Hard Revolution

He was turning the unmarked in the middle of the street when the 211 came over the radio, describing a robbery in progress at the Capitol Savings and Loan, up near the District line.

Vaughn grabbed the portable magnetic beacon light sitting on the passenger floorboard beside him. He put the cherry out the window and onto the roof, its power wire lying across his lap. He hit the siren and light switches on the console before him. He pegged the gas. The Ford lifted from the power surge. It fishtailed on the lane change as Vaughn swerved to avoid hitting a D.C. Transit bus.

STRANGE, ON THE shotgun side of the squad car, was the first to spot the black Nova in a space out front of the Capitol Savings and Loan. Exhaust drifted up over its trunk line.

“Slow down a little, Troy,” said Strange.

“What’s up?”

“Just slow it down.”

Strange had learned from the bulletin that the plates were stolen and their numbers unknown. But he could make out the full head of wavy black hair on the man behind the Nova’s wheel.

“Pull over,” said Strange. “We got a hit on that all-points.”

They were on Georgia, well past the bank now, directly in front of the A amp;P.

Troy took the Ford over to the curb as Strange radioed in the sighting. He was instructed by the voice on the other end to wait for backup. He ten-foured the desk man and cradled the mic.

Peters looked over his shoulder at the Nova and the bank. He looked at Strange.

“What now?” said Strange.

“You heard the man,” said Peters. “Won’t be but a minute or two before backup comes.”

Peters pulled his service revolver from the swivel holster of his gun belt, freed the cylinder, checked the load, and snapped the cylinder back in place. Strange did the same. He opened his dump pouch and checked it for backup rounds as well. Both had done this before leaving the station. Their nerves told them to do it again.

They heard the siren of a car approaching from the south.

They heard the unmistakable pops of a handgun and the roar of a shotgun blast come from the far end of the shopping center. Before they could gather their thoughts, the shotgun sounded again. Light flashed through the plate glass of the bank.

Peters pulled down on the transmission arm and gave the Ford gas as Strange flip-switched the sirens and the cherries, keyed the mic, and reiterated the certainty of the 211. Peters swung into the lot of the A amp;P, braked, skidded to a stop, and slammed the trans into park.

“Take it,” said Peters.

“Take what, goddamnit?”

“Stay with the vehicle. Get out and take cover on your side of the car.”

Peters drew his sidearm as he opened the door of the squad car and moved across the lot in a crouch. He made it to the doors of the A amp;P, opened one, stood in the frame, and shouted something to a worker inside. The young man came forward and positioned himself near the entrance, his hands out in a “stop” position, warning customers who were attempting to leave to stay back. Peters put his back against the exterior wall of the supermarket and cautiously edged his way in the direction of the bank.

Strange got out on the passenger side of the squad car, drew his.38, rested his gun arm on the roof of the car, straightened it, and aimed the gun at the bank. He moved his aim to the windshield of the Nova. He shouted at the man behind the wheel, who he recognized as Dominic Martini, to get out of the vehicle and lie down on the pavement. Martini looked at him blankly and did not move.

Strange heard the cry of tires and the whoop of a siren. Behind him, Frank Vaughn’s unmarked entered the lot.

BUZZ STEWART’S PLAN was for him and Shorty to show the guns immediately, state their intent to use them, and make a lot of noise, scaring the tellers and security guard into instant submission. Because it was a simple plan, he knew it was one Hess could follow.

Hess entered first and cross-drew his.38s. Stewart pulled the shotgun from its harness before the door closed behind him, locking both hammers back.

“Eyes on me!” shouted Hess.

“This is a robbery!” shouted Stewart. “Hands up!”

Stewart put one hand around the shortened barrel, the other inside the guard, his forefinger grazing the dual triggers. He pointed the shotgun in the general direction of the tellers, their heads, shoulders, and torsos visible through the bars of their cages, their mouths open, their faces gone pale, and the two customers, a middle-aged man and a young woman, standing before them.

“Don’t nobody move or touch no buttons!” shouted Hess, pointing one.38 at the white-haired security guard and the other at the bank manager, a thin, balding man behind a desk.

All did as instructed. All put their hands up, and none moved or spoke.

“Keep ’em up, grandpa,” said Hess, stepping to the old man in the dark blue uniform, as he holstered one of the.38s and pointed the other at the man’s face. The old man’s spotted hands, raised in the air, shook, and his mouth worked at words without sound. Hess unsnapped the old man’s holster strap and pulled his.45. Hess slipped it, butt leaned to the right, into the waistband of his jeans. He redrew the second.38. “Now lie on your belly and put your face to the floor.”

The old security guard did as he was told. He grunted as he went to his knees and then his stomach.

The bank was small, with a marble floor and three teller cages behind a marble counter and brass bars. Behind the tellers was the vault, the door of which was closed. To one side of the lobby was the business and reception area, carpeted in green, where the balding manager now sat, his hands up, behind a cherrywood desk. In the center of the lobby was a marble island holding black pens on chains and topped with a slotted wooden rack housing deposit slips, withdrawal slips, and envelopes.

A customer stood at the island with his hands up. His name was Alex Koutris. Koutris was an American citizen born on Naxos, an island off the coast of Greece. He was a medium-height, medium-build forty-six-year-old man with a dark mustache who co-owned a small diner in a rough neighborhood downtown. He came on at five o’clock for the night shift and worked until closing, leaving his place with the day’s cash at three a.m., when he walked through an unlit alley to his car. He carried a gun for protection. He had survived Guadalcanal and other fierce campaigns in the Second World War and was comfortable with the weapon. He was here to make his daily deposit before going into work. An envelope holding three hundred dollars was on the island before him. He had stood ten hours behind a counter to earn it, which made the money real. His gun, a snub-nosed.38, lay free in the side pocket of his yellow Peters jacket.

“Cash in the bags!” shouted Stewart, stepping around the wall, kicking open a swinging gate hinged in the middle of a fence. He stood behind the tellers, moving the shotgun from one to another, one woman and two men, all young.

They worked quickly, pulling the folding money from their cash drawers and placing it in white cloth bags they drew from under the counter.

“Thirty seconds!” shouted Stewart. “I will use this shotgun.”

The female teller stopped working, stood straight, and staggered. She lost her feet and fell to the marble floor. Her head made a hollow sound as it hit the floor. A circle of urine darkened her spring green skirt, fa

“What’s goin’ on?” said Hess, moving his guns catlike from the guard to the manager to the calm-looking man at the island, who was staring at him with no fear or expression at all on his face.

“Girl fainted, is all,” said Stewart. He pointed the shotgun at one of the two remaining tellers and swept the barrel to the fallen woman. “Finish what she was doin’,” he said. “Move!”