Harm's Way

5

The door opened again, the four minutes of silence timed by Carrie, and the bloodshot eyes behind the balaclava scanned each of them in turn. The woman to the right buried her head in her hands and sobbed. The major raised his head, looking the guy in the eye whilst the suit stared everywhere but the splash of blood across the yellow shirt.

Carrie peered at the man in the suit, watching the realisation when Yellow Shirt stepped towards him.

His eyes shooting wide, Suit pushed his hands out in front of his face. "No. No. No."

Despite his protests, his flailing arms were no match for the powerful hands of Yellow Shirt, who raised him off his feet as Suit squealed incoherent words. Only as they neared the door could they make out what he was saying.

"I've got lots of money, more than you'd get from this bank."

The man holding him stopped and turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated if he'd heard right.

"What are you talking about?" Yellow Shirt's voice was slow and deep.

"I'm rich. I can give you the money you need if you don't kill me. Take one of them instead."

The major blustered and the woman tried pushing herself back with her feet as if willing herself to disappear into the wall of boxes. Carrie remained calm, watching the eyes through the woollen head covering.

"Bullshit," she said, her voice even.

"Don't listen to her," the suited man replied. "She was going to take you on."

The man in the mask turned to her, his lips curling and then turned back just as Carrie spoke.

"He's a contractor. He's lying to save himself. He can't have that much money."

"No. No. No. I have..." he said, gulping for air. "That's not my only job," he added, his face going purple from the strain.

"Prove it," Carrie said, the guy behind the mask turning back to her, his eyes still narrowed. "Why not give him back his phone so he can log into his bank and show you. He must be making it up."

"Shut up," Yellow Shirt said, glaring at Carrie, but he pushed the guy back to the floor; he landed on the carpet with a great huff of air. The door closed behind him.

"Fucking coward," the old woman screamed out.

Carrie kept quiet.

A moment later, the door opened again; it was Yellow Shirt with the leader of the gang at his back, carrying the cardboard box of phones which he tipped at the suit's feet.

"Which one is yours?" he said, pushing the shotgun right into the suit's face.

The suit rocked forward on all fours and swept his hand across the pile, scattering Nokias and Motorolas to the side, then jabbing at each of the home buttons of the remaining iPhones. As the fourth phone lit up with a bright red Ferrari on the screen, the suit pulled it up, with Carrie watching intently as he tapped at the screen, not bothering to hide the digits of the pin.

All in the room watched as he swiped the screen to the right, then to the left twice before tapping an icon at the top. An app Carrie didn't recognise loaded onto the screen before prompting for a username and password.

The suit looked up as if suddenly feeling self-conscious, but as Yellow Shirt pushed the sawn-off back to his head, Suit hurriedly tapped at the keyboard on the screen.

Carrie's eyes widened as she saw the long line of numbers, then she leapt forward, grabbing the phone from his hands.

Yellow Shirt flinched at her speed, but instead of hitting her with the butt of the gun, he stood up straight.

"Got ya," Carrie said as she clutched the phone, a smile lighting up her face.