The moment the robber finished relieving himself, he reacted swiftly. With a muffled "Mmmph!", he thrashed against Claire's left hand, which was clamped over his mouth, while his free hand drove a knee hard into Claire's stomach.
"Fuck!" Claire gritted her teeth, tightening her grip. Each brutal knee strike only made her press down harder.
The robber's right hand scrambled for the pistol at his waist—but Claire had seen exactly where it was when she kicked his pants earlier. In one fluid motion, she wrapped her legs around his torso and yanked him backward.
The full weight of a grown man crashing down sent the robber sprawling onto his knees. His fists hammered at Claire's arms, but the thought of her childhood friend in danger drowned out the pain. Her grip around his throat only tightened.
Thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. To Claire, it felt like a lifetime.
Gasping for air, she didn't pause to rest. Dragging the unconscious robber by the collar, she hauled him toward the puddle he'd just made near the dumpster. Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone and dialed [999].
As a Manchester United player, Claire had always liked the symmetry of those numbers. She just never thought she'd need them like this.
The operator answered instantly. "What's your emergency?"
"London Scottish Royal Bank—robbery in progress. If you don't hurry, this place is gonna blow." She deliberately deepened her voice, then hung up before they could respond. Next, she fired off texts to her agent, Costa Majo, and her friend Lucy:
[I've been kidnapped. Need help ASAP. Location: Scottish Royal Bank, London branch.]
She yanked out her phone battery—no rookie mistakes here. No way was she getting caught because of a ringing phone.
As for why she texted Costa instead of her uncle? Simple. She'd just parted ways with Costa, whereas her uncle was probably drunk at some business dinner. Lucy was her backup plan—ever since they'd met, Lucy had no social life. She called Claire every night without fail and visited whenever she had free time.
Now disguised in the robber's clothes (a tight fit, but passable in the dark—if only her legs would stop shaking), Claire crept toward the bank.
A quick glance into the garbage truck's cab revealed nothing but a submachine gun.
Inside, the bank lobby looked eerily normal—just scattered cash on the floor. Following the light, she edged toward the vault, her hand hovering near the stolen pistol at her waist.
The massive vault door stood wide open. How many people get to see this in their lifetime?
Before she could step inside, a booming voice roared:
"Move, move, MOVE! We've got 15 minutes before the system auto-alerts at 3 AM!"
Heart pounding, Claire shuffled in, head down, fingers brushing the gun.
Then—wham! A hand shoved her onto a metal table piled with cash.
"Who the hell's your crew? Quit dragging ass and START PACKING!" A boot slammed into her backside.
Claire didn't look up. She grabbed a black duffel and started stuffing bills, scanning the room from the corner of her eye.
Her stomach dropped.
Twenty armed men. Bulletproof vests. Tactical gear.
But then she caught the edge in their leader's voice—these guys weren't all from the same team. Half probably didn't know each other.
Claire worked faster.
"Come on, boys! One last job, then we retire abroad!" The leader paced, hyping them up. "And since someone mentioned that spicy little actress… yeah, we'll take her with us. Hollywood's on the menu tonight!"
Cheers erupted, some in Spanish. Claire kept her head down.
In under a minute, the bags were full.
"GO! Stick to the plan—move out!"
The group split into three teams. Claire tucked herself at the back. At the garbage truck, each man hurled his bag inside before dispersing.
Claire hesitated—then followed.
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