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“I’m a mixed bag,” he chuckled. “Irish, English, Scottish, a little Nordic thrown in for good measure. I have a hard time identifying with my culture.”
“It would be easy to do,” said Zeke, still leading the way. “The Irish and Scots especially have cultures that are somewhat similar and can give you a sense of who you are. Take up the bagpipes. Wear a kilt.”
“I’m not sure that would be advisable,” smirked Mac. “I think if I took up the bagpipes, my brothers-in-law just might dump me in the swamp somewhere.”
“We’d make sure you could get back,” smiled Miller. “I wouldn’t want my baby sister to be a widow.”
“Gee, thanks,” he chuckled.
“Look, start by reading about your people,” said Zeke. “Don’t lose who they were. I mean, you ended up in Chicago. How did your people get there? Why did they leave where they were from? What made them leave? I know every step that my people took. I know every trial, tribulation, and trail. I have that history because my people were good at telling the stories of the people before them.”
“Well, unfortunately for me and Sara, our mom died early in our lives, and our dad was just a hard-working cop who didn’t want to tell us much about his past.”
“That’s a shame,” said Zeke. “Your past is what shapes you. You can’t escape it.” Zeke suddenly stopped, Trak blocking his path on the trail.
“When you ladies are done, we might have an issue up ahead.”
“If we don’t find the cave soon, Frank, we’re gonna need to get the hell out of here. The rain has stopped, and they’re going to come for us.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. Five caves already this morning and nothing. Not a fucking thing!”
“There’s one up ahead. Let’s see what we find.”
Inside the cave, they adjusted their eyes to the dim light, then lit the small candle they kept for emergencies.
“This is it,” whispered Frank. “This is it!”
“Wait. What the fuck happened?” snapped Tommy. He picked up the ashes, corners of burnt bills crumbling in his hand. There were remnants of canvas bags lying everywhere, and the pink dust of the bags.
“How did they do this? How did they burn this shit and not know?” asked Frank.
The "dye" isn't a single substance but a system of components, primarily a1-methylaminoanthraquinone-based red dyeand usuallyCS tear gas. Normally, there is an aerosol that is released when the pack is triggered by a radio signal or timer after the robber leaves the bank. Theirs had been inactivated at the source, ensuring that only the dye would be released when the bags were opened. They’d received information on how to clear the dye and deactivate the tear gas that was designed to disorient them.
All of that had been done, except the dye. There was no tear gas activated any longer. The automatic triggering of the dye didn’t occur because the signal was blocked. The only remaining step was washing away the red dye. Now, even that wasn’t an issue.
“This can’t be fucking real. It can’t,” said Frank, sitting on the cave floor, his head in his hands.
“Hey, there are still four bags back here,” said Tommy.
“Four? Four! That’s hardly enough to get us to Mexico, let alone live there,” said Frank.
“Frank, it’s not ideal, but it’s something. We have to get the fuck out of here. We’ll hit another armored car or a bank when we get down there.”
“Are you fucking nuts! Do you know what they’d do to us in Mexico if we tried that? With our luck, we’d end up hitting some drug lord’s bank and be slaughtered.”
“So, what do we do? Are you just gonna sit here and mope? We have to move, Frank.”
“Fine.” He pushed off the dirt floor and pulled his hand back. “Ouch!”
“What’s wrong now?” frowned Tommy.
“The fire. It’s still hot. This is all new. Someone did this just recently, like last night or this morning,” said Frank. “We can find them. If they took some of the bags, we’ll find them.”
“Scan the cave. See if you can find anything that might tell us who was here.”
“Then what?”
“We find them and kill them.”
