"I’m pretty sure you got hard killing him, Marcus!" Rico’s voice cracked as blood dripped from his shoulder onto the leather seat. "Why the fuck did you shoot him when he was cooperating?"
"Shut up!" Marcus Reed clutched the duffel bag tighter, his knuckles white against the black nylon. "See what you caused? You made the cops chase us because of your stupid decision to argue with me!"
I yanked the steering wheel hard right, tires screaming against wet asphalt as the stolen BMW fishtailed around the corner. The engine roared, drowning out their argument for a moment, but not the helicopter blades chopping the air above us.
"Both of you shut the hell up," I growled, eyes scanning the mirrors. Three police cruisers gaining ground. "Rico, press harder on that wound. Marcus, count the money."
The sirens wailed louder now, bouncing off Manhattan’s glass towers. I downshifted and floored it, weaving between late-night traffic as the speedometer climbed past ninety.
I know you’re wondering how we got here. Let me take you back.
My name is Javier Restrepo, and I always wanted to be a boxer. I dreamed of living a normal life, but well... I became a thief instead.
Orphaned at eight when my parents died in a car accident. Social services bounced me through foster homes until I landed at Marcus Garvey Group Home in Brownsville. Eighteen years old, they kicked me out with nothing.
The first petty theft was survival. Stole a wallet outside Penn Station. Forty-three dollars felt like winning the lottery when you’re sleeping in subway stations and eating from garbage cans.
The streets taught me quick reflexes. Dodging transit cops, slipping through crowds, reading people’s intentions before they acted. Skills that would matter later.
Marcus found me two years later, trying to boost a car in the Village. Skinny white kid with wire-rim glasses and programmer’s fingers. Should have called the cops. Instead, he crouched beside me under the dashboard.
"You’re doing it wrong," he whispered, producing a small device from his jacket. "Alarm first, then ignition."
The car started smooth and silent. Marcus climbed into the passenger seat like we’d planned this together.
"I need a driver," he said. "Someone hungry. Someone invisible."
First job was simple. Electronics store in Queens, after-hours cash pickup. Marcus disabled the alarm system while I waited outside, engine running. Clean extraction, no complications. Split the take fifty-fifty.
"Banks are where the real money lives," Marcus explained over coffee the next morning. "But banks need planning. Research. Patience."
Six months of small scores while Marcus studied security systems. ATM skimmers, credit card fraud, identity theft. Digital crime paired with old-school muscle. I learned to drive like my life depended on it because sometimes it did.
Rico joined after our first jewelry store job went sideways. Big Dominican with prison tattoos covering his arms like sleeves. Found him bleeding in an alley after his crew abandoned him during a police chase.
"You saved my life," Rico said from the hospital bed three days later. "I owe you."
Prison taught Rico things they don’t write in manuals. Which walls sound hollow, which locks give under pressure, which guards accept bribes. Skills worth more than any college degree.
The three of us clicked like gears in a machine. Marcus provided intelligence and technology. Rico handled physical obstacles and intimidation. I drove and coordinated timing.
Five years of successful operations. Bank jobs where Marcus convinced computers to ignore our presence while Rico convinced safes to open their secrets. Armored truck intercepts that looked like traffic accidents. High-end residential targets who never realized we’d been there until insurance investigators arrived.
Never got greedy. Never stayed in one area too long. Never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. Professional thieves, not psychopaths.
Each score taught me something new. How to read police response patterns. Which neighborhoods had working security cameras. How long investigations stayed active before going cold.
I saved every dollar that wasn’t essential for survival. Studio apartment in Washington Heights, ramen and canned soup, ten-year-old Honda that looked too boring to steal. Marcus bought designer clothes and Rico burned money on gambling, but I planned my exit.
Three million dollars. That number meant freedom from this life. Enough to disappear completely, maybe open a legitimate business somewhere warm. Maybe even a boxing gym for kids who needed direction.
Last month, Marcus spread photographs across my kitchen table. Blueprints, security schematics, personnel schedules. The level of detail meant weeks of preparation.
"Harrison Blackwood," Marcus said. "Tech billionaire, art collector, completely paranoid about security."
The photos showed a Manhattan penthouse that looked more like a fortress. Multiple alarm systems, pressure-sensitive floors, cameras covering every angle.
"Four hundred million in cash," Marcus continued. "Plus vintage boxing memorabilia including Vicente Morales’ championship collection."
Vicente "El Martillo" Morales. That name hit me like a punch to the stomach. Heavyweight champion from the eighties. Found dead behind some Brownsville gym thirty years ago. Murder never solved.
Every kid in the group home knew Vicente’s story. Rose from nothing in the same neighborhood where we slept three to a room. Fought his way to the championship, then vanished one night. Body discovered two days later, beaten to death in an alley.
His gloves, his belts, his legacy locked away in some rich collector’s private museum while kids like me dreamed of championships we’d never reach.
"This is it," Marcus insisted. "Our retirement score. One job, we’re set for life."
I should have said no. Should have walked away with my current savings and started over somewhere else. But hearing Vicente’s name awakened something I’d buried deep.
That eight-year-old kid watching grainy boxing matches on the group home’s broken television. Dreaming of glory in the ring instead of shadows in the street.
"When do we move?" I asked.
The helicopter searchlight found us, turning the BMW’s interior white-hot. Rico was getting pale from blood loss. Marcus looked ready to panic.
Police cars converged from three directions now. The radio chattered with coordinates and backup requests.
Rico suddenly grabbed my shoulder. "Left! Go left!"
I yanked the wheel hard, knowing this might be the last turn I ever made.