Read Online Precipice: The Beginning by Kevin J. Howard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin J. Howard
Tags: Science-Fiction, LT
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the customers as they cowered on the floor.
“What are you cocks staring at?!” Nick screamed, his voice booming in the silence of the bank. “Listen.” Nick hushed the harsh breathing of the two morons behind him. He cocked his head toward the front entrance, cupping his ear with his right hand to filter out the everyday city noises. “Oh shit! The fucking pigs.” Nick paced frantically, shaking his head violently from side to side as the sirens grew in the distance. “Let’s go.”
“What about Dash?” Thug number one asked with a distant glare. From the vacant expression, one could surmise that it took all his knowledge to formulate such a simple question.
“Screw that bitch. I’m not getting busted for anyone,” Nick declared as he grabbed the bag of money on his way out.
With a slight hesitation, the two hired guns ran out of the bank and got into the car a second before Nick peeled away from the curb, turning the corner just as four police cruisers pulled up to the banks entrance.
Dasher crammed as much money into the bag as humanly possible. He had to press down on the cash while pulling on the zipper just to get it closed. He looked up to the two shelves and wished greedily that he could take it all, but he’d burned enough time in the vault. Dasher squatted down and gripped the bag, remembering a commercial he’d seen once of some fatty at work, telling him to lift with his knees so as not to strain his back. Dasher lifted up, shocked by the weight. He put his arm through the strap and swung the bag over his shoulder, stumbling backward a brief second as the weight pulled against him. Dasher picked up his shotgun and exited the vault, eyeing the manager as he passed. The man lay in the same position as when he’d entered, not daring to move even in the slightest.
“Freeze!” An officer yelled while aiming his gun at Dasher’s chest.
Dasher dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees, keeping his hands high above his head so as not to get shot. The bank was full of cops, fourteen by his count, unless there were more outside or hiding. The one nearest him took hold of his wrists and pulled his hands behind his back, slapping on a pair of cuffs. The tightness of the cuffs made him feel claustrophobic, bringing an uncomfortable dampness to his flesh and it became hard to breathe. As if he had to search for each breath and then pull it from wet sand. The officer behind him pressed hard on his back and forced him to lie on the floor, ripping his black ski cap from off his head to expose his face. The bank’s floor was freezing against his cheek, giving off a pungent smell of cleaning fluid, maybe some kind of polish.
“Looks like you chose the wrong friends, amigo,” the officer whispered into his ear, his breath reeking of pickles.
Dasher looked up, moving his vision between the legs of numerous officers until he caught view of the street. Their getaway car was gone and so was his crew. They’d taken off like panicked cowards and left him holding the bag, literally. Dasher felt like crying, pressing his face back to the floor as he knew he was beaten. The previous sensation of entitlement and prosperity was now overshadowed by a redwood of remorse and terror. He of all people should have known that there is no loyalty amongst thieves. And no matter how grand and glorious his dreams may be, he was in the end, nothing more than a common thief.
10
T wo days in solitary was hard enough, but knowing there were twelve more days made him ill. Travis moved into a sitting position and rested against the wall. After a few hours of sitting in pure darkness you began to wonder if your eyes were open or closed. Either way there wasn’t a difference. Two weeks for a brief brawl may seem extreme to many, especially when compared to the penal systems back on Earth where prisoners were allowed to tear off limbs before intervention, but this was off-world. There were two forms of punishment for a
“What are you cocks staring at?!” Nick screamed, his voice booming in the silence of the bank. “Listen.” Nick hushed the harsh breathing of the two morons behind him. He cocked his head toward the front entrance, cupping his ear with his right hand to filter out the everyday city noises. “Oh shit! The fucking pigs.” Nick paced frantically, shaking his head violently from side to side as the sirens grew in the distance. “Let’s go.”
“What about Dash?” Thug number one asked with a distant glare. From the vacant expression, one could surmise that it took all his knowledge to formulate such a simple question.
“Screw that bitch. I’m not getting busted for anyone,” Nick declared as he grabbed the bag of money on his way out.
With a slight hesitation, the two hired guns ran out of the bank and got into the car a second before Nick peeled away from the curb, turning the corner just as four police cruisers pulled up to the banks entrance.
Dasher crammed as much money into the bag as humanly possible. He had to press down on the cash while pulling on the zipper just to get it closed. He looked up to the two shelves and wished greedily that he could take it all, but he’d burned enough time in the vault. Dasher squatted down and gripped the bag, remembering a commercial he’d seen once of some fatty at work, telling him to lift with his knees so as not to strain his back. Dasher lifted up, shocked by the weight. He put his arm through the strap and swung the bag over his shoulder, stumbling backward a brief second as the weight pulled against him. Dasher picked up his shotgun and exited the vault, eyeing the manager as he passed. The man lay in the same position as when he’d entered, not daring to move even in the slightest.
“Freeze!” An officer yelled while aiming his gun at Dasher’s chest.
Dasher dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees, keeping his hands high above his head so as not to get shot. The bank was full of cops, fourteen by his count, unless there were more outside or hiding. The one nearest him took hold of his wrists and pulled his hands behind his back, slapping on a pair of cuffs. The tightness of the cuffs made him feel claustrophobic, bringing an uncomfortable dampness to his flesh and it became hard to breathe. As if he had to search for each breath and then pull it from wet sand. The officer behind him pressed hard on his back and forced him to lie on the floor, ripping his black ski cap from off his head to expose his face. The bank’s floor was freezing against his cheek, giving off a pungent smell of cleaning fluid, maybe some kind of polish.
“Looks like you chose the wrong friends, amigo,” the officer whispered into his ear, his breath reeking of pickles.
Dasher looked up, moving his vision between the legs of numerous officers until he caught view of the street. Their getaway car was gone and so was his crew. They’d taken off like panicked cowards and left him holding the bag, literally. Dasher felt like crying, pressing his face back to the floor as he knew he was beaten. The previous sensation of entitlement and prosperity was now overshadowed by a redwood of remorse and terror. He of all people should have known that there is no loyalty amongst thieves. And no matter how grand and glorious his dreams may be, he was in the end, nothing more than a common thief.
10
T wo days in solitary was hard enough, but knowing there were twelve more days made him ill. Travis moved into a sitting position and rested against the wall. After a few hours of sitting in pure darkness you began to wonder if your eyes were open or closed. Either way there wasn’t a difference. Two weeks for a brief brawl may seem extreme to many, especially when compared to the penal systems back on Earth where prisoners were allowed to tear off limbs before intervention, but this was off-world. There were two forms of punishment for a
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