Whitney couldn’t remember ever crying as hard as she had the last few nights. She loved Eddie and Mick. When she was with them, she felt secure and safe. The two of them had given her the illusion of family she’d so long craved.
Maybe it wasn’t an illusion. Maybe it was real. Or had been, at least. After her breakdown, she’d shattered whatever chance they had to be happy. She’d never forget the look on Eddie’s face or the way Mick looked afraid to touch her. She’d hurt them both so much. Probably in ways she couldn’t fix.
Whitney rubbed her face and forced away the troubling thoughts. She couldn’t function like this. Something had to give.
Stomach still churning with the pain of loved lost, Whitney inhaled a steadying breath and tried to focus. She moved up a few more steps and patiently waited her turn. Finally, she was summoned to the teller’s open window. “Good afternoon, ma’am. How can I help you?”
Whitney smiled, introduced herself, and explained her predicament to the teller. “I was told I needed to come down here to clear this up.”
“Yes, Ms. Montcrief,” the teller said, “but you’ll have to speak with someone in our electronic-banking division.” She pointed to a set of desks across the lobby. “They’ll be able to sort out the issue for you.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes and huff. Instead, Whitney smiled again and thanked the teller for her help. She stepped aside and tried to decide which desk to try. Both had nearly equal lines waiting behind the ropes. She judged the bankers’ faces and decided the older woman seemed nicer and more helpful.
As Whitney crossed the lobby to join the new line, she noticed the double doors to the lobby opening. The security guard’s shout barely registered. No, it was the eardrum-busting shotgun blast that finally caught her attention. As if in slow motion, she turned her head just in time to see the red splatter of blood hit the wall behind the guard who hadn’t even had time to pull his holstered weapon.
“GET ON THE GROUND!”
Before the instructions could even sink in, the quintet of bank robbers began firing their shotguns and automatic weapons at the ceiling. On instinct, Whitney threw herself to the hard marble. Pain shot through her abdomen and chest at the sudden impact, but she paid it little mind. She figured if she was still feeling pain, she was alive.
Her gaze flicked to the heavily armed men garbed in black tactical outfits similar to the kind she’d seen Eddie wear. These men were not fucking around. Snippets of the news articles popped into her head. Fear squeezed her heart.
Chunks of ceiling tile and shards of glass rained down around her. Busted-up lights sparked. Bullet casings or whatever those metal things were called pinged as they bounced off the marble floor. Only the knowledge they were shooting above her head kept Whitney from straight-up hyperventilating.
“Tellers out on the floor. Managers, loan officers, all of you. On the fucking floor now!”
Whitney watched the herd of employees scurry out from behind the counters and desks as ordered. Without having to be told, they held their hands high and said nothing as they filed out and lay down on the ground. She wondered if that was part of their “What To Do In The Event of A Hold-Up” training.
“Keep your eyes down. Put your hands on the back of your head.
Whitney did exactly as told. This wasn’t the time to try anything cute or brave. These guys wouldn’t hesitate to pump her full of lead. She remembered what Eddie had said that morning about the guys sending text messages. She hoped none of her fellow hostages were thinking of doing anything similar.
“Move one fucking muscle and you’re dead.”
She kept her gaze planted on the floor. Boots hit the ground all around her. She prayed the robbers were able to get their money fast and get the hell out. That’s what had happened at Kadie’s branch, right? She’d seen that story, too. Shots fired but no deaths. Maybe these guys were wising up and doing things differently.
“You the manager?” Whitney heard a scuffle as someone far off to the left was yanked off the ground. “Where’s your assistant?”
“O-o-over there,” the man stammered in fear.
There was another scuffle as the assistant manager was hauled to her feet. Whitney could tell it was a woman by the sound of her scared whimpering. She felt so badly for the woman and prayed she would cooperate.
“Open the vaults.”
She heard two of the gunmen escort the managers out of the main lobby and into a back area. She desperately wanted to sneak a peek but squashed the urge. Movement meant death.
The other three robbers walked around the lobby and harassed the other hostages. They were sick and cruel with their taunts. She tried to black them out and not pay attention to the ugly words they spewed.
Glass crunched as one of the gunmen moved closer to her. Whitney’s gut clenched when she felt the toe of a boot touch her outer thigh. Her breath caught in her throat when the gunman used the still-warm muzzle of the firearm to push her skirt up. Humiliation soured her belly. He gave a low whistle and pushed the firing end of the gun against her butt. “You wear these sexy panties for me?”
Her fingers curled, and her nails bit into her scalp as he leered down at her. The tip of his high-powered rifle traced the cleft of her ass. “Want to go into one of the back rooms and play with me, hot mama?”
Whitney didn’t know what to say. Whatever she said would be the wrong answer. And speaking caused movement, didn’t it? Was this one of their screwed-up head games?
She yelped when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her up onto her knees. Bitter coffee breath assaulted her nose. “You think you’re too good to talk to me?” His open palm cracked the side of her head. Pain stabbed her skull. “Answer me, you skinny bitch!”
“Please,” she whispered tearfully. Her mind short-circuited as her fight-or-flight response took hold. “Please.”
“Please what, you cunt?” He shook her brutally and made her teeth knock together. “Please let me suck your cock?” He mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Please take me into a back room and fuck my ass?”
Whitney sobbed as frantic panic rocked her to the core. All around her, the whimpers and crying of her fellow hostages started. The entire room vibrated with primal fear. Whitney shrieked in pain and terror as the masked man started to drag her across the floor by the hair. She kicked and clawed at the hand tangled in her hair, no longer caring if they shot her or not. If he got her into one of those rooms, it was all over for her.
An elderly gentleman bravely came to her aid, rising up on his knees and hooking his cane around her attacker’s ankle. The gunmen went down with a noisy thud, and Whitney quickly scrambled free. Another masked robber stepped forward and slammed the butt of his gun into the old man’s temple. He crumpled and hit the ground hard, blood oozing from the wound.
Whitney didn’t get far before her would-be rapist latched onto her arm and dragged her back to his side. Her pumps scratched at the floor, and her bare skin squeaked against the slick marble. The gunman angrily punched the side of her head. Whitney’s ear rang, and she tasted blood as the inside of her cheek smashed against her teeth.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” The man Whitney assumed to be the ringleader strode back into the lobby. “Put that girl down, and get in here. There’s a shitload more cash than we expected. Armored car was late for pickup.”
The almost-rapist roughly shoved Whitney forward and then kicked her in the back. She
As Whitney fought for breath, the gunmen took turns carrying duffel bags of cash into the middle of the lobby. She placed her shaky hands on the back of her head as ordered earlier and prayed they would leave her alone. She hoped they would just take the damn money and get the hell out.
But her prayers weren’t to be answered.
One of the robbers headed to the front doors and let out a string of expletives. “Fucking cops, man,” he said finally. “Cops fucking everywhere.”
A gunman grabbed one of the tellers and shook him wildly. “Which one of you pricks pushed the silent alarm? Was it you?”
“No,” the teller quickly denied.
“No?” The gunman threw him down and grabbed the back of another teller’s shirt. “Maybe it was you?”
