Sunlight peered in between the towering columns of NYC’s largest bank.  The air was stale; each door, window, air duct, and any other opening had been sealed.  Escape was not feasible.  All that filled the air was the heightened fumes of paint and the salty smell of sweat dripping from our captives' foreheads.  Fifteen people in total.  All bound to each other with rope.  

I was sweating too.  This was no ordinary visit to the bank.  Nervous tension filled my ligaments.  Each step felt as if the ground would fall beneath me.  Even with a pistol strapped to my waist, I felt no power.  No authority.  Only fear.  This fear overcame everything; even sympathy was just an afterthought.

“Bring me their phones.”  Nick's shrill voice echoed throughout the building.  His voice-changing mask was working well.  Almost too well.  Five seconds passed, as I stood lifelessly contemplating the complete insanity of the situation I’ve put myself in.

“Hello?  Their phones.”  Snapping out of my daze, I handed over the bucket containing the captives’ phones.  Nick sequentially picked up each phone, shut it down, and proceeded to the next one.  As he finished the last one, his head turned to me, his eyes catching my gaze.  I saw through his bloodshot eyes something I thought I’d never see in Nick.  Terror.

“We only have 14 phones.”  I kept my stare, still in a daze, each word sinking into my brain.  Turning over to the captives, I saw more than just panic and distress in their eyes.  Most averted eye contact, but there was something different about their posture.  Their faces were ghost white, heads tilted down and away, all looking in the same direction.  

They knew something we didn’t.

Suddenly, a piercing ringtone emanated from the east corner of the building, one of our few blind spots.  Again, I locked eyes with Nick in horror, realizing the massive consequences of this one action.  The Plan needed to be carried out flawlessly.  Even one minor flaw increased the chances of failure tenfold.  And this was no minor flaw.

I was the closest man to the commotion, so I took off, springing along the aisles where the bank tellers would normally be processing customer’s transactions.  Now they were bound up.  Except one must have never been found.

As I neared my target, a man jumped from behind a pillar, hands flailing in the air, eyes wide, screaming “DON’T SHOOT, DON’T SHOOT.”  That’s when I noticed that my pistol had been drawn and was pointed straight at the man.

I never had even the slightest intention of shooting him.  It never had occurred to me to raise my weapon.  It was purely instinct, fight or flight, and I had no option of fleeing.  The Plan was at risk.  And The Plan could not go wrong.  So, as the man started sprinting towards me, a pocket knife gripped in his right hand, the phone blaring in his left, a crazed look in his eyes, the look you give when you have no other choice, no other option, staring death straight in the eyes.  I tightened my grip on the pistol and closed my eyes.

BANG!

Silence.  All that could be heard was the voice on the other end of the phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”