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Inside Mackie’s head, Randy said, Sandra stepped on the button.
Really? Big mistake, Sandra. This is on you.
Mackie raised her gun, aimed, and fired. The bullet punctured the plexiglass window, but Sandra had ducked under the counter. Mackie turned to see everything going crazy. People dove behind pillars, got under desks, pressed against walls.
Jill dropped to the floor, covered her head, and began keening, “Nooooo, nooooo, noooooo.”
Mackie spoke in a cold monotone, saying to Jill, “Look what you made me do.”
She fired twice, bullets punching neat holes in the yellow vinyl. Then Mackie turned to face the audience from her place on the stage.
CHAPTER 21
MACKIE FELT A surge of adrenaline, the good kind that made her fearless and able to do anything. She had killed before but only in a crowd.
Blending in was her strength.
This was something different.
She held her gun in front of her and yelled out into the open areas of the bank, “Everyone get down on the floor. Down. I’ll shoot anyone who moves.”
People scrambled, dropped, covered their faces. Briefcases, phones, and umbrellas clattered to the floor and echoed in the new silence.
It was as if time had frozen, and Mackie used that solid moment to take stock.
She saw everything in sharp detail: the paralyzed faces of customers and bankers, the fat girl with the purple bangs, an office girl with big black glasses, a white-haired man with a red face that was turning blue.
She noted the clock on the south wall reading 2:03, the vid-cams on the pillars, the shock on the guard’s young face.
She could make it. She would.
She had the money, a loaded gun, and a clear path to the front doors thirty yards away.
Time resumed. The guard came to life and took a stance in front of Mackie, holding his gun with both hands. He looked young. Green. Terrified.
The guard shouted, “Drop it, miss. Cops are coming. You can’t get away, miss. Now, lower your gun. Slowly.”
Randy was speaking: Go ahead, Mackie. Make my day.
Mackie wanted to laugh. Firing her gun, she landed three shots in a tight pattern around the guard’s neck and chest. He grabbed his throat and, looking stupefied, collapsed to the floor. Blood spilled. He wheezed and exhaled his last breath.
Mackie scampered toward the guard’s body and scooped up his gun, and when she turned back to face the crowd, she was holding a gun in each hand.
That should give any heroes pause before rushing me.
She was on camera. She knew that. Cops were coming. But not very fast.
She backed toward the doors and pushed one open with her shoulder. She shouted into the bank, saying, “First person out the door after me gets a shot to the head. Have a nice day.”
And she was back outside in the gray morning.
Mackie drafted along behind a group of three white-collar tools on North Dearborn, unbuttoning her coat as she walked. Ten yards ahead was a trash can next to the bus stop. Mackie blended with the passengers getting off the bus. She emptied the pockets of her gray hooded raincoat and transferred the cash and her Ruger to the navy-blue coat she wore underneath the gray one.
She dropped her gray coat into the trash and kept moving, plumbing her pockets as she walked, smoothly putting on sunglasses and slicking on bright lipstick. She fluffed her hair. She had changed her appearance in maybe thirty seconds.
Mackie felt exhilarated as she continued on, walking north at a moderate pace, crossing West Randolph against the light.
She guessed she had about a couple thousand dollars, which would be enough to get the hell out of Chicago.
