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The Heist

Kyle J Cisco

    Yellow tape lined the entrance of the museum. The red and blue lights atop the police cars danced upon the building’s exterior. Officer’s waved to the black SUV and the vehicle rolled through the checkpoint. Jessie watched from the tinted windows of the SUV, as it came to rest in front of the museum. Reporters swarmed the vehicle like flies attracted to shit.
    The police forced the reporters back, and Jessie emerged from the vehicle. She strode with a confidence one should have being the veteran agent on the taskforce for stolen art. As she made her way to the door a barrage of questions buffeted her.
    “What is the FBI doing to find these vicious robbers?”
    “No comment,” a police officer said. As he ushered Jessie into the museum doors.
    Broken glass littered the floor in the vestibule leading to the gallery. Bullet holes marked the walls. In the corner the night guard lay dead, his service weapon in hand. A pool of blood surrounded the man’s body.
    “This was quite the botched job,” Jessie commented.
    “Wait till you see the rest, agent,” the police officer who had escorted her inside said.
    As they came into the gallery the scene turned grim — two men lie dead on the ground and two separate pools of blood ran from their heads. A single bullet in the back of each man’s head. Jessie glanced about the room and saw empty spots on the walls where most of the valuable paintings once hung. Frames of the stolen art strewn about the room in fragments.
    “Seems as if they were betrayed by the third assailant,” the officer said.
    “Thanks, Captain obvious. So, what do we have so far?” Jessie asked. “Like the estimated value of the art? Anything?”
    “N-no, ma’am not yet, and we have no leads. The value of the art stolen is well over a quarter billion dollars though with many of the original pieces- “
    “That’s enough I want the scene scrubbed for evidence and sent to my office ASAP.”
    The ride back from the crime scene was quiet, while Jessie thought of the events of the night. Not just the thought of the crime scene but the events before that. Jessie pulled into the driveway at her town house. As she turned on the lights to her room she opened the closet, and moved the clothes to the side revealing the door hidden in the wall. A chair sat in front of several pieces of art. On the table to her left lay a Glock 19 equipped with a silencer.
    “A quarter billion dollars,” she said.
    She dialed the number on the business card that lay next to the gun. Two first two rings happened in rapid succession. Then the line opened, and a man’s voice on the other end said.
    “Is it done? Do you have them?”
    “Yeah, It’s done — things got a bit messy with those two thugs you hired but I handled it. Now release my family,” said Jessie.
    “We will see about that,” said the man. Then the line went dead.
    Tears ran down Jessie’s face as she thought of her little boy in the hands of such a vile gangster, and the actions she committed to get them back. She had never had to take a life before in her years of service. But two in one night, even if they were thugs the grief weighed heavy on her conscience.

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