[b]Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange
12:12 AM[/b]

Red started the timer and watched as Frederick Reams, the man they called “Freddy Fingers”, went to work. He’d never worked with Reams before but his reputation was second to none. There was no better safecracker in all of London – at least not one that was breathing. Turner watched on as Fingers expertly felt his way around the dial, listening for the slightest of sounds, while gently tapping the outside from time to time with some of the tools he’d brought with him. It was like watching a virtuoso at work. Reams seemed calm, collected, and completely unphased by working against the clock. Every movement was precise.

Turner glanced down at the timer and back up to Reams.  “A minute-thirty left.”

Freddy offered a thumbs-up by way of recognition and continued on with his work. Red set his shotgun down on a table for a moment and used the sleeve of his overalls to wipe away the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He glanced over to Freddy again and noticed there wasn’t a single bead of sweat on his. 

“A minute.”

As the seconds melted away, Freddy’s nonchalance began to worry Red. They had practised this more times than Turner cared to recall and Reams had never come up short once, but executing in the field was another thing. Turner had seen more accomplished men wilt under pressure before. And where the lack of urgency that Fingers showed had been impressive but thirty seconds ago, with less than a minute on the clock, it now began to grate.

“Thirty seconds, Freddy.”

“Could you?” Fingers slipped one of the discs free from his ear and pressed one of his namesake against his thin lips. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Red nodded sheepishly and left Fingers to his work. There was nothing Turner could do from here. It was all in Reams’ hands. He picked up his shotgun, placing it lazily under his arm, and watched the seconds tick by as Freddy worked. With around twelve seconds on the clock, the safecracker’s eyes narrowed some and a long thin tongue slithered through his lips.

“Et voila.” 

The safe door popped open and Freddy stepped aside to allow Red to inspect its contents. The half a dozen binders filled with documents and grainy photographs caught his eye. He reached for a folder and opened it briefly, skimming through its contents, before setting it back down. Blackmail material, he was sure, probably worth a small fortune to the right person – but Turner’s crew weren’t in the business of blackmail. They were there for one thing and one thing only.

One of Red’s hands reached for a beige bag inside the safe. He pried it open and pulled out a smaller black cloth bag inside. Gently he undid the cord that tied the cloth bag open and tipped the bag’s contents out into his hand. One diamond came tumbling out, then another, then another, and when Turner shone a torch on the small diamonds sat in the palm of his hand the light was almost blinding. A large grin appeared on Red’s face as he inspected the precious stones.

“I think we’ve hit the jackpot this time, Freddy,” he said over his shoulder contentedly.

There came no answer from Fingers. Unperturbed, Turner began to tip the diamonds back into the cloth bag, making sure not to drop a single one. Once they were in, he tied the cord around the bag with as much care as he could muster and prepared to slip it inside the courier bag. From behind Red a familiar click sounded and his face dropped instantly. He knew what it was before he turned to face it.

“Freddy?”

The safecracker had produced a pistol from somewhere and was brandishing it in his direction. There was a steely look in Freddy’s eyes. He looked every bit as determined to pull the trigger if necessary as he had been determined to crack the safe moments ago. All the same, one of Red’s hands crept towards his shotgun.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Freddy uttered calmly as his finger tightened on the trigger. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t.”