One pin and then two pins Hatchet pulled from the pill bottle shapes of the M18s and he reached through the opening and rolled them across the floor. Within seconds, they began hissing a nauseating yellow bank of chemical fog that filled the room. He then removed a two-liter bottle three-quarter filled with water and poured in crushed dry ice then capped the bottle and tossed it into the room. He did this two more times with two more bottles, using every trace of the ice in the final container then he slid down the chute to the pipe. He uninstalled it then slid to the outlet at the bottom where, after wrestling the cash and pipe into his shoulder bag, the pin light vibrating the shiny surfaces of the chute, he went to jimmy the spring on the latch.
But this latch was different. This was not the same style he had discussed with the fellow who had installed them, not the same latch at the top of the chute. The spring wasn’t exposed. The mechanics of it encased, the wedge-shaped bolt was the only part of the latch Hatchet could access. Fuck! he whispered and tried several times to pry open the tiny pocket to get at the guts. With time he could’ve cracked it open and worked the spring but he didn’t have any time. He tried to jam the tonto-blade into the keeper and pry the bolt out but the spring was too strong.
That’s when the first plastic bottle in the counting room succumbed to the pressure built in it by the sublimation of the frozen carbon dioxide. The explosion rattled the chute around him. Hatchet knew he couldn’t tinker with the latch any longer so he wound his knee to his chin and let go with all his strength. Once didn’t do it. It took three solid strikes to snap the bolt and the door flung open.
He found himself on the floor of the sally port in the empty garage. The huge overhead door was open and the air was no longer a fluorescent green but a wild rodeo of red and blue emergency lights.
He stood in the clear plastic case, stunned by the sight of a fire truck and an ambulance parked just outside. A curtain of perspiration soaked the spine of his janitorial uniform. But the space was empty of any personnel so he slapped a ball cap onto his head and opened the sally port and heaved the shoulder bag into the gray garbage can, tilted the dolly back and began pushing it across the floor to the huge opening, his stiffened legs faltering as he went.
The service elevator opened behind him as a blue-shirted paramedic came bounding past him from the other side of the ambulance.
He kept pushing.
A voice called out to someone. The sound of the second explosion funneled down the chute into the echo chamber of the garage, freezing the paramedic in his tracks. Hatchet glanced over his shoulder at the strange group of people in all manner of garb in the open elevator standing over a body. They all stood statuesque in the box as if parts of some weird museum diorama. The third bomb popped as the two Guardians in the elevator bolted from the box to the adjacent door and the set of stairs that would take them two flights back to the counting room. He heard one of them pumping the word, Go, go, go! the way he’d always guessed gung-ho military types yelled at one another.
He pushed the dolly and can through the opening, made the turn into the black shadow just outside and traveled the dark fold to the edge of the building. He reached for the shoulder strap and slung the bag over him, leaving the dolly and can in the dark. He imagined a clumsy plague of Guardians with weapons drawn, agaze at the smoke fattened doorway of the counting room, maybe yelling, maybe arguing. Wakes of vulturine sirens swooped across the open expanse of the clear night as he felt a sudden rush of strength in the realization that he might have won the day. He made the hill to snake under a chain link fence spanning a wide gutter that led into the alley that led back to his truck.
But this latch was different. This was not the same style he had discussed with the fellow who had installed them, not the same latch at the top of the chute. The spring wasn’t exposed. The mechanics of it encased, the wedge-shaped bolt was the only part of the latch Hatchet could access. Fuck! he whispered and tried several times to pry open the tiny pocket to get at the guts. With time he could’ve cracked it open and worked the spring but he didn’t have any time. He tried to jam the tonto-blade into the keeper and pry the bolt out but the spring was too strong.
That’s when the first plastic bottle in the counting room succumbed to the pressure built in it by the sublimation of the frozen carbon dioxide. The explosion rattled the chute around him. Hatchet knew he couldn’t tinker with the latch any longer so he wound his knee to his chin and let go with all his strength. Once didn’t do it. It took three solid strikes to snap the bolt and the door flung open.
He found himself on the floor of the sally port in the empty garage. The huge overhead door was open and the air was no longer a fluorescent green but a wild rodeo of red and blue emergency lights.
He stood in the clear plastic case, stunned by the sight of a fire truck and an ambulance parked just outside. A curtain of perspiration soaked the spine of his janitorial uniform. But the space was empty of any personnel so he slapped a ball cap onto his head and opened the sally port and heaved the shoulder bag into the gray garbage can, tilted the dolly back and began pushing it across the floor to the huge opening, his stiffened legs faltering as he went.
The service elevator opened behind him as a blue-shirted paramedic came bounding past him from the other side of the ambulance.
He kept pushing.
A voice called out to someone. The sound of the second explosion funneled down the chute into the echo chamber of the garage, freezing the paramedic in his tracks. Hatchet glanced over his shoulder at the strange group of people in all manner of garb in the open elevator standing over a body. They all stood statuesque in the box as if parts of some weird museum diorama. The third bomb popped as the two Guardians in the elevator bolted from the box to the adjacent door and the set of stairs that would take them two flights back to the counting room. He heard one of them pumping the word, Go, go, go! the way he’d always guessed gung-ho military types yelled at one another.
He pushed the dolly and can through the opening, made the turn into the black shadow just outside and traveled the dark fold to the edge of the building. He reached for the shoulder strap and slung the bag over him, leaving the dolly and can in the dark. He imagined a clumsy plague of Guardians with weapons drawn, agaze at the smoke fattened doorway of the counting room, maybe yelling, maybe arguing. Wakes of vulturine sirens swooped across the open expanse of the clear night as he felt a sudden rush of strength in the realization that he might have won the day. He made the hill to snake under a chain link fence spanning a wide gutter that led into the alley that led back to his truck.
Edit 11.12.2018