Try Harder

9:30pm

About a kilometre away from the office building, Beka pulled into the parking lot of a small gas station and parked the car. She was still in shock, quivering as if taking a cold shower. Her hands were gripped tightly around the steering wheel. It took her a few moments to compose herself.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and tried dialling 9-1-1. Her hand shook uncontrollably, and her fingers fumbled over the keypad. She was in such a panic that she could barely dial the right numbers.

She put the phone to her ear and listened to it ring. She tapped her foot anxiously.

"Come on, come on..." she mumbled impatiently.

Finally, a pleasant young man answered.

"9-1-1," he said, flat and direct. "What is your emergency?"

"I need a fire truck on Matheson Boulevard," Beka yelled, clearly agitated. "There's a building on fire! You have to hurry!"

"Which building is that, ma'am?"

"The big one. The law offices of Bennett, Olsen, and... and, I don't know, a bunch of random Swiss guys. You can't miss it. It's the tall building with flames coming out of it."

The last remark made the clerk chortle.

"Okay, ma'am," the man continued, "emergency vehicles have been dispatched to the scene. They should be there right away." Beka could hear him typing away madly at a keyboard as he spoke.

Beka leaned forward, resting her forehead against the steering wheel, and breathed a sigh of relief. She felt as though a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders.

She clicked her phone off and tossed it out the window. Since it could connect her back to the heist, she didn't dare keep it on her anymore. She felt a twinge of regret, since she had an impressive high score in Tetris saved on that phone.

The car grumbled loudly as Beka started the engine. She took a deep breath and smiled. It was finally over.

She drove away and never looked back. This night had been the single worst experience of her entire life. She vowed to herself from that moment on she would never take a job she couldn't do from bed in her pyjamas.

***

Marcus was standing behind the drill, pushing all his weight against it and forcing the diamond-plated tip deeper into the steel door. The vault was starting to show some resistance, making the heavy piece of machinery shudder and squeal. The drill bit was shaking like an epileptic on the dance floor, shooting out grey, acrid smoke.

The old man eased the machine back, and then gently poured coolant along the edge of the bit. It made a soft hissing sound as the liquid splashed onto the hot metal.

He knew he was really close. Most safes are constructed with several layers of composite materials to hamper any attempts to break into them. This particular Strongbox model included a layer of tar to fill the room with smoke if someone tried to cut into it with a torch. Marcus had already breached that, as well as the layer of copper plating intended to dissipate heat. He was almost all the way through the safe door.

The drill had pierced through to the vault's penultimate layer: the "hard plates" barrier. These were composed of high-density metals, stitched together in a manner designed to eat boxes of drillbits. Luckily, that huge explosion had burned most of it away. There was less than an inch left, and years of experience had taught Marcus the proper techniques to chew through these hard plates without much difficulty.

He pushed the end of the drill back into position and slid the bit into the hole he'd bored. The machine whirred and grinded for a minute or two, and then jerked back suddenly. It had finally pushed through the hard plate.