Ground Heist

A volley of wild shots is quite an effective way to make a crowd of civilians scatter. Of course, nothing about the strategic bullet pattern on the dead clerk indicated that the shots were wild. Well planned murder, Cibrian mused. His amused gaze darted over the stampede of frenzied citizens. The war had taught them to run for shelter at any sign of a threat. It was a real pity they didn’t realise this was a staged homicide. Mass hysteria tended to cloud one’s detection skills.

Cibrian stalked towards the corpse in the bloody snow, slumped against the teller machine. Scurrying individuals tossed him puzzled and horrified looks. He knew he must appear shockingly mad, strutting towards the danger while every sane man grabbed his wife and children and bolted down the street. Cibrian tracked the bullet holes. He glanced around, his eyes sharp and watchful, estimating the force of the shot and the distance from the teller to a possible sniper's position.

Another night attack on the province proved the Order was behind it all. It was fascinating that law enforcers remained oblivious, but he supposed the façade of peace and unity the Order hid behind was difficult to see through. After the revolution, even the enforcers were desperate for some semblance of peace, no matter if it was nothing more than a flimsy illusion.

Drawing his gaze away from the chaos ensuing, his mind wandered to the man he had encountered not once but thrice in the last fortnight. Regular bank visits were ordinary, but these were different. They were timed and yet strategically random; purposeful. The man was young, his stance cool and calm, nonchalant. At least to the standard eye. But Cibrian was anything but standard, and it stood to reason that his eyes were as well. The easy bearing was overly contrived, as was the unassuming position. He had to be a scout of some sort, and Cibrian had a fair idea of what was worth scouting.

The thoughtful frown slipped off his face as he felt the cold sensation of something moist and slimy seeping through his dapper suit. The rank stench of stale cigars and mildew wafted past his nose. “Get out of the way, bloody knob!”

Sighing to himself, Cibrian dabbed at the dark stain on his shirt, peering distractedly behind him to locate the culprit in the sea of hurrying men. He shook his head. He would deal with it later. 

First, he had a lead to follow…and a planned heist to meddle with. 

Sauntering up the road, he ducked into the west-end alley, well assured no one followed. Leaning leisurely against the musty alley-corner, he vanished, leaving behind an unruffled amused grin. 

He reappeared in a cold misty garden. 

Winding vines hung low from snow-covered trees that seemed to close in as he walked. The harsh November weather made its presence known from the icicles hanging firmly on the towering palms. Red roses littered the garden floor, their intense crimson colour stark against the white of the snow, their stems covered in copious amounts of thorns. In a patch beyond the pine trees and crowd of thorns sat neat rows of hemlock and perfectly trimmed manchineels. Not far behind was a similar circular row of stunning tubular blossoms. Foxglove, Cibrian noted, not for the first time, with equal parts distaste and grudging admiration. 

Here was where it had all begun and where he predicted it would end. He was sure, never had been more so. And Cibrian’s predictions never failed. It was only a matter of patience and meddling. For now, he had business to attend.

Pressing on, Cibrian continued through the forest, which was darkening rapidly as the eve drew on. As he walked, a familiar feeling set his mind on high alert. There was an odd quality to the night. It was thicker or rather thinner, somehow, as though the air itself were denser here than usual, that it did not carry sound as ordinary air did, that it required a higher effort than usual to walk through. He grimly wondered about the gravity mechanism of the massive outdoor garden. The subtle yet staggering change, in reality, should have made it hard for the average man to continue to venture through. But Cibrian was not average. 

After nearly half an hour, he fixed his gaze on the much-anticipated destination: a cove hidden away in a cluster of pines. Glancing unhurriedly around, he made sure his unsuspecting targets sensed his arrival before he uttered a silent incantation and pressed his palm into the wall of the cove. Slowly, it pushed further into the wall until he'd formed a new entrance. 

It was time to do what needed to be done.

Not much later, Cibrian poked his head out of the entrance, a small package wrapped in a dark brown cloth clasped in his fingers. His mission here was complete. Teleporting away, he appeared in his home in the bosom of the province and hid the package before settling into his armchair, ready to peer outside his two-way window. Cibrian watched silently as a curly-haired, dark-skinned young woman made her way into her home, directly across from his. He thought that was exceedingly convenient. She carried a small bag of items. They looked like groceries, but he knew they were computer parts necessary for her "project". The one she'd been working on for the last three months, she and her little band of misfits. He briefly wondered if they would be meeting today. 

A sleek, black Porsche pulled into the driveway of the house. A satisfied smile settled across Cibrian’s brown face. From the back door, a petite unassuming brunette stepped out. She wore a cardigan, and her pretty islander features looked rather naive and somewhat vulnerable. Cibrian scoffed at the idea. That one, he knew, without doubt, was the shooter. 

A lanky redhead spilt out of the passenger seat. College-age, Cibrian knew, but the others did not. With sharp hawk-like features that bore reference to the boy’s rather thin structure, it was easy for him to pass off as close to his third decade. His eyes told the story of struggle, one Cibrian knew well enough to recognize. His motives were perhaps the easiest to identify of the group. All his theories were affirmed with one look at the distant, dreamy expression and faint hungry look.

Another man stepped out fluidly from the driving seat of the Porsche. Cibrian sat up, his gaze intent; this was him, the cunning behind it all. His motives, on the other hand, had not been so easy to decipher. Much like the complex encrypted codes the curly-haired one frequently fiddled with, codes that could halve the population of the province with a single click. The two ladies settled into a huddle with the two men, an urgency in their posture, an urgency that resembled panic. Cibrian’s smile widened into a maddening grin. Let them wonder where the package was. A thought made him pause. There were five of them; a third man. An imbalance of gender, in his opinion, but what did he know?

A casual Ford parked along the street and out bounced a man of average height. Speak of the devil, Cibrian muttered in delight.

The fifth prodigy.

The events were beginning, the five were in action. This would be the first ground robbery.

A small huff of laughter escaped him as he watched them. They might succeed, he thought, despite or because of his interference. He slowly lifted the aviator glasses of his eyes and placed them in their case. Cibrian raised his feet to the mahogany desk and leaned back, the small smile still visible on his handsome Arabian features. This was a heist he wanted to watch.