THE BANK JOB
DOUG MACRAY STOOD INSIDE the rear door of the bank, breathing deeply through his mask. Yawning, that was a good sign. Getting oxygen. He was trying to get amped up. Breaking in overnight had left them with plenty of downtime to sit and eat their sandwiches and goof on each other and get comfortable, and that wasn’t good for the job. Doug had lost his buzz—the action, fear, and momentum that was the cocktail of banditry. Get in, get the money, get out.
His father talking, but fuck it, on this subject the old crook was right. Doug was ready for this thing to fall.
He swung his head side...