Nora Opening a Bank Account

I walked into Rocky Valley Savings & Trust on a scorching July afternoon, where the Denver air felt heavy, and my patience felt thin. My heels clicked against the polished tile floor, and I hated how they sounded. The suit I wore—a slate-gray number with sharp lapels—fit well enough to look expensive, but I'd picked it up at a pawnshop that morning. Five bucks. If this went right, I'd return it later.

Inside, the bank was a small, unimpressive place, the kind of operation that catered to local businesses and blue-collar families. Perfect. Fewer guards, fewer cameras, and people who weren't likely to ask questions. I wasn't here for small talk or a checking account—I was here to scope the place out. This was reconnaissance. The kind of work that made the actual job cleaner.

You see, I had already purchased the codes to the vault. If I pulled this off, 20% of the take would go to Michigan Mike. He wanted $500 even if I failed.

The ID in my bag—complete with my smiling face and the name "Elaine Tucker"—was a forgery, but a good one. A Polaroid, a laminating machine, and a guy who knew how to keep his mouth shut were all it took to create a new identity. It wasn't fancy, but it worked, and that was all that mattered.

I paused near the entrance, doing a quick sweep. The security cameras were ancient and mounted too high to get a good look at anyone's face. Rookie mistake. The guard stood by the door, leaning against the wall like he was waiting for his shift to end. He wasn't carrying anything more intimidating than a nightstick. The exits? Two in the front, one marked as an employee-only door at the back.

I strolled up to the receptionist, putting a little warmth in my smile. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, and wore a sweater far too heavy for the season. "Hi there," I said, leaning slightly on the counter as if I were tired from the heat. "I'm thinking of opening an account. I just moved here, so I'm trying to figure out my options."

Her face lit up, eager to help. "Of course! We'd love to have you as a customer. Do you know what kind of account you're looking for?"

"Well," I said, tilting my head like I was genuinely clueless, "what's the minimum balance for your savings accounts? And do you offer safety deposit boxes? You know, for personal valuables?"

Her response was automatic. "The minimum balance is fifty dollars for a standard savings account. As for safety deposit boxes, we do offer them, but the vault is only accessible during bank hours, and you'd need two forms of ID to set one up." She paused, then added, "They're very secure. Our vault is brand-new. Just installed last month."

Her smile said she thought she was being helpful. She was, but not for the reasons she thought. I nodded as though impressed, then let my eyes wander toward the far end of the bank where a heavy steel door marked "Vault" stood. Brand new, huh? Interesting.

I was about to press her with another question when the front doors slammed open behind me. A trio of men stormed in, their mismatched ski masks—one bright green, one black, one blue—making them look more ridiculous than terrifying. Until the guns came out. The one in the green mask shouted first, his voice high-pitched and cracking. "Everybody get on the floor! Now!"

I stayed where I was for a beat too long, long enough to get a good look at them. Green Mask was panicking, his hands shaking as he waved a revolver at the room. Black Mask was the leader—tall, stocky, and barking orders like he thought he was in charge of a military unit. The third guy in the blue mask lingered near the door, holding a shotgun like he wished he were elsewhere.

"Down!" Black Mask bellowed, and I lowered myself to the floor with everyone else. No one paid attention to me, which was exactly what I wanted.

Green Mask fumbled with a teller's drawer, spilling loose bills onto the counter. "Hurry it up!" Black Mask shouted, running over. "Forget the drawers—get someone to open the vault! Jimmy, go check it!"

Jimmy. Blue Mask. He hesitated, then trudged toward the back of the bank, his shoulders slumped like a kid being sent to detention. Amateur hour. I could practically hear the clock ticking down on how long this circus would last before someone hit an alarm or the cops showed up.

And then I saw my opening.

I inched closer to Black Mask, keeping my movements subtle. When he was within reach, I whispered, "You're doing this wrong."

His head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowing behind the slits of his mask. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," I murmured. "You're screwing this up. You're wasting time on the tellers when the real money is in the vault. You need someone who knows what they're doing. I can help you."

For a second, I thought he was going to shoot me right there. Instead, he grabbed my arm—hard—and yanked me to my feet. "Come with me," he said with a growl, dragging me toward the side of the room. To everyone else in the bank, it probably looked like he was taking me as a hostage. Perfect.

He shoved me into a corner and leaned in close, his breath hot and angry through the mask. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

I squared my shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "The person planning to hit this place next week until you idiots showed up and ruined it."

That got his attention. He blinked, his grip on my arm loosening just a fraction. "What?"

"You're sloppy. You're panicking. You don't know how to handle the staff, you're wasting time with the drawers, and Jimmy over there looks like he's going to cry. You're going to get yourselves killed—or worse, caught. But I can fix this for you. If you let me."

Black Mask stared at me, his jaw working like he was chewing on my words. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Fine. You've got one shot. Screw me over, and I'll put a bullet in your head."

I smiled. "Deal."

The vault door loomed ahead, a hulking slab of steel that looked more intimidating than it was. I'd seen one like it before when I worked a job in Chicago. They always looked impossible to crack, but the truth was, most of these newer models were just for show. The real trick wasn't getting the door open—it was convincing the fools around you that only you could do it.

Black Mask marched me toward the vault, still gripping my arm like he thought I might bolt. As if I'd come this far to run. He yanked me to a stop before the keypad next to the door. "Fix it. Now."

"Fix it?" I twisted my arm free and stared at him, incredulous. "What do you think this is, a garage door opener? I can't just 'fix it.' I need the codes."

He took a step back, his gun twitching slightly in his hand. "Then figure it out, smartass."

I rolled my eyes and leaned closer to the keypad, pretending to study it. "Lucky for you, I've done this before. Sort of." That last part was true enough. "But if you want me to open this thing, I'll need help."

He frowned. "What kind of help?"

"Get one of your guys in here to load the money while I handle the door," I said, keeping my voice sharp like I was doing him a favor. "If we're going to make this quick, we need to multitask. You want the big bucks or just the small change up front?"

He hesitated, looking like he wasn't used to anyone talking to him like that. But then he barked toward the front, "Jimmy! Get your ass over here!"

Jimmy shuffled into view a moment later, his shotgun held awkwardly in both hands. He glanced between us, his eyes darting toward the vault. "What's going on?"

"Help her with the vault," Black Mask snapped. "I'll handle the front."

Jimmy looked about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub but didn't argue. He followed me into the vault as I punched a few random numbers into the keypad and hit the green button. A soft click sounded, and the heavy door swung open. Jimmy whistled low. "How'd you do that?"

"Trade secret," I said with a tight smile, stepping aside to let him through. "Start loading the bags. Take the big bills first."

Jimmy moved to the shelves stacked with neat bundles of cash. He grabbed the first bag he saw and began stuffing it full like a kid at a candy store. I followed him in, moving slower. He was too busy fumbling with the cash to notice me grabbing a small stack of twenties and sliding it into the inner pocket of my blazer. Another stack of hundreds went into my handbag. No need to get greedy—just enough to make this trip worth it.

"Hey, speed it up," I said as Jimmy fumbled a few stacks. "We don't have all day."

"Y-yeah, okay," he stammered, stuffing another handful of bills into the bag. Sweat dripped down his forehead, soaking the edge of his ski mask. "You think the cops are coming?"

I smirked but didn't answer. Instead, I moved to the vault door, pretending to inspect the hinges. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on the door. You finish loading up. Don't waste time on the small bills."

Jimmy grunted something as he continued filling his bag.

Behind me, the door groaned slightly. I stepped back, watching as the mechanism began to click into place. "Hey, Jimmy," I said, calming my voice as I stepped toward the exit.

"What?" he asked, glancing up from the bag.

"You're doing great. Keep it up." I turned and slipped through the doorway as the vault door swung closed with a heavy, echoing clunk.

Jimmy's panicked shout followed me. "Hey! What the hell? What—HEY!"

I didn't look back.

By the time I stepped back into the main lobby, Black Mask was still barking orders at the tellers while Green Mask hovered near the front door, his gun pointed uselessly at the floor. Neither of them seemed to notice the vault door had sealed shut—or that I was already heading toward the exit with my small haul tucked neatly under my arm.

The cool air hit me as I slipped out the back door. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

Let them have their little fiasco. I had what I needed. And by the time they figured out they'd been played, I'd be halfway across Denver, returning this suit to the pawnshop and counting my cut.