the smuggler’s bible

Hank

Charlie adjusts the bandana covering his face and gets a running start before bruising his shoulder against the door to the bank’s back office.

“Goddamn,” he says. “That really aches.”

“You’re doing it wrong, distributing the force.” Hank takes one step forward and plants his bootheel beside the bolt. Wood splinters. “Repeated, targeted application.”

The jamb cracks again and the door swings open. The bank manager and a few tellers are inside, cowering behind a big mahogany desk.

“Howdy, gennulmen,” Charlie says, rubbing his sore arm. “You gonna make us break anything else, or do we just get the money?”