The Last Big Job

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They moved into action at midnight.

Billy Crane checked his watch, eyed his two companions in the darkness and nodded sharply. The three men were sitting in a stolen Ford Sierra Cosworth fitted with clean number plates. It was the preferred getaway car of the moment — a big, powerful brute of a car which usually stuck two fingers up at the cops.

They pulled on their nylon Balaclavas, obliterating their faces with the exception of their eyes and mouths. Next they each eased on a pair of tight surgical gloves and over them, another pair of thin woollen gloves. Crane wasn’t too bothered about fingerprints being left in the Cosworth because within four hours of the job being done, it would be comprehensively destroyed; first by gutting it with fire and then dropping in into a crusher in the scrap yard owned by one of his questionable friends. From there it would be spewed out as a twisted metal box the size of a policeman’s helmet.

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