We sit in a car, just after dusk has fallen. It's dark now. The windows are tinted. Passersby can't see inside.
A quiet little residential neighborhood full of Doctors, and Lawyers, and Teachers. They don't know who their neighbor is. They don't know what he's done.
Inside the car, a pair of hands grips a pistol. Like marines, they instinctively keep their forefinger away from the trigger guard. There will be no accidents tonight. There will be no civilians. Sixteen rounds in his hand. $30,000 in the house. That money is owed.
We put our masks on, and wait. It's below zero, and two guys wearing ski masks isn't that strange of a sight. We would thank God for that, but he's not in this car. The devil's breath kicks out of the A/C. It warms up our hands. The gun remains cold.
Our eyes are fixed on the front porch. He told us, "If the light comes on, come in hot." The porch light is our green light, and we stare it down. It remains off. He comes out with a small manilla envelope tucked under his arm. He gets in the backseat. "Everything is square. We can go now."
It's been five minutes of holding our breath. We exhale, as the car pulls away from the curb.