Page 50 of Emerald

I’m handling the bank job, because it will be the most difficult.

I’ve got Maks with me, and Markov’s son Kristoff.

We check over our weapons, then don our gloves and ski masks.

“No names,” I warn the men, “and don’t let anybody see your face.”

Deutsche Bank has deep ties to the Russian elite. Generally speaking, it’s not a place you’re supposed to rob.

I have no intention of taking money from the tills or the vault—I only want the safe deposit boxes. It should be a small enough score to avoid drawing the ire of the real power players, while still cutting Remizov plenty deep.

We go over the plan several times before leaving the car.

Speed is key in any robbery. We want to be in and out in less than ten minutes, since the police will probably show up in twelve.

This branch of the Deutsche Bank is relatively small, but opulent on the exterior and interior. I can only imagine the sums of money that have passed through its vault—not to mention its computer systems. Money tracked and untracked, earned and unearned, from every country of the world.

As soon as we’re through the front doors, we split up to neutralize the employees. We want to prevent them hitting any silent alarms. Maks covers the tellers, while Kristoff and I gather up the managers and staff.

There are only a few customers inside, including an old man with his grandson, and two women making deposits. Maks tells them all to sit down quietly in the corner of the room.

I’m impressed with his politeness. It’s smart—calm people are easier to control. The old man seems mildly annoyed, and the two women look almost excited. They’re wearing aprons over their clothes, probably having come from work at a shop or cafe. They seem pleased at the opportunity to delay their return.

The bank employees are, of course, less happy about the situation. Particularly the branch manager, who blusters and shouts.

“This is outrageous! Who do you think you are?”

“Just give us the keys to the safe deposit boxes, and we’ll be on our way,” I say.

“I’m not giving you any keys,” the bank manager retorts stubbornly. His black hair is combed flat against his head, shiny with gel. He’s wearing a blue suit, as well as rings on several fingers.

Kristoff seizes him by the lapels, lifts him in the air, and throws him across the room. The manager skids across the floor, coming to rest in front of the reception desk.

“Anybody else got keys?” Kristoff grunts.

A redheaded account manager fumbles a clutch of keys off her belt.

“H-here,” she stammers, holding them out to Kristoff. “Use mine.”

I take the keys and head down to the safe deposit boxes.

I start opening the lock boxes, scanning their contents. I ignore the ones that hold papers, documents, photographs, and family jewelry, I’m looking only for those that contain serious cash.

Before I’ve gone through more than five or six, Maks comes hurrying down the stairs.

“Remizov’s are twelve and thirteen,” he says.

“How do you know that?”

“The little blonde teller told me,” he says. I see the white flash of his teeth as he grins through the slit in his ski mask.

Even with his face covered, Maks is popular with the girls.

I unlock box twelve and thirteen.

Here’s what I’ve been looking for—stacks of cash, piled six inches deep. I take it all, clearing the boxes bare.

I check my watch. Eight minutes gone. We’re ahead of schedule.

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