Although he completely evaded the Guardians and although he found a way to minimize the impact of the cameras and even though he rendered the entire security force at Calvary Fellowship Church dysfunctional and even though he actually came into possession of the money, things hadn’t gone strictly to Hatchet’s plan. One death, one betrayal, and one unforeseen but monumental detail would destroy every preparation he had made for his life after the crime and of course, Hatchet would never be the same person he had been the night before he unleashed his calculated pandemonium on the mega church at the edge of town.
Just as planned, at 3am the Sunday morning after the Black and White show, Hatchet met the eighteen-year-old Dog Boy named Clancey at the end of an alley up the hill from Calvary Fellowship Church. Clancey’s grin, blackened by neglect and methamphetamines, filled with danger, clued anyone who encountered him that his eighteen years had been fast and unhitched from any scantling of discipline. Hatchet chose the tattooed Clancey for his similarity in height and build. He handed Clancey a dark hoodie and ski mask just like his own. Clancey pulled the hoodie over his studded black leather then beanie-rolled the mask high over his dirty gunmetal hair.
Hatchet ran down a short checklist with the delinquent and then double checked his huge bulky shoulder bag. It weighed well over a hundred pounds. The two made their way down the hill across a vacant section of Calvary’s land until they reached the north parking lot. They stopped and knelt in a drainage ditch some six feet from the curb so Hatchet could review several more details. Clancey framed the picture of a seasoned petty criminal. Hatchet noted the lack of any shaking limbs or accelerated breathing. They sat completely still as they scanned the lot for the night watchman on patrol in the small truck. If the single watchman was patrolling the lot then the camera booth sat vacant.
The truck made the turn south, moving at less than ten miles per hour, hugging the border of lawn and landscape between the lot and the church. Hatchet and the boy tracked it as it moved beyond their parallel position approximately seventy-five yards from the huge domed building looming like a mountain against the night sky. This was the shortest distance to the Worship Center and the least visible stretch through the camera capped lamp towers that appeared to Clancey like strange African trees. They moved at a paired sprint through the pinkish candy hue of the lot, their path through the gradient of shadows designed to mask their number. They reached the concrete walk but clung to the surface of the lot and traced the perimeter fenced with cylindrical concrete barriers until they reached the heavy exit door that led into the corridor where Hatchet could access the counting room.
Just as planned, at 3am the Sunday morning after the Black and White show, Hatchet met the eighteen-year-old Dog Boy named Clancey at the end of an alley up the hill from Calvary Fellowship Church. Clancey’s grin, blackened by neglect and methamphetamines, filled with danger, clued anyone who encountered him that his eighteen years had been fast and unhitched from any scantling of discipline. Hatchet chose the tattooed Clancey for his similarity in height and build. He handed Clancey a dark hoodie and ski mask just like his own. Clancey pulled the hoodie over his studded black leather then beanie-rolled the mask high over his dirty gunmetal hair.
Hatchet ran down a short checklist with the delinquent and then double checked his huge bulky shoulder bag. It weighed well over a hundred pounds. The two made their way down the hill across a vacant section of Calvary’s land until they reached the north parking lot. They stopped and knelt in a drainage ditch some six feet from the curb so Hatchet could review several more details. Clancey framed the picture of a seasoned petty criminal. Hatchet noted the lack of any shaking limbs or accelerated breathing. They sat completely still as they scanned the lot for the night watchman on patrol in the small truck. If the single watchman was patrolling the lot then the camera booth sat vacant.
The truck made the turn south, moving at less than ten miles per hour, hugging the border of lawn and landscape between the lot and the church. Hatchet and the boy tracked it as it moved beyond their parallel position approximately seventy-five yards from the huge domed building looming like a mountain against the night sky. This was the shortest distance to the Worship Center and the least visible stretch through the camera capped lamp towers that appeared to Clancey like strange African trees. They moved at a paired sprint through the pinkish candy hue of the lot, their path through the gradient of shadows designed to mask their number. They reached the concrete walk but clung to the surface of the lot and traced the perimeter fenced with cylindrical concrete barriers until they reached the heavy exit door that led into the corridor where Hatchet could access the counting room.
Edit 11.10.2018