Bert Sara worked at the London branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland.
As a vault custodian who had spent decades guarding the bank's treasures, Bert took great pride in his job—not to mention the hefty paycheck that came with it.
But Bert had one small flaw: he loved to brag.
And not just casual bragging. No, Bert made sure everyone knew he was "the man who handles millions of pounds every day."
As usual, Bert clocked out right on time, whistling a tune as he strolled out of the bank.
"Hey, Mr. Millions! Still smoking Marlboros? I've got some Cuban cigars here if you wanna upgrade."
The cashier's teasing didn't faze Bert. He pulled out a crisp £10 note, tossed it onto the counter, and grabbed his pack of cigarettes.
"Keep the change," he said dismissively before sauntering out.
"Pfft. 'Keep the change'? That's exactly £10, you pompous—"
The cashier's grumbling was cut short when a strikingly handsome police officer flashed her a charming smile.
"Just this pack, please," he said smoothly.
Flustered, the cashier fumbled with the register, taking far longer than necessary to complete the simple transaction.
"Excuse me, miss," the officer asked casually, "was that Bert Sara who just left?"
"Ugh, yes. Thinks he's hot stuff just because he guards a bank vault. Always going on about 'handling millions.'"
When she finally looked up, the handsome officer was already gone.
Outside, the "officer" pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Target confirmed. Move in."
"Copy that. Over."
Bert grumbled under his breath as he climbed into his car. Even though his words were muffled, his irritated expression made it clear they weren't pleasant.
He rolled down the window, turned on the radio, and immediately scowled.
"The Night, The Night, The Night—again?! Don't they know I'm a Man City fan?!"
Yet, despite his complaints, he found himself humming along at the next red light, cigarette dangling from his lips.
The Royal Bank of Scotland's London branch wasn't actually in London's financial district. Due to its unique operations, its headquarters were located northwest of Manchester.
The drive was uneventful—just the usual parade of factories, each of which Bert could name by heart as he passed.
Though he worked at a bank, Bert's specialized role paid well. He even owned a nicely furnished two-story villa in the Manchester suburbs.
Just as he parked and reached for the door handle—
Click.
Something cold pressed against the back of his head.
"Hey there, Mr. Millions. Don't turn around. If you see my face, you won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise."
Bert's blood ran cold.
Damn it.
"We know the Royal Bank has a… special reserve shipment right now. And we'd really appreciate your help."
Bert opened his mouth to protest—
"Ah-ah." The gun nudged harder. "Before you answer… listen closely."
A recording played—his daughter's terrified sobs and a man's voice:
"Sweetheart, wanna say hi to Daddy?"
"Daddy! Help me—"
Bert's hands shot up, his breath ragged. "I-I'll cooperate!"
"Smart man. Play nice, and you'll get your family back unharmed."
"You took my WIFE too?!" Bert's voice cracked.
"Well, if your mum weren't in Ireland, we might've invited her to see her granddaughter too."
After a moment of agonized silence, Bert surrendered.
Money can be earned again. Jobs can be replaced. But family…
Blindfolded, Bert couldn't see where they were taking him—but the sounds gave it away.
Car engines revving. Mechanical whirring. Even the iconic voice of Optimus Prime booming in the distance.
The Transformers set?!
Just last week, the papers had reported that Transformers would be filming additional scenes here.
"Shift change, Mr. Sara. Time to work."
The blindfold came off. Before Bert's eyes could adjust, a gun prodded him forward—straight into the Royal Bank's back entrance.
The moment his keycard unlocked the door, masked gunmen stormed in.
They moved with terrifying precision, bypassing Bert entirely as they marched toward the vault.
Inside, the night manager and 14 security personnel had just finished securing the reserve funds.
"Bert? What are you—"
BANG! A gunshot rang out.
"EVERYBODY DOWN! THIS IS A ROBBERY!"
No one resisted. Hands shot up, and within minutes, the guards were bound and blindfolded.
Bert was dragged to the vault. With trembling fingers, he entered the code.
The door hissed open, revealing stacks of pristine banknotes—including the freshly delivered reserve shipment.
For the next hour, the thieves worked like a well-oiled machine, loading the cash onto a waiting truck.