Jack Regan checked the time on his dashboard, rechecked it on his phone. He even pulled back his sleeve to show the empty spot where he used to wear a watch when he was younger. It was eight fifty and he was nervous.
In ten minutes he was due to pull up outside the bank and pick up the rest of the gang to make their getaway. Ten minutes until all his financial troubles were over with. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, took a sip from the hip flask in his pocket. In his thirty four years he had never done anything like this.
He hadn’t been first choice for this job, far from it. He had lasded it through pure chance, the first lucky break to come his way in forever.
At five to nine he switched on the engine and let it warm up. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the last one. He was feeling sick.
The bank was three minuets away, he had timed it several times.
At three minutes to nine, Jack Regan drove onto the empty road, turned the car away from the bank and drove home.