Easy Crime 03

De: Dell Sweet

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

The air hung thick and greasy, a miasma of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and desperation clinging to the shadowed corners of the bar. Smoke, thick enough to choke a horse, curled lazily from ashtrays overflowing with crushed butts, painting the dimly lit space in a hazy, sepia-toned gloom. Robbie sat hunched over a sticky tabletop, the flickering neon sign outside casting long, distorted shadows that danced across his face. He nervously tapped a chipped mug against the scarred wood, the sound sharp and brittle in the oppressive silence. Across from him, Marva nursed a drink, her eyes darting around the room, assessing potential threats with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime dodging bullets. Rosie, perched on a stool, fidgeted, her restless energy a stark contrast to the tense quiet that held the other two captive. A chrome-plated pistol, gleaming faintly in the dim light, rested openly on the bar beside her.

Robbie cleared his throat, the sound jarring in the suffocating stillness. "Alright, let's get this straight," he began, his voice low and gravelly, barely a whisper against the background hum of the bar's faulty refrigerator. "Miller's Market. Midnight. In and out. No unnecessary risks." He paused, his gaze sweeping over his crew, seeking confirmation, but finding only apprehension.

Marva took a slow sip of her drink, her expression unreadable. "Midnight's risky, Robbie. The place is usually crawling with people that late." Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, a stark reflection of her hardened exterior. Years spent surviving in the unforgiving landscape of the city's underbelly had honed her survival instincts, turning her into a creature of stark pragmatism. She had seen too much death, too much violence, to afford herself the luxury of fear or sentimentality.

Rosie, oblivious to the tension simmering between Robbie and Marva, shifted on her stool, the pistol momentarily slipping from her grasp. "Risky's my middle name, sweetheart," she drawled, a sly smirk playing on her lips. "Besides, a little action never hurt nobody." She casually retrieved the weapon, her movements fluid and practiced, revealing an unnerving familiarity with firearms. She was a whirlwind of destructive energy, a beautiful, lethal weapon in her own right.

Robbie stifled a sigh. Rosie's reckless streak was the proverbial elephant in the room – a constant, unpredictable threat hanging over their every operation. He knew better than to try and rein her in too tightly; her volatile nature was both a strength and a weakness, a wild card capable of turning the tide of any situation – for better or worse. “Just stick to the plan, Rosie,” he said, his voice sharper this time. “No heroics.”

Marva, ever the pragmatist, cut in. "The stockroom's the key. Minimal staff back there after closing. We hit it, grab the cash, and disappear before the alarm even sounds." She laid out the plan with cold efficiency, a stark contrast to Rosie's carefree nonchalance. The meticulous detail in her assessment showcased years of experience in meticulously planned heists, a stark contrast to Rosie's more impulsive approach.

Robbie nodded. "Marva's right," he confirmed. "The stockroom's our best bet. But we need to be quick, clean, and above all, quiet." He emphasized each word, punctuating his points with sharp taps of his finger on the table...