Conversation with the guard riding shotgun, Billie Barrett, had long since run its course. The problem with the trips to and from Cape Cod was they had become monotonous. He was cautious by nature and proud of his perfect driving record.
#TRACKSIFT 2 CRACKED DRIVER#
As a driver for the postal service, he was always on the lookout for drunk or wayward drivers. Patrick Schena was nothing if not a rule follower. Come on, he said under his breath.įorty-five mph was the USPS official policy for the recommended top speed. Thomas said nothing and turned his attention back to the magnified view of the bridge in the distance. But no matter the stress or amount of bullets flying, he was one cool customer.Īggie felt his boss’s stare on the back of his neck and turned to look at him. He knew Aggie would do his job when and where it was needed and without hesitation, but otherwise, the man had a way of killing time that was more than annoying. He seemed impervious to stress or complications. He flicked at a toothpick in his mouth, moving it from side to side. He lowered his binoculars and looked over at the man next to him.Īggie was leaning on the trunk without a care in the world.
But as of right now, there was no stupid mail truck. He had carefully calculated the possible haul in the red, white, and blue mail truck at conservatively one million dollars. He had a reputation in the business for planning and getting away with some of the more clever crimes in the Boston area.
He lauded himself as a detail-oriented person. It had been a very successful plan, saving almost fifty dollars a week across the busy vacation season in Cape Cod. Postal Service rather than an armored truck for the deliveries. They decided to save money on their summertime cash deliveries to their main branch in Boston by hiring the U.S. Thomas had received a tip three months earlier about a decision made by the banks in Buzzards Bay and Hyannis. He felt unable to move, helpless in his current situation. The damp air seemed to cloak him in a misty straightjacket. He was wearing the gray pants and shirt of a Massachusetts State Police Trooper and was parked two miles away at the Clark County Road exit, waiting for a signal that had yet to come.
#TRACKSIFT 2 CRACKED DRIVERS#
His lookouts were now driving back and forth across the Clark County overpass like two lost Sunday drivers who couldn’t find an onramp. He had planned every detail down to the minute, but the truck they were expecting was more than thirty minutes overdue. Thomas was the brain behind the operation. What on earth are they doing? Thomas said, through a pair of palmed binoculars, his elbows resting on the hood of his green Oldsmobile. He and his date pulled the Pontiac back onto the road and slowly crossed to the other side. Let’s go for a ride, Red said, as he closed the hood. He ran his fingers through his rain-slicked black hair and decided they should try driving back and forth to look less suspicious. With every car that passed beneath, he was getting more wound up. He felt like a cornered tourist with an illegible map.
Red couldn’t take the waiting on top of the Clark County overpass. The air was thick with the smell of wet pine pitch and exhaust. Patches of August rain slowly began to settle over the New England countryside as the sun raced toward the horizon, ending its failed contest with the clouds for the day. You try putting this on, let alone walk in these ridiculous shoes. A wig that must have been uncomfortable, as he kept scratching and readjusting it, as they stood there and waited. He even had red lipstick smeared across thick uncaring lips and a blonde wig. The funny thing was the yellow summer dress and high heels he was wearing. Joe was a large man, at least six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a grim expression. If it weren’t for the seriousness of the moment at hand, Red would have laughed out loud at his partner’s looks. His companion, Joe, was standing next to their brown Pontiac’s open hood looking just as perplexed. He paced nervously, trying not to look out of place parked on the overpass. Every prior surveillance had revealed a ten-minute variance at most, and now, on the day of the heist, the truck was nowhere in sight. He pinched a bit of loose tobacco from the tip of his tongue and looked up. It joined a group of six others smashed into the wet blacktop.
#TRACKSIFT 2 CRACKED CRACKED#
Mist pooled on the faded cracked pavement as Red crushed the stub of his last cigarette with his heel. (Based on actual events) AUG– NEW ENGLAND – ROUTE 3 – 4:12 P.M.
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