| Chapter
One
BRIANNE
PARKER didnĖt look like a bank robber or a murderer * her pleasantly
plump baby face fooled everyone. But she knew that she was ready
to kill if she had to this morning. She would find out for sure
at ten minutes past eight.
The
twenty-four-year-old woman wore khakis, a powder blue University
of Maryland windbreaker, and scuffed white Nike sneakers. None of
the early-morning commuters noticed her as she walked from her dented
white Acura to a thick stand of evergreen trees, where she hid.
She
was outside the Citibank in Silver Spring, Maryland, just before
eight. The branch was scheduled to open in ninety seconds. She knew
from her talks with the Mastermind that it was a freestanding bank
with two drive-through lanes. It was surrounded by what he called
big-box stores: Target, PETsMART, Home Depot, Circuit City.
At
eight oĖclock on the dot, Brianne approached the bank from her hiding
place in the evergreens under a colorful billboard obnoxiously offering
McDonaldĖs breakfast to the public. From that angle she couldnĖt
be seen by the female teller who was just opening the glass front
door and had momentarily stepped outside.
A
few strides from the teller, she slipped on a rubbery President
Clinton mask, one of the most popular masks in America and probably
the one hardest to trace. She knew the bank tellerĖs name, and she
spoke it clearly as she pulled out her gun and pressed it against
the small of the womanĖs back.
"Inside,
Ms. Jeanne Galetta. Then turn around and lock the front door again.
WeĖre going to see your boss, Mrs. Buccieri."
Her
short speech at the entrance to the bank was scripted, word for
word, even the pauses. The Mastermind said it was crucial that a
bank robbery proceed in a specific order, almost by rote.
"I
donĖt want to kill you, Jeanne. But I will if you donĖt do everything
I say, when I say it. ItĖs your turn to talk now, darling. Do you
understand what IĖve just told you so far?"
Jeanne
Galetta nodded her head of short brown hair so vigorously that her
wire-rimmed glasses nearly fell off. "Yes, I do. Please donĖt hurt
me," she gasped. She was in her late twenties, attractive in a suburban
sort of way, but her blue polyester pantsuit and sensible stack-heeled
shoes made her look older.
"The
managerĖs office. Now, Ms. Jeanne. If IĖm not out of here in eight
minutes, you will die. IĖm serious. If IĖm not out of here in eight
minutes, you and Mrs. Buccieri die. DonĖt think I wonĖt do it because
IĖm a woman. I will shoot you both like dogs.
Chapter
Two
SHE
LIKED THIS AURA OF POWER and she really liked the new respect she
was suddenly getting at the bank. As she followed the trembling
teller past the two Diebold ATMs and then through the meeter-greeter
area of the lobby, Brianne thought about the precious seconds she
had already taken. The Mastermind had been explicit about the tight
schedule for the robbery. He had repeated over and over that everything
depended on perfect execution.
Minutes
matter, Brianne.
Seconds
matter, Brianne.
It
even matters that it's Citibank we've chosen to hit today, Brianne.
The
robbery had to be exact, precise, perfect. She got it, she got it.
The Mastermind had planned it on what he called "a numerical scale
of 9.9999 out of 10."
With
the heel of her left hand, Brianne shoved the teller into the manager's
office. She heard the low hum of a computer coming from inside.
Then she saw Betsy Buccieri sitting behind her big executive-style
desk.
"You
open up your safe every morning at five past eight, so open it for
me," she screamed at the manager, who was wide-eyed with surprise
and fear. "Open it. Now!"
"I
can't open the vault," Mrs. Buccieri protested. "The vault is automatically
opened by a computer signal from the main office in Manhattan. It
never happens at the same time."
The
bank robber pointed to her own left ear. She signaled with her finger
for Mrs. Betsy Buccieri to listen. To listen to what, though? "Five,
four, three, two -" Brianne said. Then she reached for the phone
on the manager's desk. It rang. Perfect timing.
"It's
for you," Brianne said, her voice slightly muffled by the rubbery
President Clinton mask. "You listen carefully." She handed the phone
to Mrs. Buccieri, but she knew the exact words the bank manager
would hear, and who the speaker was.
The
scariest voice of all for the bank manager to hear was not that
of the Mastermind making very real but idle-sounding threats, but
someone even better. Scarier.
"Betsy,
it's Steve. There's a man here in our house. He has a gun pointed
at me. He says that unless the woman in your office leaves the bank
with the money by eight-ten exactly, Tommy, Anna, and I will be
killed.
"It's
eight-oh-four." The phone line suddenly went dead. Her husband's
voice was gone.
"Steve?
Steve!" Tears flowed into Betsy Buccieri's eyes and rolled down
her cheeks. She stared at the masked woman and couldn't believe
this was happening. "Don't hurt them. Please. I'll open the vault
for you. I'll do it now. Don't hurt anyone."
Brianne
repeated the message the bank manager had already heard. "Eight-ten
exactly. Not one second later. And no stupid bank tricks. No silent
alarms. No dye packs."
"Follow
me. No alarms," Betsy Buccieri promised. She almost couldn't think.
Steve, Tommy, Anna. The names rang loudly in her head.
They
arrived at the door of the bank's Mosler vault. It was 8:05.
"Open
the door, Betsy. We are on the clock. We're losing time. Your family
is losing time. Steve, Anna, little Tommy, they could all die."
It
took a little less than two minutes for Betsy Buccieri to get into
the vault, which was a polished steel thing of beauty with pistons
like a locomotive. Stacks of money were plainly visible on nearly
all the shelves --- more money than Brianne had ever seen in her
life. She snapped open two canvas duffel bags and began filling
them with the cash. Mrs. Buccieri and Jeanne Galetta watched her
take the money in silence. She liked seeing the fear and respect
for her on their faces.
As
she'd been instructed to, Brianne counted off the minutes as she
filled the duffel bags. "Eight-oh-seven . . . eight-oh-eight...
" Finally, she was finished with her part in the vault.
"I'm
locking you both inside the vault. Don't say one word or I'll shoot
you, then lock your dead bodies up."
She
hoisted the black duffel bags. "Don't hurt my husband or my baby,"
Betsy Buccieri begged. "We did what you ---"
Brianne
slammed the heavy metal door on Betsy Buccieri's desperate plea.
She yanked her President Clinton mask from her sweaty face.
She
was running late. She walked across the lobby, unlocked the front
door with plastic-gloved hands, and went outside. She felt like
running as fast as she could to her car, but she walked calmly,
as if she didn't have a care in the world on this fine spring morning.
She was tempted to pull out her six-shooter and put a hole into
the big Egg McShit staring down on her. Yeah, she had an attitude,
all right.
When
she got to the Acura, she checked her watch: 52 seconds past 8:10.
And counting. She was late - but that was the way it was supposed
to be. She smiled.
She
didn't call Errol at the Buccieri house where Steve, Tommy, and
the nanny, Anna, were being held. She didn't tell him she had the
money and she was safely in the Acura. She had been told not to
by the Mastermind. The hostages were supposed to die.
Excerpted
from ROSES ARE RED (c) Copyright 2000 by James Patterson. Reprinted
with permission from Warner Vision & Co. All rights reserved.
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