As the van neared the intersection, Leo had jaywalked. The driver skipped a heartbeat, his eyes widening in horror as he was about to run over a small kid. Thanks to Leo’s stature, which Ryatt hadn’t forgotten and optimally factored in on his plan, he was never thought of as the fifteen-year-old that he was. Then the distressed driver stood on the brake, skidding the van to a halt.
That was Thomas’s cue.
The backhoe lingered a good one hundred meters from the intersection, its front aimed at the van’s right side. To the left was the guardrail of the bridge crossing the canal, under which Ryatt lay in wait.
Ryatt heard people yell at the driver and Leo, which eventually became panicked shouting and unrest, as they all scurried away, because Thomas had just put the backhoe in gear and accelerated it to its top speed, the metal jaw slicing through the shimmering heat distortion of the blacktop. The security guard sitting beside the driver saw the clamoring crowd quickly disperse, pointing at something. He then turned and noticed the unsettling scene outside his window that made him shit a little in his pants. A backhoe racing towards their van, its gaping metallic maw pointed at their flimsy door, at him, its lower teeth gleaming menacingly in the sunlight.
The guard’s brain fumbled and tried to take the next course of action, wanting to apprise the driver of the situation. The driver who was busy scolding Leo. However, his mind and body had been paralyzed in fear; his legs wouldn’t move, neither would his arms. He stunned the moment he spotted the raging backhoe descending upon them, blowing black smoke angrily through the exhaust on its head. A monstrous hellhound sprinting towards them, its claws pummeling the ground.
The last thing the guard saw was the equally terrified face of a teenager.
And then the beast bit its prey.
The entire weight of the ten-thousand-pound construction vehicle, concentrated on its impermeable cast-iron front-loader, smashed on the van’s side, scooping it off the road and tossing it through the guardrail.
As soon as Ryatt heard the crash, he shot up to his feet. Rebar and debris rained down before him.
Then profound silence.
A flash of deceiving quietness as the van took the plunge was broken by an explosive sound of the durable steel box hitting the concrete, its top slamming on the ground. The gravity crushed the van and shattered its glasses. Upturned, its bent wheels rotated like an inept bug uselessly peddling its legs in a vain attempt to escape its predicament.
Not wasting a jiffy, Ryatt quickly ran to the van, drawing the .22 from his hip.
“Whoo!” Leo screamed from the broken section of the bridge. A group of onlookers gathered beside Leo, who pulled his gun out and shot at the sky, clearing the crowd. Then, without giving it a second thought, he jumped down and landed on the van’s underside. He got off and pulled a spare kerchief hanging from Ryatt’s back pocket that he tied across his face.
Ryatt and Leo turned their attention to the van as the front door was pushed open. They could hear men moaning inside the driver cabin.
“Move it!” Thomas tossed a thirty-six-inch bolt cutter and Ryatt caught it. Then he and Leo jogged towards the back of the van. However the tool became redundant because there was no lock in the door but a small box with numbers.
Leo studied it, with growing confusion. “The fuck is this? A telephone?”
Thomas craned his head from the guardrail above and shouted, “No, you dipshit. It’s a Yale lock.”
“What’s a whale lock?” Leo scratched the back of his head.
“It’s not a whale. It’s a—forget it.”
“Whatever. Just tell us how to open the fucking door.”
“You can’t. You need to know the numbers.”
“What numbers? Can you come…”
Ryatt left them to it and rushed to the front. One of the security guards had crawled out successfully, and the other man was on his partner’s tail. They both stopped moving when they saw Ryatt. The older security guy was black, and the young one was white.
The radio could be heard from the driver’s cabin, the DJ talking at length.
Leo came up front. “Hey, motherfucker,” he said to the old black guy, the one who was already out in the open. “What’s the number combination for the door?”
“Did you just say ‘number combination?’” the guard laughed. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
It pissed Ryatt off. The way this man spoke down to them. The way they all spoke down to them. The whole world looked down at them, didn’t it? Little black street urchins wearing torn jeans and not by choice? Even if they had guns, they were treated poorly. Ryatt should teach this old fuck a lesson. No more—
His stomach finally exploded, the flood of puke drenching the skull kerchief.
Ryatt turned away from the van. Then he yanked the soggy cloth off of his face, threw it in the weeds, and panted.
“You okay in there?” Leo asked, holding the gun on the security guards.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Ryatt rubbed his mouth on his shoulder. “Don’t let them move, not even a pinky.” Ryatt looked up at Thomas. “Lollipop.”
“Oh shit.” Thomas fumbled in his pocket, brought out the candy and threw it to Ryatt. He unwrapped it as if he had just been bitten by a snake and it was his antidote.
When the burn in his chest eased up, he let himself be embarrassed. The rush of committing a crime in broad daylight was just too much for him. But his will was stronger than his fear. No successful man had let fear stop him. Emboldening his thumping heart, Ryatt removed the jersey and tied it across his face. He didn’t wear anything
