The weight of my gun is tight against my waist. A .38 caliber snub nose revolver. It’s the first thing I grab before every heist, but I still drop my hand to reassure myself as we turn into the parking lot.

My expression is firm but calm. Everything about me is calm. I’ve done this too many times to be nervous. Nerves lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to prison.

Confidence is much more effective.

Most of the parking lot is empty, which means so is the bank. Exactly as planned. It’s 10:19 on a Wednesday morning, the time in which Florida Imperial Bank operates with the least amount of traffic. The only three cars in the lot are parked together around the side of the building, most likely belonging to the three tellers scheduled today.

Owen parks the van in a spot along the left side of the lot, out of view from the bank’s large glass doors.

“The tellers?” He gestures at the parked cars.

I nod, reaching for a duffel bag from the back seat. I unzip the top and remove a plastic Bill Clinton mask before handing the bag to Owen, who pulls a mask of Richard Nixon over his head and tosses me an empty pillowcase.

Eventually he removes the Remington 870 Express from the bottom of the bag and pushes five shells into the chamber. He turns to me. “Ready?”

Without answering I pull the mask over my head and throw open the car door. The two of us round the side of the building, make a spit second of eye contact, then bound through the front doors.

Owen immediately raises his shotgun. “Down! Everyone get down now!”

I turn around and use a zip tie to bind the door handles together.

He kicks over an empty desk and points his shotgun toward a young female employee. “Out from behind the counter,” he orders. “All three of you. Hurry!”

“Let’s go!” I echo. On my way to the registers I step over two of the tellers crawling across the floor before propelling myself over the counter.

Owen has every employee in sight. I pull a pillowcase out from my jacket and duck under the granite counter to ensure that none of the panic alarms have been flipped.

And they haven’t.

“Throw your phones,” Owen yells. “All of you, throw them in the middle!”

There’s a whimper before the sound of several phones clattering across the floor.

One by one I punch open the row of registers, flip through their bills to check for dye packs, then toss the cash into the pillowcase.

“Shut up,” Owen barks at a young female crying against the ground. He collects one of the phones off the floor and throws it at the wall.

I toss in the last clean stack of bills and launch myself back over the counter. “Which one of you is the manager?” I ask.

There’s nothing but silence until Owen racks his shotgun. It makes a loud click and ejects an unspent round onto the floor. “Who’s the fucking manager?” he yells.

“I am,” cries the young woman lying at his feet.

I draw my revolver for the first time and order her up. As she rises, I gently press the nose of my revolver against the small of her back to guide her across the bank to the safe door.

She walks with caution in every step. When we finally reach the door, I steal a glance at the nametag pinned to her chest. “All right, Jessica, you’re the manager?” I whisper.

She nods.

“Is that your friend?” I point and she follows my finger as Owen kneels down and aims his shotgun at the head of a man on the ground.

She whimpers and a tear runs down her cheek. But she nods.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’re not going to hurt him. But I need your help, all right?”

She nods again. I give her a second to compose herself and, as I hoped, her terrified expression slowly becomes focused.

Bank tellers are trained to comply completely in the event of a robbery. The bank itself would rather lose a few hundred grand than battle the publicity of a murdered employee. But a little extra motivation never hurts.

“Take a breath,” I murmur with my lips inches from her ear. “Now… let’s open this thing.”

The girl’s thin fingers begin twisting at the lock. Just as I’m about to tell her to slow down and go carefully, there’s a click from behind the door.

Wordlessly I push us into the next room. “Now the vault.”

She obeys, twisting the large steel handle with the same urgency as before. Once it’s open, she follows my directions to lay with her face to the floor.

I fling open the steel door of the vault and begin sifting through the bills to search for dye packs, incendiary devices, and marked bills. At least seventy-five percent of the stacks are clean, which I shove into the pillowcase.

My watch reads 10:25.

I throw the pillowcase over my shoulder and step over Jessica into the main lobby of the bank.

Owen’s standing in the center and wielding his shotgun.

I nod at him. “Let’s go.”

He nods back and kneels between the two tellers lying at his feet. “You might’ve heard our voices, but we’ve seen your faces,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget that.”

I holster my revolver, draw a knife from my pocket, and cut through the zip ties holding the door handles. Owen bounces up and shields the Remington under his jacket as he strides out the door.

As we sprint, I dig a burn phone out from my pocket, select its only contact, and call. It only rings once.

“Are you clear?”

“Yeah,” I blurt, leaping into the passenger seat. “Which way out?”

Owen thrusts the key into the ignition and twists.

“East,” directs the voice in the phone. “Go left on Fairview. Feds responding from the south on I-95.”

“East on Fairview,” I repeat out-loud before flinging the pillowcase into the back seat.

The van’s tires skirt against the pavement as Owen throws his foot down on the gas pedal and cranks the wheel.

I punch off the call as we skid out of the parking lot, then tuck Owen’s shotgun into the duffel bag and toss the phone in on top.

He merges onto the highway and revs to speed. We pull off our masks and I’m instantly flooded with a rush of fresh air against the beads of sweat on my face.

I toss in the masks, zip the duffel, and throw it behind me. Owen punches the roof of the car and hoots victoriously.

He rolls down the window and I slap his chest as the air sweeps across my face.

The feeling of success.