Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One by P.R.Sharp Page A

Zola quickly separated those from the other keys and systematically inserted each of these one by one into the lock until he found a perfect match, then he readied the card key and, pausing only to visualise swiping the card and turning the key in unison, he held his breath and swiped, turning the key at the same time. The door opened a fraction of an inch, and Zola could feel its weight against his finger tips. He noticed that his hand was shaking and nudged the door open with his knee, his torch sweeping the room looking for targets, but found none; the room was clear. The others bundled into the room and a collective and palpable sigh of relief was exhaled by all three as the heavy, barred door closed behind them with a reassuring click. Their breathing became noticeably calmer as they each surveyed the room, under the ever sweeping gaze of the torches attached to their guns. Zola reached into his leg pocket and pulled out half a dozen glow sticks, held together with a couple of cable ties. He twisted and bent them all until they came alive, then pulled them from the ties and dropped them at intervals around the room. There was a long table with four chairs, a couple of adding machines, a phone and a stack of cash register draws waiting to be filled with float. There had been a struggle, probably spurred on by an increased need to escape. Bags of coins lay scattered across the table. Against the stone walls, there were counter tops on two sides, two spaces to each, with three spaces big enough to accommodate an office chair; and in the fourth space, its thick metal door yawning wide open, sat the safe. Piles of cash money spewed from its mouth, carpeting the cold, bland floor with notes of every denomination. More notes were inside; counted into bundles of one thousand and seal wrapped in saline coloured plastic, packed at least five deep and ten high. The floor of the safe contained three metal lock boxes, which were open. One contained bagged coppers. The second bagged silver and the third; bagged higher denomination coinage and receipts.
    The Sergeant hunched his full weight on to the table edge, and folded his arms. "Call me a heartless bastard. I know I should be grieving the loss of one of my team right now; but that's a lot of money."
    "Fucking jackpot!" The Corporal almost snorted.
    "After what just happened? It's a fucking heist!" Xander shot back with a bit less humour than intended.
    "We can mourn Walker later, but for now, the odds are against us, lads. I say... We split it four ways and we give Walker's share to his mum in Peckham. It‘s the least we can do."
    "He's from Peckham?"
    "Fuck knows. The point is, I'd feel a lot less like a thief if his mum gets some unofficial compensation for the loss of her son. Army rate is pretty crap. If you've got a problem with this, you better speak now. But my conscience is clear.”
    “Don’t you think we need to discuss this?”
    “There’s nothing to discuss.”
    “Walker…”
    “Is dead.”
    “No, he’s not.”
    “He’s dead.”
    “He’s infected.”
    “I’m telling you, he’s fucking dead. End of conversation. Now, I‘m taking this money, and you can have your share, or not. Call it recompense for a lifetime of thankless service. What‘s it going to be?”
    "I don't have a problem with any of that." Xander said, backing down. "I'm just saying... it's a heist. In fact, it's the perfect heist. I mean, who would think of nicking money when the world as we know it is going to hell."
    Ignoring coins, the paper cash amounted to five hundred and twenty thousand four ways = one hundred and thirty thousand each.
    Not bad for a day’s work.

1.4
    Ace of Spades
    RAW MEAT FOR THE BALCONY
    'The brain is a three pound mass you can hold
    in your hand that can conceive of a universe a
    hundred-billion lights-years across...'
    Marian Diamond.

Xander stared at the glow stick by his feet, pondering the ramifications of stealing the takings from the supermarket. He