The First National Bank of Silver Springs gleamed with polished marble and the stench of old money. Trace checked his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. Right on schedule. For once.
If Goldstone sticks to the damn plan.
The front doors burst open. Dante Goldstone strode in wearing that ridiculous purple vest, yellow eyes already working the crowd like he owned the stage.
"Well now, ain't this just the most delightful establishment!" Dante's drawl carried through the hushed bank.
Here we go.
Trace moved into position by the doors, hand resting on his holster. Old instincts died hard—he swept the room like he was still wearing a badge instead of running from one. Two guards, both green. Six tellers. Approximately twenty civilians. Three exits including the back.
Cash flicked a card toward the ceiling. Purple smoke exploded through the fancy bank.
Show-off.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dante continued, removing his gloves with unnecessary flair, "The Golden Bandit and the Mad Rangers request the honor of your cooperation!" Behind Dante, Wild Card stumbled over the doormat—again—before finally getting his bandana up.
Trace suppressed a sigh and secured the doors with quick efficiency, sliding the bolt home. "Kid's gonna break his own neck before a lawman ever gets him," he muttered under his breath.
Cash was already working the crowd, fingers dancing across cards while his other hand—Trace didn't miss it—lifted a watch from some banker's pocket.
Sticky-fingered bastard. Gonna lecture him later.
Tellers frantically stuffed bags with cash. Trace kept his position, brown eyes tracking every movement in the room. Guard on the left twitching toward his gun. Civilian by the window looking at the door. Woman in the corner hyperventilating.
"T, how's our timeline?" Dante called.
Trace checked his watch again. "Three minutes, Goldstone. Stick to the plan."
"My dear man, when have I ever deviated from—"
Every single time.
Dante stopped mid-sentence, yellow eyes locking onto something. Someone standing by a pillar, not cowering like the rest.
Great. A hero.
Brown eyes narrowed, studying the stranger who hadn't panicked. In his old life, he would've appreciated that kind of composure. Now? It just meant potential complications. He moved toward the figure by the pillar, boots heavy against marble. Dante could run his mouth all day—someone needed to handle potential problems before they became actual problems.
He approached with measured steps, brown eyes assessing. Up close, they still weren't panicking. Interesting.
"Let me give you some advice," he said, tone almost paternal despite the circumstances. "When armed outlaws walk into a bank, you hit the floor. You don't stand there lookin' curious."
Please don't be a hero. I'm too old and too tired for heroes.
His pocket watch ticked in his vest. Two minutes left.
