The doors of the grimy East London storage facility were painted dull red to hide the rust. The outside lights were broken, destroyed by owners keen that their night time activities remained unobserved.
The contents of most of the lock-ups were mundane. No 17 contained paints, thinners and other material used by The Brushmen, a legitimate local painting business. No 5 contained boxes of cell phones and laptop computers, stock in trade for a business less legitimate.
No 24 was different. For a start, the inside of the lockup was much larger than seemed possible from the outside and it was full of exotic objects: ancient wooden chests exquisitely carved by elves, bizarre crystal figurines, the finest silverware wrought by goblin craftsmen and horrifying implements that looked like they belonged in a medieval torture chamber. There was even a stuffed thestral.
In the far corner, inside a dark rosewood sideboard, lay nearly a hundred wands. Most were lifeless, their former owners dead, murdered, but in a few wands, life still stirred. One wand, vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core, waited patiently.
oOo
He was going to be rich. They'd show respect then; all those men in suits who looked at him like they were scraping something distasteful off the heel of their polished leather shoes, the women who turned up their noses and hurried away. They'd bow and scrape when he walked into their high class restaurants then, "Yes Mr Jordan, we have kept our best table for you Mr Jordan."
Eddy checked his gun, wrapped his cloak around him and then stepped out of the shadows. He felt eyes turn toward him as sauntered through Piccadilly Circus. He cut quite a figure in his long sky blue silk cloak, flapping in the light breeze, his wide brimmed, black floppy hat and a theatrical mask. He smiled as some American tourists snapped his photo. They'd all be paying even more attention in a minute.
An armed security guard stood outside of Barclay's Bank, Eddy's destination. Too bad for the guard.
The guard moved to bar Eddy's entrance to the bank. "Sorry sir, you will have to remove your mask before you can enter."
Eddy Jordan shot the guard before he even registered that Eddy had pulled out a gun. A plump woman, about to exit the bank, rushed back inside screaming. Eddy dragged the dead guard inside the bank, leaving a wide trail of smeared blood on the floor, and then fired his gun again, shattering a life size crystal statue.
Heavy steel shutters slammed down in front of the tellers stations providing security for bank staff, but leaving their customers to the mercy of the gunman. Eddy could still observe the staff area through three bullet proof glass wall panels. He was sure they could still hear him.
"You, customers, you all move over there into the corner and sit down," commanded Eddy. Only a handful of the dozen customers moved, the rest were frozen on the spot. "Now," shouted Eddy, waving his gun around. They all scurried to the corner.
"Alright, this is what is going to happen. Within three minutes you bankers are going to pile a hundred thousand in cash at my feet. Any fake notes or ink bombs and things will get ugly. Anyone call the cops and things will get ugly. Time starts now."
He knew the filth were likely already on the way, probably an armed response unit, but, hey, that's what they always said in the movies.
For a few seconds nothing happened, then a woman in a blue skirt and plain white blouse nodded and all the bank staff began dashing about looking busy.
"We don't have a hundred thousand in cash," said the woman in a surprisingly firm voice.
"Of course you do," replied Eddy. "This is your main London branch. You now have two minutes and forty seconds."
Eddy stood stock still and waited. Two minutes later a young man opened the door from the secure staff area. He poked his head out and then, nervously pushing a large red sack in front of him, approached Eddy.
"That's about seventy thousand pounds," he said, almost swallowing his words. "We're trying to get together a little more. Please don't hurt anyone."
Eddy said nothing and the young banker took the opportunity to scurry back to the safety of the staff area.
Eddy produced a collapsible satchel and, pointing the gun at a middle age customer in an expensive suit, said, "You, transfer the cash to this bag. Now!" The man hurried to comply and Eddy smiled to see the man crawling on the ground doing his bidding. All the time the man was transferring the cash, the sounds of sirens grew louder. Eddy waited till the man was finished and then picked up the bag and headed for the exit and out.
It was as he thought, the armed response team had arrived. Eddy's gun and the police had largely succeeded in clearing Piccadilly Circus, but all the approaches were chaotic. Several cops were sheltering behind police cars, their rifles aimed squarely at Eddy.
"Drop everything and put your hands in the air," shouted one of the cops. "If you attempt to re-enter the bank we will shoot."
Eddy smiled, turned his back on the police and started walking to the entrance to the London Underground.
"Halt," yelled a cop, but when Eddy repeatedly refused to halt they opened fire. The bullets just bounced off Eddy, he didn't even feel them. He turned and fired at the cops, making sure they kept their distance.
Time to get out of here. He dashed for the Underground entrance and was soon on a train. At Waterloo station he took off his cloak and hat and switched lines. A few more line switches, like they do in the movies, and he was just an ordinary working bloke, heading home in the late afternoon.
The cloak and black hat were safely tucked away in the satchel. Best investment he had ever made. It had cost near everything he had, but when Billy the Fence had demonstrated it to him, he just had to have it. Developed by the Israeli army, Billy had said. Smart people, the Israelis, but Eddy couldn't help wonder why they had made it look so theatrical. He didn't mind though. He was sure that his picture, hatted, masked and cloaked, was going to be on the front page of every newspaper in the country.
