Charles's Point of View.
My role in this operation was simple: deliver the intel to my daughters and let them execute. They are the operators now.
And I was looking forward, anxiously, to seeing how they would execute it. Judging, I gave them no plan.
It reminded me of an old movie, "Twenty-Four Hours." A crew planned to intercept a money delivery van, only to find it taking a different route. Undeterred, they decided to hit the bank anyway, not wanting to return empty-handed.
Our situation was similar in objective, yet different in approach. We were targeting a bank delivery van, but the plan was to let it reach the bank first, probably. That last part was the daughters 'cross to bear– the daughters' call. Their strategy, their game, their execution.
I had given them the target: they had their custom masks, their dark clothing, and the duffel bags for the haul. It was all in their hands.
If anything should go wrong, that was the reason I gave them two handguns, and one bullet in each of them.
Monday morning. Their maiden mission. I woke up at seven-fifteen in the morning, intending to offer some last-minute advice, but they were already gone. Milan, their mother, sat in the living room, a serene figure with a teacup in hand, comfortably settled on the sofa, and looking at my anxiety.
Milan hadn't been involved in their training; she had only observed us during the training sessions. Yet, her confidence in them far surpassed mine. "Relax," she told me, "they are more than capable of handling this little task on their own."
I sat at the dining table, in a nervous rhythm, tapping the table with my middle finger. The tension was unbearable. I had to switch on the television, hoping for any news. Breaking news that could possibly tell about robbery. Milan just chuckled at my anxiety, and she was so calm.
By twenty minutes down to eight in the morning, I could no longer stand the waiting. I thought of what to do, and a long, hot shower offered a temporary escape. Emerging from the ten-minute shower that felt like an eternity, I found Milan in the bedroom.
"How are you holding up?" she asked. I didn't reply, I just dressed and went to the living room. And there they were. My daughters, already back, and waiting for me.
A wave of relief, a surge of joy, washed over me. But then I saw their faces. Frowning.
What has gone wrong? The question snagged into my mind, like the way bicycles jam on each other in the game of cycling.
The initial joy curdled into unease, then a sharp spike of fear. There were only five of them.My eldest wasn't there. "Where's your sister?" I asked, my voice tight."Inside!" they chorused.
At least they were safe, I told myself.
Just then, Vesta walked in from her room, a deep furrow in her brow. I was lost. My mind raced, throwing up unanswered questions.
I spread my hands in different directions for explanation.
"I had to create a diversion, Dad. With the police. That's why it took so long. It won't happen again. We're sorry," Ace explained.
"The money?" I asked.
"In my room," Vesta replied. My ears perked up.Now it clicked. Their frowns weren't about failure, but about the delay.
Time was a crucial element, a lesson I had drilled into them.
Seeing their remorse, I seized the opportunity. "This cannot happen again," I emphasized, the worry still lingering in my voice.
Ace's Point of View.
When Dad announced our first real mission – hijacking a bank delivery van – a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. We were well-trained, yes, but this was the real world. Our first time working together under pressure.
What if our coordination failed us?
I glanced at Helen, who was dancing joyously to the news that it had no beat. Her carefree attitude baffled me, and I saw Dad notice my unease.
It wasn't fear, exactly. It was the weight of being a novice, the sheer number of things that could go sideways.
Dad's training had been rigorous, almost brutal. He'd given us impossible scenarios, like the "two guns, two bullets" test, always stressing never to take a life.
The night before the mission, a strange silence fell over us. No last-minute strategizing, no whispered anxieties. We'd all retreated into our own thoughts since Dad's briefing two days prior. No one had a concrete plan.
That night, I was glued to my computer, brainstorming. That's when the idea of a diversion struck me.
Dad had hammered into us the myriad ways a mission could implode, painting vivid pictures of prison cells and ruined lives. He'd built a fortress of fear in our minds, as towering as the Burj Khalifa.
"Watch each other's backs," he had always said. "Go the extra mile to ensure your sisters don't get caught." His training stories were filled with cautionary tales of the careless and the overconfident, designed to instill a healthy dose of paranoia. His logic: if we believed we weren't invincible, we would be cautious, and therefore, untouchable.
His training made every step feel like a potential trap. Yet, our first mission… it felt surprisingly clean. Too clean?
When I asked Helen, she said, "First mission!" The news sent a thrill of pure excitement through her. Finally, a chance to unleash years of relentless training.
She narrated how she couldn't help but dance a little, even to the droning news anchor.
Father always painted these scenarios as some monumental, near-impossible feat. But honestly? It felt surprisingly straightforward. Almost… easy.
My plan was simple, almost elegant. I would take Mom's car and play the decoy, a high-speed chase with Helen in Dad's car, making it look completely genuine. The police bought it with a hook, line, and sinker.
Twenty million dollars. That's what we walked away with. Dad had given it to us to divide. Not bad for a first day on the job.