Forty-two percent

Marco turned the key and his entire body began to rumble in tune with the car. The motor purred playfully, like a cat getting its belly scratched, but he was well aware of how quickly it could turn into a roaring lion if he just put down his foot. The tiniest smile prodded at the corner of his mouth as he pictured waking up the beast. But his foot stayed where it was. He knew it wouldn't pay off.

He looked down at the small clock next to the speedometer, not really sure if he wanted to know the time. Nine minutes to nine. Twenty one minutes had gone by so far. His leg began to twitch.

He sighed and pressed his head against the cold window, looking up at the brooding sky, the dark, menacing clouds far above him threatening to come crashing down any minute now. There hadn't been any rain for the last three weeks and the air was thick, clogged up by the mix of humidity and fumes.

He opened the window a couple of inches to hear the sounds coming in from the main street and was surprised at the smell of fresh bread drifting in with the noises, filling his nostrils and making his stomach growl. It made him think of the night before in Irene's kitchen, when they had all gathered together one last time.

It was a simple enough kitchen, not too small, not too big. The walls were all lined with identical cream-coloured cupboards, only breaking up for a set of double windows looking out at the garden, now cloaked in darkness, and the door they had walked in through a few minutes earlier, which was guarded by a tall fridge that hummed in the background. A single drop of water escaped the tap every few seconds to plop into the puddle building up at the bottom of a mixing bowl that had been unceremoniously dumped into the sink. The oven door was ajar, the delicious waft of home-made bread filling the room.

As he took in the sights and smells, Irene waddled into the room burdened with two thick binders fit to burst with documents, pictures, maps and blueprints, all interspersed with a variety of colour-coded sticky notes. She dropped them onto the round wooden table they were all sitting around, the thump jolting Marco out of his self-induced trance. Charlotte and Jonah both sniggered at his reaction – typical of those two idiots. Then again, most crew members he'd worked with who got assigned gun duty became cocky about it in one way or another, so he found it easy to shrug them off.

So here they were, all five of them gathered around one last time before the job. Irene sitting next to him, the twins opposite her and the kid across from him.

The kid.

Despite his obnoxiousness, Marco had managed to tolerate him so far, but tonight he was making him feel a little uneasy. His usual cockiness, his self-assuredness, were nowhere to be seen. All colour had been drained from his face, as if washed away. His hands were shaking so hard the ice cubes in his glass rattled around like dice in a beaker every time he lifted it to his lips. Big, fat drops of sweat kept condensing on his temples and sliding down along the side of his face. Enough perspiration to drown a mouse, by Marco's reckoning.

He couldn't decide who worried him more, the kid or the twins, but before he could make his mind up Irene began to talk.

“So, I want us to go through the plan together one last time before tomorrow,” she began as she leafed through one of the binders.

“What?” interrupted Jonah. “You made us come all the way from the other side of town to go through it again?”

“Yeah, what is this?” added his sister. “We've gone through it a million times, we thought we were coming around for a little pre-celebration.”

The twins were unable to keep the grins from their faces, but Marco recognised Irene's interrogation look when he saw it. She had stopped leafing through the binder and was now staring intently at them – at both of them at the same time, somehow, and neither of them was able to look away.

SLAM.

Marco jumped in place at the noise, the seat belt pulling him back into the seat. He looked around in a panic, fumbling for the glove compartment, but before he could reach it he realised what was going on and drew back.

False alarm. It was just someone from one of the businesses with a back door into the alley – one of the people responsible for the smell of bread now permeating the car, based on their attire. She chucked a large black plastic bag carelessly into a large bin and went back inside, somehow managing to slam the door even harder than when she had banged it open.

Marco's leg was still twitching. His hand, the one that had reached over for the glove compartment, was now resting on the worn out fabric of the steering wheel, his fingers drumming lightly on it. He looked down at the clock. Six minutes to nine.

Irene had closed the binder with a slam, this time making everyone but Marco jump. She leaned forward, never taking her eye off of the twins, reminding Marco of a panther ready to pounce. Her lips were curved upwards in a gentle smile, but her eyes told another story.

“Well, then. Tell me what the plan is for tomorrow.”

The twins looked at each other, all confidence now gone. Finally, Charlotte broke the silence. “We, uh, we arrive at the alleyway at half past eight. Marco here stays in the car, while the four of us make our way to the bank in two separate groups – you go with the kid, while Jonah and I go our own way.”

“We get to the building six minutes later, at twenty-four minutes to nine,” continued her brother, “without drawing any attention to ourselves. The kid walks up to the guard to distract him while I get behind him. I incapacitate him-”

“Non-lethally,” interrupted Irene.

“Yes, yes, non-lethally.”

“Once the guard is... secured,” went on Charlotte, “you inform the director of the office of the situation. He will be at the first window. In the meantime, I get behind the teller line to ensure nobody triggers the alarm.”

“Non-lethally.”

Charlotte smiled a snake-like grin. “Of course.”

“And then?”

They rushed in around the corner, bumping into a trash can as they did, its lid crashing into the ground like a cymbal marking the climax of some orchestral movement, bringing Marco back to the present. He readied himself for the drive, going through the route in his head one last time... and then stopped. Talk about anti-climactic. As they got closer, he realised it wasn't the crew, but a bunch of kids running and playing about. The duffel bags they were swinging about had tricked him and he realised his brain had started to estimate how much they were holding before he'd discovered it wasn't them.

They ran past the car without even noticing Marco was in it and reached the other end of the alley before he'd managed to bring his breathing back to normal. His leg continued to twitch, his fingers now drumming louder at the wheel. His other hand, which had been perched on the half-open window pane, slipped back in and he began to rap on the glass with his knuckles. He looked down at the clock. Three minutes to nine.

“Then we get us some of the green stuff,” snorted Jonah.

The boss looked at him sternly, the way a teacher does before she's about to berate a child, making him gulp loudly. Before she got a chance to act on her unspoken threat, he continued explaining. “The vault is in the back, past the interior offices. You and my sister take the director and a customer with you and have it opened.”

“You keep an eye on them while I fill the duffel bags,” said Charlotte, her eyes beginning to bulge as she licked her lips with excitement. “Two bags each, packed with notes and gold. I just fill, and fill, and fill, and-”

Irene let out a deliberate cough.

Charlotte, whose gaze had been out of focus, blinked a couple of times and looked at the boss. Her tongue was still sticking out, locked at ten o'clock on her lips, but quickly slithered back in behind her teeth. She cleared her throat, as if to keep down a hiss, and managed to let out a few words instead. “Until the bags are full or we hit eight minutes to nine, whichever comes first.”

Jonah rolled his eyes. “I don't get it, boss. Why are we so strict about the time? Why not make the most of it?”

“This is making the most of it, Jonah,” replied Irene. “I've seen it a hundred times: someone gets greedy and spends more time than they should in the bank; inevitably, the police arrive and they have no way out. I've looked at the numbers and sixteen is the magic number. Every minute after that decreases your chances of success by forty-two percent of what they were the previous minute.” She looked around at the four of them, the only sounds in the room the humming of the fridge and the drip-drip from her tap. “Well, it seems you do know your part so far, but I'd like to revisit a couple of points.”

As she continued to speak, she looked back down at the top binder, which she was flicking through once again. Out of the corner of his eye, Marco caught Charlotte winking at her brother.

A raindrop split itself on the edge of the half-opened window, splashing on Marco's cheek. A couple more drops hit his face and he quickly rolled the window back up. The rain pattered against the bonnet as his knuckles began to rap on the glass pane once again. Forty-two percent for every minute. They had arrived at half past eight, the other four leaving immediately. His fingers drummed at the wheel. Six minutes to get to the bank, six minutes to get back, making it a twelve minute round trip. Sixteen is the magic number. His leg twitched – how long had it been twitching for now? Twelve and sixteen, that was twenty-eight. Or was it twenty-six? He couldn't think straight any more.

He looked down at the clock.