the barrels of two guns. “Don’t hurt them.”

“Go.”

Martin headed to the vault. With fumbling fingers he inserted the key and cranked the heavy door open. Shelley and Olga crowded nearby, the younger woman’s breath like muffled gasps.

“Inside.” The leader pushed him. “You two, go with him.”

Shelley let out a wail.

Martin’s heart dropped to his toes. “I can’t go in there! I’ve got claustrophobia!”

“Shut up and go.”

Martin and the women slunk inside, the first two men behind them. In the center of the vault stood two large metal carts with Plexiglas tops, crammed with money. The bills were pressed down, stacked, and bound according to denomination.

The second two men hustled in the duffel bags.

Air squeezed into Martin’s lungs, thick and heavy. The walls bent in, so close. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Look at all that cash!” Number Three peered into one of the carts.

Those carts held far more money than normal for a bank. Three casinos on the Atlantic City strip sent their daily take into Trust Bank. Three other banks also sent their daily deposits.

“How’d you get in here?” Martin heard himself ask. Keep talking. Keep calm. “That door was locked.”

The leader stabbed him with a look. “We can pick a lock, so what?” He grabbed Shelley’s arm. She yelped. “Get on your knees by the cart. You too.” He gestured toward Olga and Martin.

Man Number Four unzipped a duffel bag and withdrew a flathead screwdriver and hammer.

“You can’t lock us in here.” Olga sank to her knees. “I’m supposed to visit my grandkids. If I don’t show up, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

“I said you’ll be fine,” the leader snapped.

Martin got down beside Shelley. His mouth was open now, sucking in air. His clothes stuck to his skin.

Man Number Three yanked pieces of rope from a duffel bag. With rough movements he tied Shelley’s hands to a leg on the first rectangular cart. She lowered her head and cried.

“It’ll be . . . okay,” Martin whispered. He could barely breathe. “It’ll . . . be okay.”

Number Three bound Olga to the leg next to Shelley. He tied Martin to one at the other end.

“Look down and close your eyes,” the leader said.

Martin did as he was told. He heard the sound of hammering, metal against metal as one of the men pried open the padlocked compartments of the cart. The legs jerked this way and that, pulling at his arms, his shoulders. The smell of dust and perspiration swirled around him, and his heart swelled against his ribs. This wasn’t over yet. What if they shut him and the two women in this vault? Martin thought of his words to Shelley. It’ll be okay. Maybe it wouldn’t. He and his coworkers might all be killed.

He thought of Lorraine in their run-down apartment. She was probably reading to Tammy. Such a good mom. She deserved so much better.

Tammy, your daddy loves you.

The pounding stopped on the cart to which they were tied. Feet squeaked against the floor. The noise began again as they broke into the second cart. All that clanking and smashing. The sounds rattled in Martin’s brain. His teeth set on edge.

Zippers opened. Martin cast a look upward. Each of the four men was throwing bound stacks of money into the bags by denomination. Guns protruded from their pockets.

The leader shook a bag. “Pack ’em tight.”

“Did we bring enough bags?” another one asked.

“Just pack ’em down.”

Martin lowered his head. The sounds continued around him, the rustle of clothes, the soft plop of bill stacks tossed upon one another. Ten minutes. The men couldn’t have been in the bank longer than that, but it seemed a lifetime. A drop of sweat rolled off his jaw onto the floor.

Shelley sniffed. Olga had not made a sound.

“How much you think’s in here?” one of the robbers asked, his words breathless.

“He oughtta know.” The leader’s clipped voice. A knee dug into Martin’s shoulder. “How much?”

For a moment rebellion burned. A lie formed on Martin’s tongue, then melted away. “Almost seven million.”

“Seven million!” one of them crowed.

Claustrophobia welled up Martin’s throat. He forced himself to examine the binding around his hands. He tried to pull his wrists apart — and they moved a fraction of an inch. How long before he could work his way out of the rope?

“Come on, come on,” one of the men hissed.

Martin’s heart constricted. He gazed toward the door of the vault. Beyond it he could see the length of the bank, the glass front door at the other end. Through that lay the outside world. His family. Air.

“This one’s full,” Number Two said. A zipper closed. “Who’s got room for more hundreds?”

“Here.” The leader’s voice.

The cart jiggled, the soft sound of gloves scraping bottom.

“That’s it.”

Zzzip. Multiple bags closed. All but the leader ran out of the vault, carrying two