Bank Robbers

Stalled by the longest red light on earth, Oak was more nervous than Barry Bonds at the Senate hearing on steroids. Finally, he saw a long-awaited green. He punched the gas, jetted down Leucadia, caught the attention of a dozen little kids in a preschool play park that stared in wonder, sped through a barren four-way stop intersection, traveled along the coast for a short spell, but then slammed the breaks at a dusty parking lot. He saw Khali, arms twisted and held behind her back, crying in her stolen officer’s uniform, while staring down the barrel of an AK-47.


“Is there a problem officer?” asked Sam.

“No problem,” Khali cried, now lying prostrate on the hard ground. “I’m not really an officer. Okay?”

“Sure you aren’t,” said Jesse, pushing her head. “And I’m not exactly a bad guy. I just made a few morally wrong decisions in my life. Like killing people . . . people I don’t like. Especially nosy people.”

“She’s not nosy,” Oak said. Sam kept a rifle on Khali. Jesse quickly trained his AK-47 on Oak, who smartly responded by uncocking his twenty-two millimeter Beretta and then tucking the deadly weapon as a symbol into his waist. “I’m not nosy either,” Oak explained. “We’ve got something special in the trunk of that police car that you don’t want to be involved with. Capisce?”

“Like what?” Sam questioned.

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