The wide garage door was opened, letting the dawn flood into the room. Else slid a pair of sunglasses onto his face and watched the rest of his team roll a white BellJet into the small parking lot. The commercial chopper had room for six, including a pilot. With Marvin dead, they had to hire an outside hand to fly the thing. His name was Garry Vickers, an ex-Royal Marine, also with the Sapphire project.
"Hey, boss, we have a UFO on our radar,"
"Unidentified? What type of aircraft?"
"It's a helicopter, sir. From its radar patterns, it's flying too low and slow to even be a light aircraft. We don't have its ID on record, and the pilot isn't answering our hails, nor is he in safe flying parameters."
"Let me try reaching him."
Vickers, agitated with the constant badgering from a nearby control tower's operators, turned his communications equipment off.
"Do you read me?"
"He's turned his radio off, sir. He's no longer transmitting."
"Damn. Probably another drunk bastard behind the stick of a chopper. Gladice!"
"Yes?"
"Get me on the phone with Police Chief Hausen, right now!"
"Police! Search warrant!" the entry element shouted. They fanned to the left as team Two ran upstairs, followed by Fox and Fedorov. They turned down the hall and headed for the master bedroom. The door was locked, but with a hearty kick by the bear leading the team, it flew inwards, clean off its hinges. The team cleared the room in proper fashion, sweeping the corners before moving into the interior of the room.
"Clear!" the bear shouted. He pulled his team out to clear the rest of the upstairs, leaving Fox and Fedorov alone.
"Damnit!" Fox shouted, bending over and resting her hands on her knees in utter frustration. "He got out!"
"The bed is not warm. He was not here to begin with," Fedorov said, sliding his paw over the sheets. The bedroom was huge, by many standards. Classic paintings hung around the walls, vaulted ceilings, fine furniture and expensive hardwood floors.
"Nice place," Matkovich said. "He must be compensating for something." Fox stood herself back up. He was right. It was a nice place. Very nice.
"Say, we know Abernathy worked for Easton Insurance, but what exactly did he do?" Fox asked. For someone involved with petty bank robbers, Ethan had a lot of money.
Fedorov didn't answer. He was busy feeling the walls.
"What are you doing?" Carmelita asked.
"Looking," was the answer.
"For what?" Fedorov stopped his hand just behind a large painting of a lioness with long hair and a mysterious smile.
"This." With a heave, he removed the picture from its mounting and set it on the floor. Behind it was a metal plate with a thin slot in its face.
Fox procured the Easton Securities card and inserted it into the slot, arrow first. There was a click, then the door slid open.
"Oh," the two officers said upon examination of the contents.
"We have three hours before dawn. We can probably get there in time," Fedorov said, looking at his watch.
"Feeling better?" Bentley asked.
"Yeah, much," Marvin said. "Think you'll let me out of this place today?"
"No."
"Damn. Tomorrow then."
The BellJet landed on the roof of the ING bank in central Antwerp. Else stepped onto the gravel roof and advanced towards the door to the descending stairwell. He opened it, looked down ten stories into the basement, and then recoiled sharply.
"God, I hate heights. O.K., ist es frei! Gehen Sie, gehen Sie gehen!"
One stayed on the roof with the helicopter. Two and Three dragged a heavy winch to the doorway and used the width of the device to hold it in place. They tossed a rope down into the stairwell, followed by a large brown bag. Four and Five raced down the steps to the basement where they checked the rope by putting their weight on it. A quick thumbs-up said everything. Two and Three moved down the stairs to the first floor, where they set up defensive positions to hold back any would-be heroes. Four and five connected the bag to the line, then snatched it up and ran to the large vault door. There was a keypad on either side, requiring a six-digit code.
"Remember the look on that bloke's face when we tossed the dead turtle at 'em? He sang like a freakin' canary."
"I doubt you appreciate the effort it took to get that bastard's code! That green prick was a tough one. Just would not talk." The two men put in their codes simultaneously, and stepped back as the virtually impervious door opened for the crooks. Inside the vault was a mass of machinery, all buzzing and whirring in activity. Money came in from the ground floor, was sorted by age, condition and denomination, then stored in one of twelve massive tanks, where it could be called from to be used by tellers or ATMs in the lobby. The security system was basically the act of taking the money and shooting it into a tube where it would be dumped into an underground cell, only recoverable with a construction crew. It did have one flaw, however. The tube that carried the money into the pit could be broken easily. Using circular saws, Four and Five did just that. They cut out a six-foot length of pipe and connected the end of the massive bag to where the money would come from. With that done, they rushed into the stairwell.
"Jetzt!" they shouted. Two and Three took their cue and assaulted the lobby. They kicked in the door and entered the room shooting. They didn't shoot at anyone in particular, but just shot at the ceiling. Doing what they'd been trained to do, the early morning staff ducked and hit the silent alarm.
In the basement, the machines came to a halt. They seemed to reverse, and began pumping cash into the large bag. Four and Five helped the bag fill by expanding it as money filled it from above.
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(It's the author, here. I'm ba-a-ack…)