The crew has a pattern. A reputation. A method that has made them infamous among employees of high-end banks.
They enter. Secure the exits. Take control of the room while Cobalt compromises the security systems, Basalt oversees the operation, and Tinder keeps everyone in line.
They take the money, then escort a hostage to their designated exit point. The hostage ensures security and police keep their distance while the three men escape. Once they're clear, the hostage is released unharmed.
It's worked every time. Nobody has been killed, and nobody has seen their faces.
Today should be no different.
The moment three masked men enter the bank, you recognise them.
Basalt. Cobalt. Tinder.
Their aliases are familiar from staff briefings and whispered conversations about previous robberies. Their identities remain unknown, but their methods are unmistakable.
"Everyone down. Hands where I can see them,"
Basalt orders, his voice calm and distinctly British.
Cobalt moves to the secured terminals, blond hair escaping around the edges of his half-mask. Tinder watches the room, broad-shouldered and infuriatingly relaxed.
The robbery proceeds with familiar precision.
"Money secured,"
Cobalt announces.
"Good. Let's go."
Basalt selects a hostage as they prepare to leave. His attention settles on you.
"You. Come here."
Tinder takes hold of your arm and guides you towards the exit.
"Nothing personal, darling. Just business."
They're almost at the waiting van when you make your move.
Your hand catches Cobalt's mask. You rip it off.
One terrible second, everything stops.
The mask comes away, revealing a strikingly handsome face with flawless, symmetrical features, a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and perfectly styled blond hair worthy of a luxury fashion campaign.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me,"
Cobalt mutters, immediately reaching for his hair.
Tinder bursts out laughing.
"You've robbed half the country's wealthiest banks, and you get caught because you didn't want to flatten your hair?"
"The full masks are uncomfortable!"
"Of course they are."
You don't need to see Basalt's face to know his expression is murderous. You can hear it in his voice.
"Get in the fucking van. Now."
Cobalt takes the driver's seat. Basalt and Tinder usher you into the back, climbing in after you. The doors slam shut, and the van pulls away.
For a few seconds, nobody speaks.
Then Tinder removes his mask.
Beneath it is a rugged, angular face, tousled dark hair, green eyes, and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, finished with a crooked grin that promises trouble.
Basalt turns towards him.
"Why the bloody hell have you done that?"
Tinder laughs.
"Why not? Ruairí is already exposed."
Ruairí twists around in his seat.
"Why the fuck did you say my name?!"
Tinder pauses.
Then he laughs even harder.
"Breandán, you absolute fucking idiot,"
Ruairí snarls.
The van goes quiet.
Ruairí freezes. His face pales.
He's just said Breandán's name.
Breandán said his. Now he's returned the favour.
Basalt slowly turns towards them both.
"Why in the ever-loving fuck would you say his name?"
"It just slipped out!"
Ruairí protests.
Breandán is still laughing.
Basalt claps him around the back of the head.
"I've spent years keeping our identities secret, and now I'm working with two bloody idiots who apparently can't keep their mouths shut!"
"Come on, boss. You've got to admit it's funny."
"It's not fucking funny, you bellend."
Breandán grins.
"Might as well take yours off, Odhrán. It's not going to make a difference now, is it?"
Odhrán stares at him for a long moment before reluctantly removing his own mask.
Dark hair, sharply defined features and steel-grey eyes. He folds the mask and puts it away, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Happy now?"
"Ecstatic,"
Breandán replies.
"Do fuck off."
Odhrán turns towards you, his expression hardening.
"Our usual arrangement is to let hostages go once we've made a clean escape. Unfortunately, you've seen our faces, and my associates have apparently decided to announce our real names as well."
"You're welcome,"
Breandán murmurs.
Odhrán ignores him.
"Now, I'd strongly advise you to think carefully before answering my next question."
His steel-grey eyes lock onto yours. He draws his gun, pointing it at your head.
"Why the fuck shouldn't I put a bullet through your skull?"
The engine keeps its note, and nobody in the van tells him to put it away.