5:30 p.m.

The men walked quickly into the 18th street Albertson’s.  It was Saturday.  The day before had been pay day, but the weekend beer runs had trickled down to a few disappointed customers who were trying to talk the cashiers into selling them beer, even though it was nearly 3 am.  I won’t tell if you won’t tell.

The two men quickly looked around and silently gestured to one another.  One of the men walked over to an employee who looked to be the night manager, while the other one walked over to a checker.  Simultaneously, they grabbed the person they had chosen, pulled guns from under their jackets, and held them to the victims’ heads.

“Nobody move.”

There were several screams, but no one tried being a hero.  The man who held the manager dragged her to the cubicle that over-looked the entire store, and housed the safe.

“Open it,” he yelled, digging the gun into her temple.

“I can’t.  I don’t have the combination,” she cried.

“Bullshit.  I watched you open it at 11:00 when the shifts changed.  Don’t lie to me anymore, Bitch.”  He yanked her hair, causing her head to be pulled back painfully, until he was able to get nose to nose with her.  “Understand?”

The manager, her name tag said ‘Wendy.  How may I help you?’, nodded.  Her mascara ran freely down her face.

Wendy-how-may-I-help-you fumbled with the combination of the safe.  She was only supposed to know the first three of the six digits, with the other manager possessing the rest, but laziness and a false sense of security caused everyone to relax the proper procedures.  She knew she couldn’t lie about it to the gunman; he had already seen her open the safe.  Better to lose her job than her life.

She finished opening the safe, and tried to step out of the way.  The gunman pushed her back to the safe and said, “Fill up the bank bags, fast.”  Wendy-how-may-I-help-you complied.