Gone, Part 3
Yellow. As in piss poor. Rubber ducks. The sun. Lemonade. Flowers. And dead if the man heading into the bank didn’t perform up to snuff. He’d wanted to kill the bait before, had argued for it, but had been overridden. Nobody wanted to listen. Nobody wanted to believe.
It was dangerous to use one piece of bait too long. Too dangerous, not only to the bait – which didn’t matter to him – but to the job. There was always more bait. There wouldn’t be another mission should this one fail.
He drew in a long breath, not looking at the asshole beside him or the rest of the team watching from above; strategically placed around the street corner on which the bank was situated.
“Good afternoon, Mr Marshall. I hope for a productive meeting.”
“I am sure it will be, Mr. Jenkins. I am sure.”
Listened to the sound of walking. The rustle of clothes. The almost silent breath. Checking the bait’s vitals on the machine beside him, he cursed. The bait was going to panic; he’d been waiting for this to happen. You don’t pluck bait from the street and expect them to function in the high-stress situation of a mission. This one had lasted longer than the others. He’d almost believed things would work out this time.
More fool, he.
The sound of a door opening and closing.
“This will be suitable for your review, I hope?”
More rustling. The thump of a briefcase laid upon the table.
“I will call you when I am done.”
“Very well,” the bank manager replied, clearly reluctant to leave. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” the bait said a moment later. “I’ll give you a call.”
Rustle of clothing and the squeak of door hinges opening and closing.
Now, the fun began.