[b]Wembley Stadium
4:41 PM
4 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b]

Bobby had lead security on a merry chase around the stadium after letting off the bangers. But something was wrong. He’d seen that Cecil boy shooting the breeze with colleagues of his a good fifteen minutes [i]after[/i] he was supposed to have let Charlie in. There wasn’t much that Bobby could do about it with security on his tail. He’d kept running past and hoped that the Sweeney hadn’t blown the entire plan. But there was only one way to be sure of that – and it involved making a change of his own to the plan. He had to let himself get caught.

The crew working the Final was made up of bunch of old men and boys that looked like they were barely old enough to take a drink. It wasn’t out of the ordinary. At events like this there were lots of Old Bill scattered around. The deterrent effect of all those uniforms was usually more than enough. All Lewandowski needed to do was let up a little and after a while one of the guards caught up with him.

He was trudged to a holding room where a few drunk England fans were being held in makeshift cells. Supervising them was an older man, who had the cut of a retired police officer about him, and scowled in Bobby’s direction as he was brought into the room. Lewandowski suspected it was as much at his ridiculous outfit as it was anything else.

“What’s it this time?”

“This plonker was letting off some kind of fireworks in the crowd.”

“Blimey,” the old man said with a disapproving shake of his head. “Given Her Majesty is in attendance, I suspect Old Bill will be wanting a word with you once the game is done. We’ve about filled up all the cells, so you’ll have to make do with a bench for the time being. I hope that’s not too disagreeable.”

Bobby stared impassively at the man. The guard that had brought him in gave Lewandowski a slight push down onto the bench. He perched down alongside him with a heavy sigh.

“What have I missed?”

The older man described Peters’ goal to his colleague – who kicked himself for having missed it. He’d given Lewandowski a hateful stare at that moment. He’d have been in the stands to watch it had Bobby not let off those bangers. For that the Pole felt more guilty than he ought to. But that was Bobby to a tee.

With another sigh, the Pole removed his ridiculous hat and flung it to the floor beside the bench. He slunk down in his seat as if he were planning to make the bench his home for the foreseeable future. Satisfied, the security guard beside him slipped a cigarette into his mouth and continued on listening to his colleague.

“The Krauts are knackered. England look closer to scoring another than the Germans do equalising. All they need to do is hold on for a few more minutes and we’ll be laug-”

The sound of a piercing whistle came through from the radio in the corner of the room. There was a roar of disapproval from the Wembley crowd that announced something not to the liking of English fans had happened. A half-second afterwards the radio announcer’s voice sounded.

“Jack Charlton clatters into Schnellinger and the referee has awarded West Germany a free kick deep in English territory.”

“For god’s sake, Charlton,” the old man muttered.

Beside Bobby, the security guard began to scoot forward on his seat. The two men were gripped by the football. He didn’t blame them. The [i]entire[/i] country was gripped by it. Heck, Lewandowski had been when he was sat in the stands.

“Emmerich steps up to take it. The Wembley crowd has fallen silent. West Germany’s hopes rest on this kick. And … he fires it directly into the English wall.”

“Have it,” the security guard shouted, his cigarette dropping out of his mouth as he jumped forward out his seat. “Take that, you Bratwurst-eating bastards.”

Bobby stole a look towards the door but thought better of it. He needed to wait out whatever was happening with Charlie here – and hope that Charlie showed up before another member of Old Bill. The guard had all but sat down until the announcer’s voice sounded again over the radio. This time it was more desperate. The guards were glued once again on the radio.

“No! The English can’t seem to get it out of their own box. A German boot sends the ball flying into one English player and now it’s slid across the mouth of the goal to Weber. He scores! West Germany equalise with less than a minute left in the game. The West German fans are jubilant.”

There were screams from the Wembley crowd in the distance. The security guards shouted profanities in the direction of the radio. As they did so, Lewandowski simply leant back into his seat, a wry smile appearing on his face. Wherever the hell Charlie was, the West Germans had just given him a lifeline. Bobby just hoped he took it.

[center][b]***[/b][/center][b]Carlisle's Cooperage, Soho
4:35 PM
11 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b]

Handkerchief Harry followed the rest of the crew into the Cooperage. Almost instantly the employees spotted the men in their double-breasted suits. Some turned to face them, others, perhaps in the know as to what the Cooperage’s real purpose was, kept stubbornly working on for a few seconds. The sound of Clubber’s shotgun cocking made even the most pig-headed stand to attention. Sensing his moment had arrived, Harry climbed atop one of the completed barrels, making sure to brush down his trousers once he he had done so, and cleared his voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please do not be alarmed. This is, of course, exactly what it looks like – a robbery. As you can see, my esteemed colleagues here are heavily armed and, I assure you, have no qualms about making use of said armaments, so your cooperation would be most appreciated.”

The Cooperage employees watched on in perfect stillness. Harry wasn’t sure whether they’d not heard him – or whether they’d simply not understood him. He was about to repeat himself in slightly more forceful terms when Clubber stepped forward. In two small steps, James “Clubber” Conroy’s body managed to communicate that it possessed all of the destructive capability of a Silverback Gorilla and more. 

“What’s wrong with you people? Are you [i]deaf[/i] or something? The man told you to hand over the money or you’re fucking dead.”

Suddenly they began to scatter towards the barrels packed filled with cash. World Cup Final day had been like Christmas come early for shylocks across London – and no shylock operating on this side of the capital could afford not to pay Carlisle for the pleasure of doing business on his patch. Harry was sure there was more money packed into this place today than in all of the Bank of England’s vaults. And he’d promised Clubber, Stockton and Walsh that they’d take as much of it as they could carry with them. 

Harry climbed down. Opposite him stood a man in his fifties with thick-rimmed glasses. He slipped off his workman’s gloves and thrust them into the front pouch of his apron. For a second, Harry wondered whether the man was going to try to play hero – but his fears proved unfounded. The man pinched the bridge of his nose nervously, as if weighing up whether to speak or not, before eventually walking over to Harry with an apologetic smile.

“Bit of friendly advice, lads – I were you, I’d turn round and walk out the way you came in. The fella owns this place don’t look to kindly on people taking what’s his, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” Harry said as he went to lay a grateful hand on the man’s arm. “Truly.”

Before it had made contact with him, the butt of Clubber’s shotgun came crashing down against the back of the man’s head. He fell into a heap on the ground clutching at his head. There was blood pouring from it. Harry looked down at the man ruefully and then shook his head in Clubber’s direction.

“Now, now, was that [i]really[/i] necessary?”

Clubber grinned.

“You lazy sods have exactly thirty seconds to round up the rest of the cash or the old boy is getting one in the skull,” he said, forcefully prodding the shotgun against the downed man’s head.

Harry made sure to watch the entrance of the Cooperage as Walsh and Stockton oversaw the employees loading bags filled with cash. Clubber swaggered around, shotgun in hand, brandishing it in the direction of anyone he felt like wasn’t pulling their weight. They crumbled under the weight of his gaze. As loathe as he was to admit it, Harry couldn’t help but admire the former boxer’s style. It was brutal, but it got the job done. Harry was the softly spoken word to Conroy’s big stick. He couldn’t help but wonder whether all that trouble with the Kanes might have been avoided if he’d had someone like Conroy in his corner back then.

“We need to move,” Walsh called out.

Clubber nodded. Each man threw a large bag filled with cash over their shoulders and made ready for their escape. Franklin was parked around the corner in the van. They’d be on the other side of London before Carlisle knew what had hit him. 

Behind him, Harry heard the backdoor to the Cooperage fling open as Stockton, Walsh and Clubber disappeared through it. He look one last glance at the Cooperage employees and gave them a theatrical bow as if accepting an encore from an adoring crowd.

“As you were, ladies and gentlemen.”

As he was about to follow his crew through the door, he heard the sound of screeching tyres and pistols cocking. There was shouting from outside. Harry's face dropped in an instance. It was the Old Bill. It had to be the Old Bill because if it were Carlisle's men they would have started shooting first and asked questions afterwards.

Harry scanned around the Cooperage desperately for an exit. There was no way he was walking into the deathtrap that Clubber, Stockton and Walsh were caught in. He'd heard Clubber say enough times that he wasn't going back to prison to know that standoff wasn't going to end peaceably. When the shooting started, his suspicions were all but concerned.

"Fuck," Harry muttered under his breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

They would have both front and rear exit covers, that's for sure. His brain was flying at a hundred miles per hour, trying to remember the schematics of the place that Stockton had acquired for them before the heist. By the time the shooting had stopped, he remembered there was a side exit the workers used when they wanted to go out for a smoke. If he was going to get out in one piece, it would be through there.

The bag of money over his shoulder made him feel like he was running through treacle. Reluctantly he slung the bag to the ground and made for the side exit. As he reached it, he pulled out the pistol in his waistband and prepared to shoot his way out. With a kick, the door flung open and Harry broke through it.

The alley was empty all but for one figure. Harry trained his weapon on him before recognising the trademark navy peacoat. Without saying a word, DI Eddie Dunphy used the barrel of his own pistol to reveal the likeliest escape route to him and Harry followed it without a second's thought.

Clubber, Stockton and Walsh were probably dead. If Franklin was clever, he'd have high-tailed it out of there the second Old Bill showed up. Knowing the boy, he was probably sat in the back of a police van. 

Harry had absolutely no intention of joining him.

[center][b]***[/b][/center]
[b]Wembley Stadium
4:56 PM
24 Minutes Left in Extra Time[/b]

Red had almost kissed Coach on the mouth when West Germany scored their last-minute equaliser. He wasn’t sure exactly [i]how[/i] Crowder had willed it into being, but he had seemingly managed it with that quip of his. The two of them stood, growing more and more nervous about the crowds surrounding the stadium, until a window opened high above them.

“Look sharp,” Red ordered.

Crowder quickly ran to the driver’s seat of the ambulance and turned on the vehicle’s engine. Lewandowski had no-showed. Turner was worried about that, too – but slightly less worried than he had been about Charlie’s lateness. Something had held him up. He hoped Cecil wasn’t in some kind of trouble.

The first bag of cash was flung down to Red. He readied himself to catch it but was still caught off-guard by just how heavy it was. The take was going to be bigger than they had thought. As of yet, Turner wasn’t [i]entirely[/i] sure whether that was a good thing.

What seemed like a dozen more bags were thrown down and Turner loaded each onto the waiting ambulance. Finally Charlie’s head popped out of the window above them. Turner and he made eye contact. He wanted to shout out to Enfield and ask him whether Bobby was with him – but to do so would be to tip-off anyone listening in that their crew had a fourth. He couldn’t risk it.

Instead he made a flinging gesture with his hand. At the end of the gesture his fingers flicked out abruptly, striking against his thumb, in a makeshift exploding motion. Charlie watched him for a few seconds, as if trying to decipher the gesture's meaning, and then suddenly nodded back determinedly. The window shut and Enfield disappeared back inside the courting room.

“What’s going on?” Coach mumbled to Red as Turner made his way around to the passenger side. “Was the kid with Charlie?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Red sighed.

“Christ, as if the game wasn’t bloody dramatic enough on its own.”

The two elder statesmen of the crew sat in the front of the ambulance in silence. One of Turner’s hands reached for the dial on the radio. Coach glanced at his colleague despairingly, fearing he was about to turn the match off altogether, but was relieved to find Red turning the volume up slightly.

There was nothing they could do now, Red ruminated. Everything was resting on Charlie – and, perhaps not for the first time, that thought made him anxious.