[b]Soho 4:34 PM 12 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b] “It’s kicked up in the air and… it’s in! Peters scores! England now up over West Germany, 2-1 with a brilliant goal in the seventy-eighth minute!” Chapman and Morgan pumped their fists in celebration. Even McEntyre let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The three men sat in an unmarked police car, listening to the game on the radio. Chapman sat in the driver’s seat, McEntyre to his left, and Morgan in the back. Across the street from them was Carlisle's Cooperage, a front for a known betting parlor. The place had been a hive of activity in the run up to the game. Now it was quiet, but McEntyre knew enough about the betting world to know it would be busy again as soon as the game ended. “You think the old man’s grass is right?” Morgan asked in his sing-song Welsh accent. McEntyre shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette. “Who the hell knows? A bookie shop on the day of the game is a spot ripe for the pickin’. Just don’t know if I’d hit this one in particular.” “I wouldn't want to nick so much as a pound from Carlisle,” Chapman said with a grunt. “Why is that Mikey?” Morgan asked. Chapman looked over his shoulder and gave Morgan a patient smile. “You’re having a laugh, right? I know you’re new and all, Terry, but I thought every copper heard this story already.” “They call him the Cooper for a reason,” answered McEntyre. “Not just because of the front. Last bloke who owed him money and wouldn’t pay, Carlisle tossed him into a cask filled with cow piss. Sealed him shut and tossed him into the Thames.” Silence fell on the car. On the radio, the announcer described how England kept the West Germans as far away from the goal as possible. “That don’t make for good business,” Morgan finally said. “Killing a man who owes you money.” “Carlisle could ride it off,” said Chapman. “Because after that, everybody paid their debts.” “And on time,” said McEntyre. “The man in the cask was the first and the last man to piss the Cooper off. Everyone learned real quickly that Welshers, sorry Terry, ended up in the barrel.” Chapman sat forward, his big forehead knotting together as he scowled. He thrust out a beefy forefinger at something. McEntyre turned to look. Four men dressed in matching black double breasted suits were walking towards the cooperage. One of them carried a shopping bag low around his waist. The dimensions of the bag showed off that he was carrying something long and narrow. “Looks like a shotgun,” said McEntyre. “Fucking hell. The Super was right, lads.” He reached down, switching off the football and switching over to a police radio band. While he called in backup, both Chapman and Morgan pulled revolvers from his sports coats and began to get ready. --- [b]Wembley Stadium 4:28 PM 18 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b] Charlie made himself scarce as the security officers all began to go through the tunnel towards the stands. Whatever the hell Bobby was doing, it was working. The one on the door stepped away with them and Charlie quickly walked towards the door. He pushed it open just as the boy was pulling it. “Move,” Charlie barked after their initial run in. “Or I swear to God -- I don’t care who the hell your goddamn uncle was -- I’ll do more than pretend to shoot you.” Now the fear was in Cecil’s eyes. Good. That would help him sell his part better if he looked actually afraid during the take. None of his co-workers would question things afterwards. “You’re twenty fucking minutes late,” said Charlie. “We might not have enough time to pull the job now, you dumb sod.” “I-- I--” “Save it. We got no time for excuses.” Charlie gave the boy a prodding and they started down the hall. He kept close to Cecil as they descended a flight of stairs. A small window down one corridor gave them a side glance at Wembley. The crowd below rocked in unison and chanted. Curiously enough, they waved Union Jacks instead of St. George's Cross. There were no sightings of any other security or stadium staff on the journey. This late in the game, most of them had pissed off to watch the finale. Charlie took stock of where they were and how to get out again after the cash was gone. He took out his pistol and held it stomach high as they approached a heavy plated door. “Open it up,” he whispered to Cecil. “I don’t have a key,” the boy whispered back. “I didn’t ask if you had a key,” said Charlie. “I asked you to open it up.” Cecil gulped and knocked on the door. “It’s me.” “What do you want?” an old woman’s voice asked from the other side. “You know you’re supposed to be doing final audits of the gates, Cecil.” “There’s been an emergency,” said Cecil. “Umm… there’s a copper outside.” “What?” A few seconds later, the door latch mechanisms began to turn. After a slight groan, the heavy door began to be pulled back. Charlie shoved Cecil forward and rushed the door, using the smaller man’s body to swing it wide open. He heard the surprised yell of someone, followed by a thump. Cecil fell to the ground and Charlie kicked him hard in the stomach. Mostly for show, but also to vent for his tardiness. Four faces stared at him, frozen and unsure. An old man sat on her arse on the floor. A young girl with her hands full of cash looked to be in shock. On the table in front of her were columns and columns of bills, neatly stacked by denomination. Two men -- one skinny and young and the other old and fat -- both with mustaches looked on. The young one was about to speak before Charlie leveled the gun at him. “This is a robbery. Everyone acts calm, and nobody gets hurt. Understand?” --- [b]4:34 PM 12 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b] “It’s kicked up in the air and… it’s in! Peters scores! England now up over West Germany, 2-1 with a brilliant goal in the seventy-eighth minute!” “Yes!” Coach would have clapped his hands and celebrated more, but at present both hands were on the wheel. He was running a little behind, but they were still well within the time frame for him to get the loot and get as far away as possible before time ended. Towards the end there he had ran the siren to get some room. It was still slow going, plenty of cars only grudgingly gave up space to the emergency vehicle, but he made good time through the streets and arrived just in time to see Officer Red, looking around too nervously for Coach’s liking. “Sorry I’m late,” Coach said as he rolled down the window. “Even with an ambo, nobody wanted to give me space.” “Back it up,” said Red. He pointed where he wanted the ambulance. “And you’re not late. Charlie’s the late one.” “Fucking hell,” said Coach. He touched his cap and sighed. “I have do something I thought I’d never do.” “What’s that?” “Pray that West Germany scores and England doesn't win in regulation.” --- [b]4:36 PM 10 Minutes Left In Regulation[/b] Charlie watched the two men loading cash into canvas bank bags. Cecil was on the ground, curled up and nursing his injury. The two women were also on the ground, sitting with their hands on their laps. The old woman stared straight ahead like she had been told, but younger of the two kept looking up at him. She would stare for long periods at a time before looking away. Charlie looked at her just as she turned to stare. Immediately, she looked away. He swore under his breath. The little bitch was trying to memorize his face. “Oi,” he shouted. “I know what you’re trying to pull.” He quickly crossed the room, flipping the pistol so that he held the barrel and the butt was out. With a quick, savage movement, he struck the girl across the temple with the pistol butt. She flipped to her side and the old woman gasped. Cecil let out a groan from his spot on the ground. He looked from the prone girl up at Charlie. “Nobody fucking look at me,” said Charlie. “Just load up the bags and don’t make trouble. Next one of you I catch looking, you’ll catch a bullet.” Charlie checked his watch. Eight minutes until regulation ended. He had no idea of the score, but it was still 1-1 then extra time might be a possibility. If not, he’d only have fifteen twenty minutes at most to get the cash out of the counting room and to get out of the stadium with Bobby in tow. He resisted the urge to walk over and brain Cecil with the gun like he had the girl. It was all his fucking fault.