More than once I've seen a van with a sign that says 'Executive Services' and nothing else. It makes me wonder what the hell they're up to.
The van (“Executive Service, quality since 1977!”) moved sedately through the industrial area making full, unhurried stops at each stop sign, and signaling every turn with fully functional, undamaged turn signals. The driver had done two walkarounds and checked the blinker fluid before the job. There was nothing about the van that would arouse suspicion in even the most dickish cop.
It turned into a gated warehouse. The driver waved a card at a box and the gate opened. Still moving carefully, it pulled up to a roll door that was opened with the same card. The van drove into the warehouse and the door closed behind it.
The five passengers sat still until the door had completely closed.
The driver drummed the steering wheel and bounced in her seat.
The Mob guy let out a deep sigh and crossed himself.
The big shooter let his back touch the seat and whistled the spaghetti western thing.
The really big shooter closed his eyes and rubbed his palms together.
The smart guy, in the back seat with the bag, caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view and nodded.
“Nice work. Let’s meet in the office and start wrapping this up.”
The smart guy ran the crew even though the Mob guy had funded the job. The Mob guy had known about the place and the thing, but the smart guy put the plan together.
The crew unassed the van and made their way to the office in the corner of the warehouse. The Mob guy cleared his throat.
“Look, guys, I’d feel better if youse’d give me youse’s pieces right now. I wanna get ridda ‘em, you know, ASAfuckin’P.”
The crew grumbled a bit but handed over the weapons the Mob guy had provided. The Mob guy nodded happily.
“Tanks, youse guys.”
The Mob guy took the weapons to the tool room to strip them and drop the parts into an acid bath. The rest of the crew went to the office to wait for him.
The wait was shorter than expected.
The Mob guy slammed into the office with an unstripped, not-eaten-by-acid gun in each hand.
“You stupid redneck fucks! La famiglia is gonna get 100% of this job!”
The shooters crouched and reached for their holdouts. The driver and the smart guy had each taken a position in the back corners of the office and faced the door as soon as the crew had entered. Both had a small, easily concealed handgun ready. The Mob guy fired, but that two-gun shit never works and he hit no one. The driver and the smart guy emptied their clips into the Mob guy.
He went down like the sack of shit that he was.
When the bullets stopped the shooters moved quickly and, without even being asked to, shot the Mob guy in the head. Then they turned and took aim on the driver and the smart guy.
The smart guy held up a hand.
“Shane, Wooley, easy. Fade and I aren’t the ones who just tried to cornhole you, are we? Guido’s gone now, so we got no problem, right?”
Fade batted her eyes. Wooley snorted and lowered his gun, but Shane kept the trigger tight and jutted his jaw.
“Damn it, Sand. What the fuck, man! You fuckin’ knew, man! YOU! FUCKING! KNEW!”
“Take a breath, Shane. I didn’t know. I suspected. You know those Mob guys can’t be trusted. And I’d rather be safe than dead, so Fade and I worked up this contingency plan.”
Shane lowered his gun.
“Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me, man?”
“No offense, Wooley, but I don’t know you that well. And Shane…have you ever won at poker?”
“All right, man. I’m sorry. You the smart guy.”
“Yeah. Now y’all get rid of these guns and this body and I’ll call my fence. Stay cool and we’ll have this dealt with today. A’ight?”
The crew were each 180K richer and out of town by the next morning.