The heist is almost boring for Quinton. R e p e t i t i v e she supposes. The target is just another bank, bigger than their last, but not big enough in her opinion. Its not feeding that dark part of her that yearns for blood and pain. If nothing else can be said about Quinton, she is ambitious and sadistic. Then again, she supposes starting small is the best bet for their long-term health. What is the saying? Practice makes perfectā¦and they are damn close to perfect. The robbery is planned the same way Quinton plans her shopping trips ā all details and desires. Distract and conquer. The heist is surgery like, or at least that's the way Quin thinks of it. They go in, extract the money, and donāt leave a damn trace of evidence. Of course, it is never that cut and dry and she loves it. This was the pattern she was raised with, this was the world she knows.
She tucks her Browning into her pants for extra insurance and lets her top hang loose over it. At first the metal is cold against her skin, icy perhaps, and she loves it. After just a few moments of it pressed against the taunt skin of her abdomen, the metal was ambient, feeling more like a part of herself than a tool of death. She had gotten it from her current companion, and good friend Andreas. She loves her Browning, all sharp angles and pain. With a little prodding from Andreas she had even named it Lola.
Quin doesnāt expect to use it today, itās not her job to wave her gun. They each have their part to play, and hers is leading the circus. Sheās calm as she instructs the teller to open the vault. They donāt want lives, just money, or at least thatās the lie she tells everyone. If everything goes as she plans everyone will make it out alive. Not that things ever go to plan. Quin adjusts her skull mask. It only covers the top half of her face, down to the tip of her fuckinā adorable button nose. Horns protrude from the top of it grotesquely, exactly how Quin likes it.
Quin is aware no-one gets to be leader without having the morals of a sewer rat. For all their "code" the only one that counts is the most barbaric scum-bag rules. Be loyal or be more savage, that's the way it is. Maybe it is her instinct for cruelty that made the others follow herā¦or maybe it is her breasts, they are pretty fucking great. Either way she is satisfied with their crew, no matter why they follow her. Quinton prides herself on her family tiesā¦but none of that blood thicker than water bullshit. Family doesnāt end with blood. This crew is her family. Robbing banks tends to create unbreakable bonds between virtual strangers. The "family" she has created for herself does not have a single drop of blood in common with her, and yet she would shed all of hers for them without a single thought.
The baritone of a male voice reverberates through the bank, breaking her reverie. It is soothing and smooth, like silk, or velvet wrapping around each and every person. Ash. He is their crowd pleaser, so to speak, and heās damn good at it. Heās a fuckinā pro, and he knows it. She supposes thatās what she loves about him. Heās the kind of people person she can never be. Sure, sheās charming as fuck, and she has a body to kill forā¦but she is no Ash. The smile never leaves his face, perfect soft lips over perfect white teeth. Amiable as ever, as if they werenāt waving guns around threatening lives. Its fucking h i l a r i o u s to her inner psychoā¦until, that is, she hears sirens.
The wailing of said siren rent the still air like a butcher's cleaver on a carcass. It was a violence to the calm that had been before. Her heart jumps into her throat as her brain registers the meaning of the jarring racket. S H I T. Now they need to move more quickly than she likes.
Someone has done something stupid, and that same someone is screaming, begging, hoping to survive the situation she has put herself in. Quinton rolls her eyes as she packs the money into the bag at blinding speed. She glances around the corner and seeās the beautiful blond creature writhing in a delicious kind of agony Quin herself craved to be doling out. The crying gets old almost immediately. It doesnāt bother her per say, if anything it makes her want to beat the woman into silence. She aches to feel the burn of open wounds on her knuckles from bone crunching contact.
For a moment, she thinks of indulging that fantasy, of letting her control slip and letting her fingers slink into the fine golden spun hair, fist and yank. She wanted to feel the herself demolish that womanās delicate features under her hands, and, when she has finally taken her fill of that womanās pain, Quin would press her hands to the woman's throat, squeezing until she no longer moved. She breaths out shakily and goes back to her task. She trusts her crew, they know what to do. Her body is running h o t. She gives a humorless chuckle as she realizes just how depraved she really is. God it is so good to be bad.
The gunshot cracked into the air as loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. Itās is a noise that heralds death and destruction. It sends electric tingles down her pine and her breath quickens. Quintonās senses sharpen with adrenaline. Then silence returns, far more thickly than it was before the shots, as if everyone around them is collectively holding their breath.
The money is packed neatly in its designated section of the black leather duffel bags they brought. She glances down and can only think one thing: Fuckinā gorgeous. She has no idea why people consider money the root of all evil. Personally, she loves money, and money l o v e s her. She glances around and nods to her crew. Time to get the fuck out of dodge.
Quinton throws the bag over her shoulder and walks around the tellerās counter. The sight that meets her steel grey eyes makes her pause.
A body lays on the once pristine cold marble floor, like a ghoulish mannequin, or some grotesque piece of art, soaking in a pool of her own blood. It is breath taking, and for a moment she stares. The blood and bone shards stood at stark contrast to the white marble floor, it is a masterpiece she is not sure she will ever be able to forgetā¦not that she wants to. The bullet entered as if she is nothing, just meat, blood, bones, blasting through her with a splatter of crimson. Her golden blond hair is scattered in multiple places, stained with dried blood. Her face, so beautiful in life, was frozen, eyes open, and mouth slack. Quin tries to feel pity, but she can only muster amusement. Stupid is not fixable, itās better to just weed them out.
Well, what could have been twenty five years tops, would likely be life and then some if they didnāt get the move on. She had decided when they had started this gig, that she would leave each heist either in the getaway car driven by her drop dead sexy gal Bambi, or she would be in a fucking body bag, there would be no in between. Quin finds she has an allergy to the bracelets and the pigs that are so willing to give them out.
Quin didnāt have to guess who had done it. She glanced at Alexie, making a face she knew is a man who has the swagger of someone most people don't even want to lock eyes with, let alone cross. His arms are more ink than skin, and he has more arm than Quin has body. Mountain of a man. He doesnāt talk much, but when he does it is in the kind of tone you donāt ignore if you like breathing without a respirator. Quinton supposes he just doesn't have any moral boundaries, no sense of right or wrong, good or bad. Maybe thatās why he is so damn good at his job. Things slow down for a split second as she glances at each of her men, watching them playing their roles to the point of perfection.
Suddenly Ash has Lucia and heās rough. Quin feels the well of some disturbed part of her purr happily at the sight. Every time Quinton is around Lucia her head spins. The person Lucia is depends on who she is talking to and what she wants. She can be everything from bad-ass to vulnerable, albeit with a new story of each new situation. She has an infinite number of childhoods; her parents are happy, divorced, fighting, abusive or dead. Her Dad is a banker, a road digger, a burglar or unemployed. Her mother is a drunk, a politician, a Sally-home-baker or a tart. She was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune. Quinton is always impressed with her work, she is an asset to the team. Today she is an innocent bystander, taken hostage by a ruthless bank robber. Quin grins, her full scarlet lips stretching over her pearl white teeth. She wonders for a moment what it would be like to fuck the grifter. She could be anyone Quin wanted her to be, compliant and willing, passionate and wanton, or angry and dominating. The thoughts make her stomach tighten with what she can only assume is arousal for the slim beauty.
There is a struggle and Ash goes down with Lucia, and not in the fun way. They are on their backs and there is a gun pointed at them. Quin is coiled, ready to strike. She wants to fucking kill the Neanderthal that poses a threat to her family. Dylan beats her to it. Itās probably for the best. They donāt have the time to indulge in her depraved forms of punishments.
Quin give Alexie a look that conveys āyou do you boo boo, but make that shit quick, pretty please and whatnot.ā She wants so badly to stay and watch, to burn the memory of the manās last breath into her mind for later use, but she knows they needs to get the hell going n o w.
āLetās goā Quin barks before she proceeds to the back of the bank. She kicks the door and it swings open. She isnāt stupid enough to just jump out, and a good fucking thing too. Bullets fly, and she is amazed by the beautiful sparks they make, she almost claps happily like a child. Instead she pulls out her browning and gives a little kiss. She loves the feel of the cold metal against her soft lips.
The first man in blue pops around the corner and Quin is rearing to fight. She aims for only a second, before she pulls the trigger. The recoil is comforting and sends pleasant tingles down her spine. She watches as the man staggers back. He is alive because she didnāt go for the kill shotā¦yet. Quin wants to lure in his partner first, then take them both out. She grins coldly at the idea, becoming excited. The second cop pops around the corner and all Quin can think is: Thank god, she needs this. The second bullet tears from her gun, though she doesnāt remember pulling the trigger. It takes a second for the cop to register he is dead. She watches with fascination as the blood spills out in waves from the holes she has put in them. Just b e a u t i f u l.
Quin is at the car before she knows it. She seeās Bambi and doesnāt think. Instead she throws the bag in the back, and without missing a beat she yanks her young companions head back. There is no give in her hold as she presses her lips roughly to Bambiās. She doesnāt give a damn about anything but the feel of her taking what she wants. The kiss is bruising, and she forces her way into Bambiās mouth, with cruel bites and demanding growls. She tastes blood and something akin to a breathy moan left her lips before she could squelch it. It brings her back to reality.
āLoad up ladies and gentsā She calls with a wicked grin.