Next Up

Track 21

"Hm," Zheanni muttered, standing before the bank vault. "We ripping it open?"

"You think we can?" Kholwa asked, looking at her hands, flexing her fingers.

"It's gonna be awkward," Conor sighed contemplatively, "But if we pull all at once, it'd go."

Kholwa placed her foot against the wall and dug her fingers into the groove of the door. "Alright," she confirmed.

"Three, two, one...pull!" Conor instructed.

An ear-splitting grinding sound ripped through the basement, and the marble ceiling began to crack and rupture; a plume of dust billowed.

"Ah!" Kholwa fell to the ground, her hands to her ears.

Conor stood in front, looking unhappy with their progress. "Move," he instructed Zheanni, shoving past her and grabbing onto the door. The cloudy purple energy around him grew and became almost violent, the clouds seemingly sparking with electricity. "Useless-ass women," he growled.

After several hard yanks, the door fell, smashing the concrete tile floor to bits.

Once the dust settled, they stepped inside, admiring the room. Fancy red wool carpeted the floor. The walls were floor-to-ceiling cabinets. It was dimly lit, the fluorescent square ceiling lights only illuminating several large duffle bags and a luxury snakeskin purse on a stainless steel table in the middle of the room.

"You should be able to use it, right, Kholwa?" Conor asked.

"If it's in the room, I'll find it," Kholwa took a deep breath. The sound of muffled yips and bays of dogs filled the room. From under her Hanbok, a scaled head slithered from beneath the clothing. Then another. And another. Soon, five creatures protruded from her dress. Each bore the face of a dog, but had the majestic neck of a dragon.

One of the heads sniffed the air, then looked around wildly, craning its neck. Once it saw Conor, it stretched across the room, licking his face and panting happily. "Okay, you missed me, I get it," he chuckled, petting it half-heartedly. Another head did the same to Zheanni, but she didn't react.

"Haemosu, help me," Kholwa instructed, imagining what the item looked like. The dogs perked up at the command; their eyes glowed like yellow spotlights, scanning the room.

A beam of light pierced through the building, illuminating a medium-sized lockbox as if a crack in the structure allowed sunlight to filter through each floor.

Kholwa, her lower body now replaced by Haemosu, glided across the floor with serpentine grace. She swiftly tore open the lockbox, seizing the small wooden box concealed within.

"That's it?" Both Conor and Zheanni looked shocked, then severely disappointed.

"A wooden-fucking-box," Conor grumbled. "Grab some bags if you want, and let's go."

On the roof of the bank, they waited, watching the helicopter above them get into position. "Go ahead of us," Zheanni yelled over the noise, pointing at the rope ladder that flapped before them.

"Why?" Conor asked.

"Kholwa's wearing a dress or some shit, that's why."

"You really think I'm gonna—okay, whatever," Conor scoffed, rolling his eyes. He slung several duffle bags over his shoulders, gripped the rungs firmly, and began the ascent. The wind atop the roof, coupled with the helicopter blades cutting through the air, felt like an icy bath against his clothing.

Kholwa and Zheanni followed suit, climbing up to join him.

"They're following us," Kholwa pointed out the helicopter window. They'd been flying for several minutes.

Zheanni peered outside; "They shut half the city down," Several black limousines and sports cars followed them closely. Even over their helicopter, she heard the distant thump of several other helicopters in the distance.

Conor sighed with annoyance, "Hold on, both of you, shut it!" He picked up his phone, dialing a number. Screaming over the noise, "Poatan, can you hear me? Okay, yeah, meet us outside the city...yeah, they on us. Just go to that ghost town area we saw the other day." He hung up, and knocked on the window between them and the pilot, "Hey bruh, bring us over outside the city. To the north where that forest is."

Poatan, the man Zoe and Marcello attempted to find earlier, stood against a tree that protruded from the cracked sidewalk. Empty beer cans and shards of rock littered the ground around him.

The screeching of tires and the blades of helicopters filled the air as the trio flew closer.

He glanced up, seeing their helicopter speed over him. He stepped out into the middle of the road and waited.

A block in front of him, several sports cars drifted around a corner, speeding right toward him.

Blue energy formed around Poatan, creating a small dust cloud as the vehicles closed in quickly.

The first one crumpled as it slammed into the man. It was as if it hit a metal pole; the car's hood bent back into the windshield, killing everyone on impact. The Lamborghini that raced behind it could barely swerve out of the way, skidding and colliding with a nearby abandoned, dilapidated home.

Several more cars and limos came into view; above them, helicopters circled, shining spotlights down on Poatan as he deactivated his energy.

Soon, over fifty men, all from different gangs and crime families, surrounded him either on foot or in their cars.

A man in a gold suit and a scar across his right eye maneuvered through the quickly growing crowd. Poatan watched him with no visible emotion as the man took a large .50 cal gold and ivory pistol from his pocket and aimed it at his head. He was a lot shorter, the top of his head only coming to Poatan's chest.

He spoke with a heavy accent, "I'm going to guess you're with the group who robbed the bank."

"Yup," Poatan said.

"Do you know who I am?" The man snarled.

Poatan looked past the man. "No, but I am curious as to why you're all workin' together."

"I'm Ugo," the man introduced himself. "You broke the sacred rule," the man sneered, taking a pistol. "You don't fuck with the money! Normally, no one else would give two shits as to what happens with them...but pulling that little stunt fucks up our pockets, ya know? We gotta eat too, ya feel me?"

"Okay," he said dismissively.

Ugo's face turned several shades of purple, and he tried pulling the trigger. He blinked, looking at it with surprise, peering down the barrel, attempting to squeeze the trigger a few more times before realizing he still had the safety on, and pointed it at Poatan again.

As he pulled the trigger, Poatan put his index finger inside the barrel. The gun barrel exploded, and Ugo fell to his knees, holding his mangled hand in the air; third-degree burns covered his fingers, and gun shrapnel dug deep into his skin.

Poatan raised his hand; it was grey and cracked, covered in a layer of rock.

With a quick downward motion, Ugo's head caved in with a single blow.