Book One and Book Two combined

I ain’t a killer, but don’t push me.

The words of Tupac Shakur pounded from the stereo of the 1999 Chevrolet. The car’s system wasn’t all that, just the regular factory Delco that came with the car, but at least it had a CD player.

Mr. Blue sat in the back seat and stared down the street at the objective. He always took this time to focus on the task at hand, to see the entire job unfold, executed to perfection in his mind. There would be no mistakes, no hesitation, and no slip-ups. But there never were, so why should today be any different?

Mr. Green and Mr. White sat in the front seat. Mr. Green nodded his head to the beat of the music while Mr. White tapped nervously on the steering wheel. Each was dressed in black-floor length trench coats over black jumpsuits, gloves, and wool hats. All sat in complete silence, mentally preparing for what they were about to do.

“Time check,” Mr. Blue said as he looked at his watch.

“Ten-forty,” Mr. White replied as both she and Mr. Green checked their watches.

“Ten-forty, check,” Mr. Green said. “They’re late.” He slumped down in his seat and nodded his head to the beat as Tupac continued to put it down. He hated waiting and was becoming restless.

“Never mind that, Mr. Green. Weapons check,” Mr. Blue said, trying to keep them focused and on task. He checked the 12-gauge pump shotgun in his lap and then the two 9 millimeter pistols that were holstered under his coat. Mr. White and Mr. Green checked their nines and verified that they each had six extra clips.

“We’re ready! These muthafuckas just need to get here,” Mr. Green spit out as he placed one of his weapons back in its holster.

“Patience, Mr. Green,” Mr. White said. “You’ll get to bust that baby soon enough.”