[i]Financial Consultant Firm? Fuck.[/i]

 Werner wasn’t even sure if he could spell his new “occupation”, let alone act like he knew his shit. Even better, Werner was sure he wasn’t dressed for the part; slim-fitting jeans, high top tennis shoes, and a heavy parka didn’t exactly scream wealth. On top of that, his lean physique, ragged scars, and numerous tattoos further suggested he had no place in an office environment. The mechanic did know, however, the importance of remaining forgettable when working in a city and on the job. In similar past situations, the driver clung onto another member of the crew and let them do the talking, usually Charlotte or James; with Charlotte, everyone’s eyes would lose focus on him and stray to the beauty at his side, and James could easily manage all of the office workers with his smooth accent and intelligence. Jim, well, he was a reliable guy, but not the most… Mild-mannered member of the crew. “What’s happening Bratwurst?” Werner heard as the Scot entered his car, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the greeting. The driver didn’t really know his own ethnic background. His mother didn’t say much about it, and he didn’t know a damn thing about his father, so Werner just stuck with American. But German was as good as any, he supposed. “Not much Jim. Trying not to freeze,” he replied with a slight grin. The mechanic heard a light squeak in the back seat and was going to chalk it up to the leather seats had it not been for the rotten smell that followed. “Agh, come on, I know its a stolen car, but show a little respect,” Werner scolded as he cracked the windows using control panel on the steering wheel, letting in a gust of fresh air. He wasn’t sure why he treated all his stolen cars so gently; they always ended up at a chop shop or in the hands of a crooked used car salesman, sold for a fraction of the car’s worth. Keeping a hot car after a bank robbery was a great way to end up behind bars. [i]Especially when you paint the fucking grim reaper on the hood,[/i] Werner thought, his mind turning to Angelo. The kid was a decent driver, sure, but Werner wasn’t sure he had much common sense. It was only a matter of time, Werner figured, before some beat cop recognized the car and hauled the driver off to prison, or worse, pumped a couple rounds into his chest. The mechanic was just glad he wasn’t in Angelos’ car.

Werner knew the exact location Juan mentioned; it was right next to the Fifth Third Bank. He pulled out onto the street and made his way for their new base of operations just as traffic began to clear. The stockbrokers and bankers finally rolled out of bed and got into the office, which was great timing for them; maybe the crew could slip into the office relatively unnoticed. The city still made Werner uneasy. It was so compact, and whereas LA expanded horizontally, the City of Broad Shoulders stretched straight up; the streets were tight, and every skyscraper leaned over you, barely letting in any natural light. He quickly familiarized himself with the area surrounding the office. To the west was the Chicago River and a retractable bridge, two one way roads extended north and south. West was certainly their best option if they needed to escape, leading into the more hectic part of the city. 

Juan mentioned he didn’t know the details of the job, but this didn’t concern Werner too much. Juan always took care of them, and as for their mysterious associate Alex, well… He'd been reliable so far. This news, however, didn’t sit well with Jim, who let out a flurry of insults. Werner remained quiet and rolled up the windows and turned the radio on, which started playing “Don’t Stop Me Now,” helping to distort anything those outside the car might hear the Scot scream. As Jim grew louder and louder, Werner adjusted the radio’s volume accordingly. Just as Freddy Mercury was about to inform listeners what to do if they wanted a good time, Jim’s tirade ended and Werner pulled into the office’s parking lot. 

“We’re here.”