Jack Hammer-A Rip in Time Part 2: The Fatal Withdraw

The Fatal Withdraw

The clock on the wall of the First National Bank read 2:47 PM. I had no clue a fatal withdraw was on it’s way. The fluorescent lights were buzzing, and I was staring down a stack of loan applications thicker than a phone book. A normal day in a stolen life. I was humming some half-forgotten tune when the door slammed open, not with the friendly chime of a customer, but with the roar of a sawed-off shotgun.

Three sets of eyes, masked and mean, cut through the lobby.

The scene wasn’t slow-motion; it was just sharp. The screams were high-pitched and useless. My body, trained by a decade of trenches and alleys, moved before my new, soft brain could argue. I reached under the desk for the silent alarm, a move as natural as breathing.

One of the mooks, a big, sloppy amateur with a nervous trigger finger, spotted the movement. He didn’t hesitate.

The blast hit me like a train car, a deafening thunder that swallowed the whole bank. There was a sound of wet tearing, followed by a heat that spread through my chest like spilled whiskey. I didn’t fall, not right away. I staggered back, the life draining out of me faster than a cheap drink, my back slamming against the mahogany veneer of my desk.

I watched the lights of the bank blur, turning into halos, then fading into a vast, empty black. It was cold. Too cold. I knew the taste of a fatal wound. It’s the bitterest thing a man can ever swallow. My last thought wasn’t of Angela, or Jackie, but of a sick, twisted rage that this was the price. This perfect life, gone for a few hundred dollars. My just deserts was a copper jacket in the sternum.

Then, without static, without a flash of light, without a sound of wind or change—I simply snapped back.

The cheap bourbon was still on my desk. The overflowing ashtray was still there. The broken clock on the wall was still stuck at 3:00 AM. I was back in the smoky tomb of my office.

I pushed myself up, chest burning with phantom pain, and roared. It wasn’t pain; it was pure, unadulterated fury.