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“EVERYBODY! GET DOWN on the ground!” Feeq blurted as he and Reem moved swiftly from the vestibule into the lobby of the brick and mortar bank.
The frantic bank employees and customers were froze in shock when the two masked men entered the bank with weapons drawn and pointed, making threatening demands for everyone to get down on the floor with their hands in sight.
They complied.
“Think about your lives. Think about your families. Stay down, and you’ll make it home to see them another night. We’re here for the bank’s money. This will be over in a matter of minutes,” Reem stated calmly.
They moved quickly to gain control of the occupants of the old-fashioned bank. Reem towered over the innocent victims, incessantly instructing them to remain on the floor, facedown. He felt in control and powerful as his adrenaline started to rush.
Feeq vaulted over the teller’s station like an Olympic superstar clearing hurdles in a two hundred meter dash. The two tellers were already lying, flat faced, on the floor. One was a young black male; the other a middle-aged white woman. The dude was no more than thirty years old. He was trembling and what sounded like sobbing was coming from his direction in muffled sniffles.
Feeq told the tellers to get up from the floor and open the drawers and tellers’ safes. To his surprise, the male teller didn’t budge. He remained on the floor, and Feeq was now sure he was crying because he was shaking with revulsion. For a second, Feeq nearly snapped on him, but he decided to let him be.
After raising the large .45 Smith and Wesson to the female teller’s face, Feeq demanded, “Open the drawers and safes! No dye-packs, no bait-bills, and no fucking alarms!”
Her eyes were the size of half-dollars. She cringed as she peered through her thin, wire-framed glasses, down the barrel of death. It was hard for her fog-filled mind to register the blabber coming from the uncovered mouth behind the dark mask. Common sense told her to open the drawers and safes, so she did.
After opening them, she took a step back. Without being told to, she dropped back down and sank her face into the carpet. Feeq, floundering with the stacks of bills, quickly stuffed the gym bag.
He leaped back over the station and into the lobby.
“Where’s the manager?” he shouted to the frightened group lying on the open floor.
A middle-aged white woman rose to her knees, as Feeq slid the bag filled with money toward Reem. He was sitting at one of the desks on the open floor and observing the victims. Feeq caught the empty bag Reem threw back to him in mid-air.
“Are you the manager?” Feeq asked the woman after the bag exchange.
She nodded and began to say something, but, before she could utter a word, he grasped a handful of her shoulder-length blond hair. She shrieked from the pain and succumbed to his authority.
Her frail body flew across the lobby. She was attempting to keep up with her hair as he violently dragged her by it across the bank. She was sure that she knew where he was taking her. Actually, she was as anxious as him to get there, so that it could all be over with.
The manager twirled the nozzle on the vault’s lock several times. Thoughts of her family were glued in her head: Kevin, Katie, and Damon—her son, daughter, and husband. Will I ever see them again? Are they safe? She nearly broke from the fear of the thought of never seeing them again.
Her violent quaking interfered with her ability to concentrate, so she spun the lock’s nozzle past its correct numbers several times. Feeq was excited and was doing a little trembling of his own.
“Relax,” he calmly told her. “No one is going to get hurt. This will all be over in a few seconds. Now take your time and open the vault.”
“Okay. Just don’t hurt anyone, please,” she pleaded.
“Do you have kids?” he asked her. She nodded. “Think about your kids.”
That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, she thought sarcastically. Finally, there was a series of clicks followed by a hydraulic hiss of air. The vault’s door slowly swung open. Feeq’s eyes widened, filling the capacity of the holes in the ski mask he donned. For a moment, maybe two, he was paralyzed by the sight of the stacks of dead presidents. Benjee stared at him.
One corner of his mouth curved upward, forming a crooked, toothless grin as he looked at his reward. The manager let out a sigh of relief. Her reward felt even greater—at least, to her anyway. He had finally let go of her hair.