The gentle rain that tapped against Bruce’s helmet did not affect his mood. Neither did it dampen his friend Matt’s spirits. Bruce and Matt had been meaning to go on this road trip ever since they were children growing up together in an urban Boston neighborhood. Las Vegas, their first major destination, was less than two hours away. A little rain would not stop the two friends from Boston. As former members of “Blazing sons”, a motorcycle club on the outskirts of the big city, they were used to riding in much worse conditions than the one they were at. It was a warm, late September night in Arizona. The rain would surely force them to be careful when applying the brakes, but, other than that, they would continue their course.

On Route 66, somewhere between Oatman and Kingman, as the telltale sounds of their Harleys tore through the night silence, Bruce spotted a large vehicle from a distance, heading their way. He turned his head to the left and glanced at Matt, but his friend did not return the glance. Bruce pulled in the clutch lever, pressed down on the shifter, let the clutch lever back out and rolled on the gas, leaving Matt behind. He was curious as to why a vehicle like that would completely disregard the rain and run like that in the middle of the night. An uphill stretch of road blocked his view. Just when he made it to the top though, the vehicle in question was much closer. It was a dark-colored van, swerving left and right. The driver had clearly lost control. Bruce had to remain calm, even though the van was still moving quite fast and could end up crashing into him or Matt. More than a hundred yards down the road, the van driver stepped on the brakes, as it swerved right. They squealed and the front tires of the heavy vehicle screeched, picking up smoke. It rolled onto its left side; the bang that it made reverberated through Bruce’s skull. He opened his eyes wide, watching it as it drug itself along the road. Bruce and Matt had no choice but turn their motorcycles right and get off the road altogether. The muddy soil was not an ideal alternative; they could easily slip and get seriously hurt. However, both men were experienced riders. They gently stepped on the brakes, just before they left the road, slowing down considerably.

Debris from around the van flung itself sideways. Sparks flew as the metal scraped along the asphalt. The glass on the driver window was smashed and its rear door opened, before the van was brought to a complete halt. Bruce turned his motorcycle to the left and returned to the road, looking down at the battered vehicle. He stopped his motorcycle a few feet behind the van, put it on the main stand and got off of it in a hurry. Large shards of glass gave way underneath his feet, as he approached the cab. A quick glance in it disappointed him. The overweight driver could not have been more than forty years old. His head was on the steering wheel. Blood was dripping down his temple. The sleeve of his white t-shirt was badly torn and there was blood flowing down his chest, as he had a gushing wound on the base of his neck. Bruce sat back on his feet and put his arm through the broken window. He placed his hand on the left side of the man’s chest. His heart had stopped. Then, Bruce took his hand off of the man’s chest and checked his wrist for a pulse, only to confirm his worst suspicions: He was dead. Before he could verbalize though, he sensed Matt’s big hand on his shoulder. Bruce slowly turned around. His friend was holding a big, gray bag of money in the air and had a broad grin on his face.

“It looks like we got lucky.” Matt said. “Really lucky.”

Bruce couldn’t believe his eyes. Intrigued, he ignored his friend and ran to the back of the van, eager to explore the interior. Three more, smaller bags had fallen out of the vehicle, but those contained coin rolls. A few of them had been ripped; coins were spilled all over the road. Bruce snuck a peek into the van. There were more than a dozen bags of money piled on top of one another, similar in size to the one that Matt had in his grasp and a few smaller ones scattered around them. Both of them suspected where it had come from: A Las Vegas casino.

“Give me some light.” He urged, grabbing the bag closest to him. Matt pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his leather jacket and pointed it at the blue, mechanical seal on top of the bag. The gold logo left them no doubt. It read:

Platinum Gate Casino

“Holy shit.” Bruce whispered. “This can’t be good.”

“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” Matt squealed. “We’re rich!”

“Rich?” Matt snorted, turning to his friend. “Casinos don’t use ordinary vans to move their money, brother. They use armored trucks and they always go in twos. One of them is bait. This money’s stolen, which means that the casino owner is probably looking for it as we speak.”

“Bruce, we found it!” Matt cried, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to take at least some of it!”

“We’re legit now, man!” Bruce yelled. “Do you want to start looking over your shoulder again? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

“This money is going to help us expand our business.” Matt lowered his tone. “I’m not going to gamble it.”

Bruce did not have time to speak his mind. His ears picked up the rumbling sound of a car engine. Neither of them could see any headlights in the vast straight in front of them, but Bruce did not want to risk an encounter with an angry casino owner or his staff.

“Speak of the devil.” He murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

It soon became clear to him that Matt was not going to let this opportunity pass him by. He crawled into the back of the van, as Bruce made his way back to his Harley. As he started the engine, his friend emerged out of the destroyed vehicle, with two of the smaller bags of money in his hands. He sprinted along the road and handed one of them over to Bruce.

“Take it!” He urged, panic lingering in his voice, as the sound of the approaching car got louder. By now, Bruce could see headlights at the far end of the road. The car in question was not alone; two more cars were right behind it. Unfortunately for him, he did not have time to argue with Matt. One car showing up in the middle of nowhere so late at night was weird enough. Their numbers forced him to believe that his theory was correct. They had to leave that place and fast. Bruce snatched the bag away from Matt. He eased it down on the right footrest.

“Do what I did.” Bruce advised. “Keep it out of sight.”

A smile spread across Matt’s face, upon hearing his friend’s words.

“Ok.” He said with a nod, as the unique sound of Bruce’s Harley ripped through the cool, late night air. In a matter of seconds, Bruce Harris and Matt Miller were back on the road, on their way to Sin City. The three cars that he had spotted passed them by, more than half a mile down the road. As much as he wanted to, Bruce could not risk a glance at them. Even though his helmet concealed his face, such thing could draw suspicion.

Knowing that neither of them could show up in Las Vegas with a bag of money with a casino logo on it, Bruce pulled over again more than ten miles away from the spot where the accident had occurred. They used pocket knives to cut through the mechanical seals. Bruce’s bag contained $90,000, whereas Matt’s contained $110,000. The two men took the money and agreed to burn the bags and the seals alike. They could not leave any evidence behind.

“Damn you for making me do this, Matt. I hope I don’t regret it.”