Chapel's Code

PART 1

Chapter 1

10:00 A.M.

A rock the size of a golf ball exploded with a sound like a .45 pistol shot as the steel tread of a rumbling bulldozer passed over it. The bulldozer cut a slowly chugging path along a patchy service road on a brisk September morning in the town of Springdale, Arkansas. The service road ran alongside an overhanging wall of scrub brush and trees with the twisting course of train tracks on the other side. On the far side of the train tracks an old ship yard lay rusting in the early morning gloom. Between the train tracks and the gray rope of French St. lay a long expanse of yellowing field, the grass waving in short hard burst of wind.

French St. carved south through the northern expanse of the middling Arkansas city in an ugly industrial area of town. Rounding a hard right curve that curled to the southwest, the view to the east side of the road was populated by a long row of personal storage structures that stretched chipped, squat, and uniform for almost half a mile. The view on the west side was broken up by sections of field, an unused building that may once have been a grocery store, its asphalt parking lot cracked and lifted in sections, and other smaller buildings uniform in their decay. Peeking through were sections of the yellow field and the train tracks two hundred yards away. The gravel service road was barely visible from French St. and if any early morning travelers noticed the bulldozer, no one paid it any attention.

The bulldozer’s dirty yellow facade rumbled and clanked in the morning stillness as it drove a lonely path with no indication of a destination. Sitting the peak seat was a huge man, his broad shoulders and powerful build embellished by the bluish grey coveralls that bunched and billowed with the wind. Big hands clad in tactical black gloves with hard thermoplastic knuckle plates worked the levers. A white hard hat perched on the driver’s head over wraparound sunglasses and a bandana that obscured the driver’s face. Behind the peak seat sat an imposing assortment of items. A shining plexiglass gas mask with a face plate like some massive insects carapace, a heavy duty set of bolt cutters, and a Colt M733 assault rifle with a tactical shoulder strap coiled beside it.

The big man in the seat of the dozer worked the levers and the dozer made a sudden ninety degree turn to the left, it’s lifted scoop now pointing directly East across the field. The driver put on the break, took off his sunglasses, bandana, and hard hat. Icy blue eyes shone with a predatory light as the big man sat staring across the field, breathing in the crisp air. With short efficient movements, the big man slung the assault rifles strap over his shoulder, tightened it, and let the gun hang. He slipped the black gas mask over his face, pulled a dark hood up over short cropped hair so blonde it was nearly white, and sat back. The big man checked a watch on the inside of his left wrist and patiently studied the grey concrete building with only a chain link fence protecting its exposed rear.

Chapter 2

10:20 A.M.

Tim listened to the drone of the currency counters as they shuttled through massive stacks of bills. Eight currency counters in the main room ran on sporadic bursts stopping at random intervals when bill packets of one hundred bills were collected and continuing when the bills were removed and strapped. Overlaying the drone of the counters was the strident wailing of some current pop princess on the boom box situated on top of the clear plastic and metal partition ringing the currency stations. Tim winced at the needling pain at the base of his fingernails. The flesh there formed in red and irritated humps that pulled away from the nails due to constantly stripping and wrapping rubber bands around the bricks of currency made from ten packets of bills.

Listening with a numb ear, he shook out currency straps in the filling room. In front of him, waiting like mouths hideously forced open at the jaw, were a row of the hard plastic ATM cans waiting for the loose stack of twenty-dollar bills totaling ten-thousand dollars. Tim leaned over the ATM can, forced back the spring-loaded feeder and inserted the bills. He gritted his teeth as the country music station playing on the boom box in his glass lined room switched over to a pinched male voice. Behind him the two people he worked in the small room with, Edgar and Chelsea, continued on with their daily discussion of NASCAR racing.

He went down the line, shutting the ATM cans and signing the service orders on each. The buzzer to the heavy door leading in and out of the room went off as he reached the last one. Like clockwork, Whitney came scuttling out of her room and bounce striding to the door. The woman worked in the Banks room where the old currency was sorted and sold back to the Federal Reserve. Her eyes swam behind the magnified lenses of her glasses, giving her pinched face a constantly inquisitive look. Her hair was down and bounced behind her in a massive eighties glam mullet do. Tim shook his head watching her, stacked the foot and half long ATM cans, and carried them over to the large rolling cart. He looked up to find Whitney’s bulging eyes staring at him from the doorway.

Fed’s here. They want ya’ll out there sortin it.

Edgar and Chelsea locked up the filling room and, with him in tow, moved toward the door leading back into the vault. Tim moved through the door into the vault where the money from the Federal Reserve waited in six deep rolling containers. Tuesday being the biggest day for receiving money from the Fed, funds in excess of fifty million dollars in new bills waited for them to sort and organize. A bag containing only hundred dollar bills neatly strapped and packed in individual bricks caught his eye. Each strap was ten thousand dollars. Each brick of ten straps was one hundred thousand dollars. Pulse building, Tim began lifting forty-pound bags of bricked currency onto a steel flat cart.

10:30 A.M.

Roaring deep in its engine, an armored car parked in the corner of the Lincoln Armored lot started up. It was one of the midsize models with an attached cab and large heavy duty tires. The car had pulled into the lot in the early morning hours during a shift change and parked itself in a far corner. From passing inspection, it looked like any other armored car in the Lincoln Armored fleet that usually parked overnight.

Closer inspection however would reveal that the company logo, identification number, and city I.D. painted on the side were all new additions. The truck, stolen 2 years before from a Wells Fargo lot in Missouri, had been meticulously repainted, but the paint shades were a bit off and the I.D. number a duplicate. Not that the guards or the employees were paying close attention.

As the massive Federal Reserve truck exited along the circle drive from the back of the building, like a great tanker among smaller ships, the driver of the freshly painted armored car pulled his hat lower over wraparound sunglasses. The big vehicle slid from its own spot, tires crunching in the gravel and it started a slow course around a line of cars toward the circle drive and the back of the building.

10:40 A.M.

The big man in the seat of the bulldozer parked behind Lincoln Armored watched as the large Federal Reserve truck exited through the big roll-up door two hundred yards away. He watched the roll up door go back down as the tail end of the large truck disappeared around the side of the building. Icy eyes shifting left, he took in the smaller armored car driving the wrong way along the back of the chain link fence surrounding Lincoln as it made its way to the back of the building.

The big man dropped the bull dozer into drive, heard its engine rev, shifted the levers and got the eight tons of steel moving. Raising the front scoop the big man made small course corrections. His eyes never moved from the sectioned garage door on the other side of the chain link barrier and the small exterior of the fire exit door just to its left.

10:45 A.M.

Pulling one of the three rolling flat carts stacked with currency bags through the door, he felt a hand poke at his shoulder. Easing the heavy cart to a stop, he turned to see

Whitney’s magnified eyes focused on him.

The baby talking yet? Her accent was thick with Arkansas twang and Tim tried to pull his eyes away from the way her teeth all crowded inward.

Nope, Tim said, grunting as he got the cart moving again. Not yet.

Well, he should be soon, how old is he? One? What’d you name him again?

Henry, Tim replied trying to lift the cart, which had a bad wheel and was loaded with close to four hundred pounds worth of currency, closer to the wall so that they could pull the other two carts around it. He glanced in Whitney’s direction hoping the one word answer to her question was enough to satisfy her. He had once spent a nightmarish four months working closely with Whitney when he first started with the company. She possessed the maddening habit of being both fawning and condescending at the same time.

I like that name, you know my brother’s name was Hank? She said following close behind Tim.

Didn’t know that, Tim grunted as he reached under the lip of the cart, picked it up, and set it down six inches closer to the wall. Outside he could hear an engine revving but didn’t give it much thought. The constant sounds of trucks coming and going on the other side of the wall as they moved through the loading bay had become so much background noise to him. There was an off note to this though and had he given it more of his attention he would have realized the noise was coming from the wrong direction, the back of the building instead of the loading bay.

Yeah, he—,

Hey Whitney? A mellow voice said behind them.

Tim turned and saw Karin, the assistant supervisor standing next to the Banks Room door.

Yeah? Whitney said screwing up her face into a cramped, tooth showing grimace Tim took to exhibit confusion.

Did you count all of the bags from CenterBank? We’re coming up short on our receiving list?

The cramp on Whitney’s face deepened and she moved away, taking her room key from her forearm where it jingled on an accordion strap. Shaking her head, her insane hair never even ruffling, Whitney muttered that she had tripled checked the bags. As soon as Whitney and her bridal train of hair disappeared inside the room nearest the fire exit, Karin crossed over to Tim, her Asian features crinkling in a grin.

Sorry, she said, thought you could use a break.

Don’t apologize, Tim replied. I appreciate it. I thought you were heading out early today?

Karin smiled again. She was a few years older than Tim and the only person he enjoyed working with. Karin was on a break from college working to save up enough to pay for her last two years outright. She was pretty in a girl next door way and always had a smile lurking somewhere beneath the surface of her face, ready to rise at the first urging. As she began to reply Tim heard the sound of the revving engine again on the other side of the fire door, building into an intense roar that eclipsed the shuttling money counters and the battling radios.

My dad is coming to pick me up here in a—,

Karin’s words were cut off as a massive jangling crash, followed by the shrieks of scraping metal resounded on the other side of the fire exit door. The image of something huge and heavy plowing into and through the high chain link fence behind the building filled Tim’s mind. Everyone in the room spun in that direction as the sounds of scraping metal continued and they all jumped when a huge crimping bang came from the outer area of the loading bay, reverberating through the whole building. As alarms began to wail, Tim visualized whatever thing it was that had hit the fence continuing on in a straight line and driving directly into the outer roll-up door leading to the loading bay. Whitney came pelting out the Banks Room screaming, her wild hair a mousy brown cloud behind her, and joining the rush as everyone began to move away from the fire exit. Tim only stood staring at the thin steel door twenty feet away on the other side of the room. He could hear shouting voices and a series of piercing cracks that could only be gunfire. There was a sort of shuffling scratching sound from the other side of the door.        

Get back! Back! A distant voice yelled. Five seconds! Five Seconds! Yeah, baby!

Oh, Tim said.

The fire exit door exploded inward in a concussive hail of twisted metal and smoke.

Chapter 3

The world slowly came back into focus in a series of random images, wracking coughs, and a high constant whining like the buzz of a mosquito cranked to a thousand decibels. Through hazy vision, he saw two dark figures come rushing through a bright square of light shrouded in smoke. A dull series of aches pulsed in the small of his back and radiated outwards through his shoulders, up his neck, and reverberated in his skull. A dark figure stood above him emitting a muffled series of sounds that his throbbing mind processed as commands. Lifting his aching head slowly, his vision focused on a black eye six inches from his face that resolved into the barrel of a gun.

MMMET UMPH!! MMET EH KK UMPH!

Wha… Tim thought and new pain exploded in his mid-section as the black figure booted him in the stomach. The world lost focus again as he convulsed around his clenching gut.

UP! On your feet! Move it!

The voice was still muffled but the kick made the volume of the monster mosquito between his ears fade into the background. He held up a hand to the figure standing above him and got up on his hands and knees with a rusty groan. Distantly, Tim could hear another voice yelling and what sounded like screams. The figure standing above him was dressed in head to toe black and grey combat gear, holding a compact assault rifle attached to a shoulder strap. Looking up beyond the gun, Tim felt his confusion double when he saw his own shocked face staring back at him, reflected in the black insectile faceplate of the gas mask the figure wore. A drawstring hood was cinched around the gas mask with no suggestion of a face underneath.

Another of the black shapes came through the blown in fire exit, standing well over six feet tall, dressed in the same combat gear, the newcomer’s voice boomed through the space.

Red! Seal it up! Blue! Round’em up! Find me a One and a Two!

Climbing slowly to his feet, Tim thought, It’s happening, it’s really happening.

Up big boy! Right now! Get over there with the others!

A hard shove propelled him stumbling and shuffling in a random direction. A head that felt like a weighted sponge wobbled and the end of his neck. Watching as the dark figure shouted orders, he tripped into the corridor between the cubicles which housed the counting machines and joined the rest of his coworkers in a huddled clump. A third figure with an assault shotgun and the smaller one that had kicked Tim lined everyone up and shoved them to the ground as the largest of the intruders ran through the space, throwing down black bundles in front of each currency container.

On the ground! NOW! On your knees!

From somewhere behind Tim and beyond the fire exit another voice shouted in to the others.

Calls out! Ten minutes!

Tim wobbled on his feet, looking around at the people he had worked with for so long and seeing them anew. Whitney was all eyes as she cringed between Janice and Mary. Terry, Tim’s supervisor was shaking her head in constant negation. The whining in his ear kept its impossible pitch, throwing off his balance. The room was full of white chalky smoke that stabbed at his eyes.  A rough hand shoved him forward and his knees gave a short bark of pain as they connected with the tile. He watched, numb, as the third man holding the tactical shotgun moved quickly to the vault door and begin digging in a bag slung over his shoulder.

Tim glanced back at the biggest of the thieves threw down the last bundle, unrolling it in a fluid motion. The bundle was actually a large black duffle bags that looked long enough to stuff a person into. The big robber went into the Banks room and began filling a duffel bag with stacks of twenties. The small one stood over Terry with the assault rifle, something years of playing Modern Warfare made Tim think was an M-4 Carbine, pointed at her. 

One Lock! You, on your feet!

Terry stood up blubbering, her words coming in an incoherent mix of pleading cries. The small robber stepped forward and pointed the barrel of the gun into Whitney’s face.

Two-Lock! You! Up! On your feet!

Whitney screamed and whimpered, hiding her face in her hands, shaking her head so fast that her mullet cloud looked like a tornado of brown. In a flash of combat boot, the small robber kicked Whitney in the shoulder, knocking her backwards off of her knees and onto her back causing the woman to shriek. The robber stood over Whitney pointing the gun down at her.

You’ve got two seconds! On your feet! Right NOW!

Edgar started climbing to his feet, shouting, and the robber turned in a flash, slamming the gunstock across Edgar’s face. Edgar collapsed to the ground while the others screamed. Before anyone else could move Karin raised her hands.

I’m a Two-Lock! I’ll go! Karin yelled and although she appeared outwardly calm Tim could see a hectic sort of panic jumping in her dark eyes.

Fine, the small one yelled, Up! You two move over there!

The next instant there was a sizzling flash and Tim turned to watch as the vault door was fused shut from the inside in a flare of light.

What have I done? Tim thought.      

Chapter 4

It all started innocently enough. Tim had been in a bar four months before, the same bar where he had met his wife, drinking away his frustration one cheap beer after another. He had tried to escape his worries after a brutal argument had erupted between them. The cause had been simple enough. Money. It was always money when they fought. Everything else was something that could be coped with, reasoned with. There was no way to cope or reason with a bank account always circling just above zero. His dream of illustrating for a living was slow getting off the ground and he wondered more than once what life really had in store for him.

The Stormcrow, a bar in between the town limits of Fayetteville and Springdale, had been the perfect escape. A place that he could put in the time and effort to enjoy a good sullen drunk.  Tim did it slowly, savoring every drop of amber comfort that drizzled into his system. He was on his fifth beer when a boney, big knuckled hand clapped on his shoulder and a voice said,

Son-of-a-Bitch, if it ain’t, Pepperoni!

Tim turned, the fraternity nickname sending a shiver of hate and old shame through him, and stopped in confusion when he saw the face attached to the arm. The name belonging to the scrawny face, lip ring, and sideways cocked trucker’s hat came back in a flash.

Mason…

That was all it took. Mason threw himself onto the barstool next to Tim; bought him a shot, and Tim forgot how much he used to hate Mason. Mason, who Tim remembered primarily for his habit of sending his knuckle bunched hands up a drunken eighteen year olds shirt when the old parties were winding down, shared stories about his time in the National Guard. Tim was amazed to find himself not only beginning to relax but also actually laughing at the stories. It felt so good to be doing anything that was not stressing constantly about money and work.

As the night and the booze wore on, they moved to a booth. He sat with Mason well past midnight being regaled with stories. The boy Tim remembered as a bit ridiculous and childish still contained all of those old qualities but there had been a new thing that Tim found oddly attractive. There had been an air of danger and menace to Mason. The man