CHAPTER 6

July 1998

Dressed completely in black, Michael Syrnyk crept carefully around the side of the garage, making sure nobody was watching. Most lights inside the house were off, which certainly reduced the risk. It was 11 p.m., and traffic on the street was light. Once he had climbed to the roof Syrnyk slithered over towards the front edge, where he could have a good look at the bank across the street. It was a CIBC, located at the corner of Grosvenor Avenue and Stafford Street. Syrnyk had picked this location to be the scene of his first armoured car heist mainly because of his fondness for a large shrub just to the left of the front entrance, which provided the perfect cover. Because the element of surprise was his key to success, Syrnyk needed to keep out of sight as long as possible. He took a firm position on the roof, making sure to keep himself as close to the shingles as possible. His cold eyes began darting from side to side, surveying the area. He felt powerful, like a wild animal stalking its unsuspecting prey. Just after 11, Syrnyk spotted his targets pulled up in their large, fortified Loomis truck. One guard got out, followed by another. A third appeared to stay inside the vehicle. He couldn’t see their faces. It would be easier that way. These are my targets, these are not people anymore. I need their money, Syrnyk said to himself, a cryptic mantra he would repeat nearly every night for the next three weeks as he painstakingly followed the same routine. Each and every night, Syrnyk immediately fixed his sights on the bag one guard was carrying. Another guard would always accompany the bag holder, keeping a lookout. The mantra continued. These are obstacles in my way. My life means more than theirs. I need that bag.

It was early August now, and Syrnyk had finally had enough. He had watched the guards conduct the same routine for so many nights that there was nothing left to learn. He knew their routes like clockwork. He had psyched himself up as much as he could. What was he waiting for? Stop being a bitch and get on with it, Syrnyk shouted at himself.

*****

Becoming an armed guard in Canada requires little more than a birth certificate and a two-day firearms safety course. Top pay is in the range of $15 an hour, and the risk is that someone will try to shoot you. The Canadian Firearms Centre, which licences armoured guards to carry weapons, has a simple process to get your gun – all armoured guards must have a firearms possession and acquisitions certificate. Companies such as Loomis, Brink’s and Securicor must provide documentation to the firearms centre to prove a guard has been provided with a minimum two-day training course in firearms safety before the licence will be granted. The security companies conduct the courses in-house. The only other requirements are that the guard be over 18 years of age and without a criminal record. Most companies offer a yearly refresher course, but a large job turnover because of the low wages and high risk renders the process moot in many cases. The issue has long been a touchy one in Canada, with union leaders who represent armoured car guards calling on the government to increase the amount of training armed guards receive. But with only a handful of incidents each year across the country, the issue isn’t seen as a top priority for federal lawmakers.

August 9, 1998

The Loomis truck approached the CIBC bank right at 11 p.m. – the normal arrival time for what was specifically referred to by the armoured car company as “run number five”. Allan Wiebe was behind the wheel, while Mike Bosek and Shauna Martens in the passenger seats. The trio were working the overnight shift, from 9:30 p.m. to 5:30 a.m. They had already done a pickup at the Toronto Dominion bank on Academy Road with no problems. Their route would take them to some of the wealthier areas of the city tonight. Wiebe had just started working for Loomis 10 days earlier, and had been filling in with Martens and Bosek because the regular driver was on holidays. This was to be their last night working together. Martens’s first shift had only been a month ago. Bosek was the veteran, having been employed for all of two years. Wiebe pulled the truck on to Stafford, just south of Grosvenor. He would wait inside while Bosek and Martens went inside the bank. Their task was simply to pick up the night deposits.

Martens had the keys and opened the glass double door to the bank, being careful to lock it as she and Bosek went inside. Bosek was carrying a green canvas bag, while Martens had a red and green one. The pair spent the next 15 minutes inside, collecting deposits and placing them inside the bags. On this night, approximately $6,400 was there waiting. After a final check, they prepared to leave. Bosek stood guard in the vestibule housing the automated teller machines as Martens waited for the exterior doors to self-close behind her. Bosek took a quick peek around the area and saw nothing unusual. Martens held open the door as Bosek walked out, now carrying both bags in his left hand. Being a right-handed shot, Bosek always kept his right hand clear in case he needed to pull his gun. As it had been seven years since an armoured car was held-up in Winnipeg, he knew that was an unlikely occurrence.

Syrnyk was covered in his own sweat, crouched underneath a large black bed sheet. He was lying facedown in the bushes just beside the bank, the ones that had caught his eyes when he was trying to select a location for the biggest heist of his short career. Syrnyk’s eyes peered out from behind a black balaclava. The air was sweetly warm and humid. His baggy black pants and black sweater were adding to his discomfort. He had watched moments earlier as the Loomis guards pulled up to the bank, one waiting inside the truck while the other two walked inside the bank with the empty bags. They were right on time.

Syrnyk thought back to the day he first envisioned doing an armoured car robbery. It seemed like such a long time ago, that lunch hour at Hull’s with his father when he’d glanced at the newspaper on the table and read the small item about a robbery in Ontario. Those guys were so cool, they just walked up with their guns and started to smash the crap outta the guards, and walked off with a quarter mill, Syrnyk had thought to himself. As impressed as he was, Syrnyk never thought he had it in him to pull off a similar feat. Yet here he was, lying beneath a sheet, waiting to pounce. He wondered what the newspapers would say about him tomorrow.

Syrnyk loaded the 12-gauge slugs into his sawed-off pump action shotgun, his steady hands in no way indicative of the inner turmoil he was struggling with. It was the first time he was using real ammunition. He was armed and ready, yet battling some last-second hesitation. Syrnyk had spent much of his life alone and in the dark, just as he was right now, yet he never remembered feeling quite as lonely or scared. Suicidal or homicidal? Syrnyk felt like he wanted someone to die tonight.

As he watched the two guards prepare to leave the bank with the bags, Syrnyk began to lose control, his hands starting to shake and the beads of sweat collecting beneath his mask. In a moment of sheer desperation, he dropped to his knees, looked up to the sky and began shouting at God in his own mind. “Why am I doing this, why am I here, why am I so fucked up?” he wailed. Predictably, there was no answer. Syrnyk didn’t relent. His inner voice became angrier, demanding that God answer him. With one hand on his shotgun, Syrnyk threatened to kill everyone – himself, the guards, even God. His pulse was racing, his breathing more laboured and intense. He had mere seconds to decide what to do; yet God was nowhere to be found. As usual, Syrnyk felt all alone.

With the bank now locked, Bosek turned right and began walking north towards Stafford, where Wiebe was waiting with the truck. Martens took a position directly behind Bosek, scanning the scene as her partner walked briskly. This was always a nervous walk, as the thick bushes on the left side of the entrance prompted a fear of the unknown. Other Loomis guards had warned Bosek and Martens to be extra careful because of the cover the eight-foot tall bushes provide. Bosek had some first-hand experience, having been startled in the past by stray dogs that came running out, causing a frightening false alarm he’d rather not experience again. As they walked past the bushes, Bosek and Martens heard rustling behind them. Both turned to see a dark figure crouched down near the edge, quickly rising and now charging towards them. Syrnyk knew he had to go on the offensive. He had the element of surprise on his side, yet the guards’ reaction was the wildcard. Would they simply put their hands in the air and drop the bag? Or would raw human emotion and adrenaline kick in? Syrnyk knew his gun was the best way to make a statement, and he was going to be very clear about his intentions. There would be no misunderstandings.

The first thing Bosek noticed, in fact the only thing he could see, were two small eyeholes in the balaclava and the silver end of a gun barrel pointed directly at him. It was only eight feet away. Bosek instinctively drew his .38 calibre handgun from the right holster. “Look out,” screamed Martens. She still had the bank keys in her hand and ran back to the front door, hoping to take cover inside. The key briefly stuck in the lock, and Martens fumbled with it for a few seconds before opening the door.

Syrnyk jumped up from the warm ground and immediately targeted the bigger guard who was holding the two money bags. He wasted no time in squeezing the trigger. Suddenly, everything seemed to go into slow motion. As he fired, the shotgun suddenly jerked to the side. What the hell? Syrnyk didn’t think he’d moved his hand, at least not consciously. The pellets narrowly missed hitting the guard, soaring over his shoulder, past the parked Loomis van and into a brick wall across the street more than 100 feet away

Martens was safely inside the main branch area, having secured all the doors behind her. She ran to the first telephone she could see and dialled 911, frantically describing the chaotic scene outside. Martens was desperately worried about the safety of her partner. The popping sound and white flash that exploded from the end of the masked man’s gun stunned Bosek. His gun was shoulder height, and Bosek fired back, aiming towards the centre of mass of the masked gunman. He had no idea where his bullet went. Bosek ran towards the truck, looking back over his shoulder to see what the gunman was doing. Bosek stumbled over some rocks, dropping both canvas bags and falling to the ground, hitting his right knee hard. He jumped up, oblivious to the pain of a scraped left elbow and banged up knee, and ran hard towards the rear of the bank. He turned the corner and slipped and fell once again.

Syrnyk, unhurt, trained his gun at the guard, but it jammed as he tried to fire once more in his direction. He pulled out his backup gun, a .45-calibre Beretta that had concealed in his pants. Syrnyk briefly lost sight of the guard, but was more interested now in the two bags lying on the ground. He grabbed them both, then continued to searching for the guard who’d just tried to shoot him. Syrnyk had thrown out all rational thought at this point. Murder was on his mind.

A frantic Bosek got up off the ground once again and ran to the far corner of the bank, a crucial mistake as the area was a fenced-in dead end. He tried to climb up, but couldn’t make it. Bosek had no idea where the gunman was, but knew he had to stay out of sight. Bosek crouched down in the lane, taking some comfort in the fact there was no light shining on this place of refuge. His only hope was to try and blend in with the night. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the gunman come running around the corner, stopping briefly to look his way. The man was still holding a gun, with both hands, waist high, pointed in the direction of Bosek. The frightened guard kept his eyes trained on the shiny weapon as it darted back and forth several times, as if scanning the area.

Syrnyk’s search for the guard was interrupted by a call over his police scanner. Police were on their way. With one guard inside the bank and the other one apparently hiding, Syrnyk didn’t have any more time to waste. He was on an emotional high, the robbery and shootout apparently wiping out the feelings of despair from only moments earlier. With the money bags in tow, he sprinted down a lane, towards his waiting vehicle.

Bosek had just been granted a stay of execution.