Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“They ran away.”

Holman thought, oh shit.

CECIL TOLD himself to give Holman another ten seconds. He wanted the goddamned money, but he didn’t want to die for it or get caught, and the odds of both increased the longer Holman remained in the bank. Cecil finally decided to see what was taking so long. If they had Holman proned out he was going to get the hell out of here as fast as his tired fat ass could carry him.

Cecil shut off the engine as a man and woman ran out of the bank. The woman stumbled as she came through the door and the man almost tripped over her. He pulled her to her feet, then took off running.

Cecil immediately started the engine, ready to drive away, but no one else emerged.

The bank was quiet.

Cecil shut the engine again, slipped his pistol into his holster, then got out of the car, wondering why those people had run. No one else was running, so what could be happening? Cecil started toward the bank, then hesitated, thinking he should get back in the goddamned car and get the hell away.

He glanced up and down Wilshire, but saw no lights or police cars. Everything seemed fine. He looked back at the bank, but now Holman was in the glass door with all these big-ass nylon bags hanging from his shoulders-just standing there. Cecil waved him over, thinking hurry up, what are you waiting for?

Holman didn’t leave the bank. He dropped two of the bags, then gestured for Cecil to come get them.

Cecil didn’t like it. He kept thinking about the two people running away. He flipped out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button he had already programmed. Holman waved again, so Cecil held up a finger, telling him to wait.

“Beverly Hills Police Department.”

“FBI Special Agent William Cecil, ID number six-six-seven-four. Suspicious activity at the Grand California on Wilshire. Please advise.”

“Copy. We have a two-eleven alarm at that address. Units en route.”

Cecil felt a burning knot in his chest. His eyes flickered. Everything he wanted was sixty feet away, but now it was gone. Sixteen million dollars-gone.

“Ah, confirm the two-eleven. Suspect is a white male, six-two, two-thirty. He is armed. I say again, he is armed. Customers in the bank appear down and disabled.”

“Understand you are FBI six-six-seven-four. Do not approach. Units en route. Thanks for the advisory.”

Cecil stared at Holman, then saw lights in the corner of his eye. Red and blue flashers were turning onto Wilshire three blocks away.

Cecil ran back to his car.

HOLMAN WATCHED Cecil with a bad feeling, confused why the man would be wasting time on his phone when he was so close to the sixteen million. He waved again for Cecil to come get the money, but Cecil kept talking. Holman had the skin-prickling sense something was wrong, then Cecil turned back toward his car. A heartbeat later, red and blue flashes reflected off the glass buildings across the street, and Holman knew his time had run out.

He shoved through the door, the heavy bags of cash swinging like lead pendulums. Two blocks away, cars were pulling to the curbs to let the police cars pass. The cops would be here in seconds.

Holman ran at Cecil as hard as he could, pinballing off two pedestrians. Cecil reached the Taurus, threw open the door, and was climbing inside when Holman caught him from behind. Holman pulled Cecil backwards and both of them fell.

Cecil, trying to climb back into the car, said, “What the fuck are you doing, man? Get out of here.”

Holman dragged himself up Cecil’s leg, hammering at the man with his fist.

Cecil said, “Get off me, goddamnit. Let go!”

Holman should have been more afraid. He should have thought through what he was doing to realize Cecil was a blooded FBI agent with thirty years’ training and experience. But all Holman saw in those moments was Richie running alongside his car, red-faced and crying, calling him a loser; all he knew was the eight-year-old gap-toothed boy in a picture that would continue to fade; all he felt was the blind-furious need to make this man pay.

Holman didn’t see the gun. Cecil must have pulled it while Holman pounded on Cecil’s back as Cecil was crawling toward the car. Holman was still punching, still blindly trying to anchor Cecil to the street, when Cecil rolled over. An exploding white light flashed three times and the sound of thunder echoed on Wilshire Boulevard.

Holman’s world stopped. He heard only the sound of his beating heart.

He stared at Cecil, waiting for the pain. Cecil stared back, his mouth working like a fish. Behind them, the patrol cars slid to a stop as an officer’s amplified voice shouted words Holman did not hear.

Cecil said, “Sonofafuckinbitch.”

Holman looked down. The bags of money were wedged in front of his chest, scorched where the cash had trapped the three bullets.

Cecil shoved the gun across the money into Holman’s chest, but this time he didn’t fire. He dropped the gun into Holman’s arms, then rolled away, coming to his knees with his FBI credentials high over his head, shouting-

“FBI! FBI agent!”

Cecil rolled away, hands up, shouting and pointing at Holman.

“Gun! He’s got a gun! I’ve been shot!”

Holman glanced at the gun, then at the patrol cars. Four uniformed officers were crouched behind their vehicles. Young men about Richie’s age. Aiming.

The amplified voice boomed again in the Wilshire canyon, now behind the sound of approaching sirens.

“Put down the weapon! Drop the weapon but make no sudden moves!”

Holman wasn’t holding the weapon. It was on the money bag directly under his nose. He didn’t move. He was too scared to move.

People had spilled out of the bank. They pointed at Holman as they shouted to the officers.

“That’s him! It was him!”

Cecil staggered to his feet, crabbing away as he waved his credentials.

“I see his hand! I see it, goddamnit! He’s reaching for the gun!”

Holman saw the young men shift behind their weapons. He closed his eyes, held himself perfectly still, and-

– nothing happened.

Holman looked up, but now the four young officers had their guns in the air, surrounded by milling officers. BHPD tactical officers with rifles and shotguns ran toward Cecil, shouting for him to get down on the ground. They tackled him hard, proned him out, then two of them peeled toward Holman.

Holman still didn’t move.

One of the tactical officers stayed back with his shotgun up and ready, but the other approached.

Holman said, “I’m the good guy.”

“Don’t fuckin’ move.”

The near officer lifted away Cecil’s pistol, but he didn’t slam down on Holman or prone him out. Once he had the gun he seemed to relax.

The cop said, “You Holman?”

“He killed my son.”

“That’s what they tell me, buddy. You got him.”

The second cop joined the first.

“Wits said there was shooting. Were you shot?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Stay down. We’re getting a medic.”

Pollard and Leeds shoved through the growing crowd of officers. When Holman saw Pollard he started to rise, but she motioned him to stay down so he did. Holman figured he had come too far to take any chances.

Leeds went to Bill Cecil, but Pollard came directly to Holman, breaking into a trot as she came. She was wearing a blue FBI Windbreaker like the first time he saw her. When Pollard arrived, she gazed down at him, breathing hard, but smiling, then held out her hand.

“I’m here now. You’re safe.”

Holman slipped out of the money bags, took her hand, and let her help him up. He stared at Cecil, still spread-eagled on the street. He watched the officers fold Cecil’s hands behind his back to bind his wrists. He saw Leeds, his face livid and twisted, kick Cecil in the leg, whereupon the Beverly Hills cops shoved Leeds away. Holman turned back to Pollard. He wanted to tell her why everything that happened here and everything that led up to it had been his fault, but his mouth was dry and he was blinking too hard.