Oscar's Point of View
The diamond job was behind us; now, gold was the target.
Father's focus was intense, his ears and eyes glued to some conversations that took place between a man and a woman. All thanks to our new surveillance systems that made it easy for father.
The woman, according to him, was the widow of a gold miner who had died years ago in a mining accident. The man left behind two sons and a daughter. Consequently, the mining company's general manager had issued a compensation warrant: gold bars valued at sixty-five million dollars, intended for the family.
That was five years ago, father's research revealed. However, the individual responsible for delivering the gold had deliberately delayed its transfer, intending to embezzle the funds.
Finally, after half a decade, the documents to finalize the money were being taken to the widow's residence – a mere formality for her to witness the documents and sign. She signed, trusting the promise that the gold would be converted to cash and delivered to her.
Two years had passed since then, and the money never had been transferred to her. Now, the embezzler was planning his escape from America to Cuba in two days, and Father tasked us with retrieving what was rightfully hers.
The day of the retrieval arrived. I was behind the wheel, with Vesta, my unpredictable sister, beside me.
We had two cars trailing the van carrying the stolen money to the airport. Our plan was simple: hijack the van and divert it to a secure location where we could access the money.
We were out in our signature hooded outfits, faces dabbed behind our customized masks.
As I closed in on the van, Vesta prepared to make her move. The two men in the front of the vehicle noticed, they quickly whine up their windows shut and they started accelerating.
"Get closer," Vesta instructed, and I complied.
Vesta, utterly fearless, then did the unthinkable. She squeezed herself out of our speeding car, aiming to latch onto the side of the accelerating van.
Beneath my mask, my eyebrows shot up in disbelief and a surge of panic. For a split second, I was completely lost, my hand instinctively slamming down on the horn.
The blare jolted me back to reality.
Before I fully catch up to what was happening, Vesta was already on the van's running board, relentlessly firing her handgun at a single point on the rear door window. The glass was bulletproof, so she concentrated her shots to create a crack.
The handgun made penetration difficult. My mind raced. I should have rammed the van, rear-ended it, or at least sideswiped it when I had the chance. But that would have risked Vesta falling. So I hesitated.
Finally, the glass spider-webbed. With a sharp crack, Vesta drove her elbow into the weakened spot repeatedly, creating an opening to the front cabin.
Once her arm was inside, the one sitting at the passenger's sit tried to fight her off. My focus flickered momentarily to the car ahead.
Instinctively, I swerved, overtaking the car and cutting it off. A sickening thud and a burst sensation under my tires sent a jolt through the vehicle.
My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A smear of blood stained the road, but the car immediately behind me blocked a clear view of what I had hit.
Fear clenched my gut. I looked back at the van. Vesta was gone.
My heart pounded in a frantic rhythm, disconnected from the frantic calculations in my mind.
Had I just killed my sister? The horrifying question echoed in my brain.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator, pulling alongside the van.
Still no sign of her. Worry gnawed at me. I contacted Swiss on the communication system. She was trailing us in another car. Her voice crackled with information: "A hand and a leg have been paralyzed."
"What?" I yelled into the mic. She clarified, "I helped you crush one leg too. It was the leg of the man whose arm you hit."
It was Mince, riding with Swiss, who finally answered my unspoken question. "She's inside the van already."
The van, our prize now within, began to swerve erratically across the lanes, lurching violently from left to right. It was losing control.
That had to be Vesta's doing. She must have been grappling with the driver. Just moments before she boarded, the van's driving had been steady. Now, it was a chaotic dance.
Then, the van began to decelerate, its erratic movements smoothing out. Vesta's voice came over the communication system, calm and assured: "I am in control. We can proceed to the rendezvous point."
Vesta's Point of View
I told Oscar to get us close to the van. She had no idea what I was planning.
Her surprise was count be measured when I squeezed out of our car and onto the side of the moving van.
I knew she was startled when she abruptly blasted the horn, narrowly avoiding the car in front of us.
The moment the guys in the van spotted me, their windows zipped up. Bulletproof, just as I suspected.
I focused my fire on a single point on the rear window, and cracked it with shots. They were transporting the gold discreetly; none of them were armed. They hadn't anticipated any resistance, not aware of father's knowledge.
I clung to the side of the van, the repeated impacts cracking the reinforced glass. A few sharp elbow strikes finished the job, creating a sizable hole.
I reached in, targeting the lock handle and snapping it open. Then, I hauled the man on the passenger's sit out.
I was certain Oscar had things under control with the trailing cars. I clambered inside the van and, without hesitation, grabbed the driver's testicles.
It was a first for me, the feel of a man's private parts in my hand.
He howled in agony, his grip on the steering wheel loosening as he swerved wildly across the road.
I delivered a sharp elbow to his temple, knocking him unconscious. I then shoved him out of the open driver's side door.
Sliding into the driver's seat, I took control of the van, easing off the accelerator. Immediately, I informed the others, my voice steady, "We have our money."