Falling For The MOB

Asher

"Two minutes away!" Leonel's voice echoed through the radio, eliciting a grin from me. Liberation. That's what was approaching, just two minutes away. It may be labeled as an armored truck by others, but to me, it symbolized much more.

The device in my hand crackled with static before Martin's voice followed, confirming our readiness.

We damn well better be ready. The cash stashed in that truck meant independence. No more answering to anyone, no more being at the mercy of some jerk giving orders. But it was all contingent on this working out.

Suppressing the surge of adrenaline coursing through me, I positioned myself behind a cedar tree by the roadside, the cold touch of metal under my fingertips. Across from me, barely discernible in the darkness, Martin had already assumed his position, his focus fixed on the timer in his hand.

I admired Martin's composure at times like these. He remained unfazed, despite knowing the risks and stakes involved. After five years in the Army, he was unshakeable. Not that he was ever one to panic. He was my cousin, and I'd known him for most of my thirty-three years. He desired this as much as I did. Like me, he refused to be a lackey or a pawn for some mob boss. Who wanted to do all the dirty work and take the fall for someone else? And for what, meager pay? A pat on the back? Both were utterly worthless. There had to be a better way.

To gain respect, to carve our niche in the New York underworld, we didn't have to pull the trigger ourselves. All we needed was enough money, enough influence, to hire some lackey to do it for us. To manipulate them for our own gain. Then we'd be in control. Or, fine, I'll admit it, I'd be in control. But Martin and Leonel were fine with that. It's how it's always been. Unlike the losers we'd sometimes worked for, I wasn't a jerk. Usually.

We functioned seamlessly as a team, each with our designated role. This heist required meticulous planning. For the past three months, Martin, Leonel, and I had pored over every detail.

Martin, with his military expertise, handled the weaponry and strategy. Leonel wasn't much of a strategist, but he possessed a knack for thinking outside the box, improvising when necessary. We needed his quick thinking tonight, or we risked ending up dead or behind bars. Both outcomes were equally undesirable.

After months of preparation, we had mapped out the armored truck's precise route from Vegas to New York. I'd randomly quizzed Martin on the truck's location countless times, and without fail, he knew.

In the end, we pinpointed four prime spots where the truck was most vulnerable, and a slew of places to avoid. Urban centers and highways were off-limits; too many witnesses, too many complications. One wrong move, and instead of a hefty payout, we'd be facing prison time. Screw that.

Naturally, we encountered a few obstacles along the way. Firstly, Leonel practically lit up whenever the word "Vegas" was mentioned. The idea of running an illicit operation in Sin City had occupied his thoughts for who knows how long. He believed it to be uncharted territory, and oddly enough, he was correct. There were scant crews operating in Las Vegas. The mafia had steered clear of that area for the past three decades or so, and for good reason. Others were in control. By "others," I meant corporations—giants capable of purchasing the entire state of Nevada. Companies with the power and will to mobilize the entire police force if anyone dared to interfere with them. The mafia hadn't dared to challenge them for quite some time. But this armored truck was in our domain, and we intended to exploit that fact to the fullest.

I tightened my grip on my firearm, straining to catch the sound of an approaching engine. Moonlight filtered through the trees, and all I could hear was some bird—probably an owl. Martin would likely identify it, but I wasn't exactly a nature enthusiast. My place was in the city. Hopefully, I'd soon be returning with a hefty sum of cash.

A quick glance at my watch indicated it was ten past twelve. The armored truck was less than a mile away. We had observed it passing by this spot three times in the last three weeks, each time disguised as a different food delivery truck. Any seasoned individual in this line of work could see through the charade, but they persisted with the feeble disguise. The first time, it masqueraded as a pizza delivery vehicle. The second time, a taco truck. Martin found amusement in that since half the menu items on the truck were misspelled. The third time, they attempted a Korean theme. None of us were knowledgeable enough about Korean cuisine to discern if the spelling was correct.

Their insistence on sticking to one route was foolish, but advantageous for us. A grim smile spread across my face as I heard the awaited sound—the roar of the powerful diesel engine drawing nearer, causing the ground to tremble.

"Showtime," I muttered into the radio, abandoning the cover of the trees. Stepping into the middle of the road, the truck's headlights illuminated my ski-mask covered head. Although I couldn't yet see the driver's face, I sensed the shift in the engine as he likely released the accelerator, torn between stopping or plowing through me. I was prepared for either outcome, standing my ground.

The truck slowed, and I knew the driver had caught sight of the high-powered assault rifle aimed directly at him. Through the scope, I could see him now. While technically Martin was the superior marksman, I had this jerk in my sights as if he had a bullseye on his forehead. From the bead of sweat visible through the scope, he knew it too, and the hefty vehicle came to a halt.