Claire stood frozen, watching the scattered chaos of fleeing robbers with a mix of disbelief and helplessness. Fortunately, the gang's leader—now seated in the garbage truck's cab—was too busy barking orders into a walkie-talkie to do a headcount.
Fragments of the conversation reached Claire's ears: "reserve funds," "serial numbers," "scatter," "fallback."
Most were terms he recognized from movies—hell, Jason Statham's heist flick just premiered here.
But "reserve funds"? That was different.
The UK's social welfare system was one of the most comprehensive in the world, offering "cradle-to-grave" support: maternity grants, child benefits, housing subsidies, unemployment aid, pensions, NHS coverage—over forty programs in total.
These funds were pooled and managed by financial institutions, with portions released through central banks to regional branches.
The Royal Bank of Scotland's London branch happened to be one of Manchester's three designated custodians.
If the reserve funds' transport schedule was leaked… Claire's jaw tightened. There's no way this happened without inside help. Maybe even government-level.
The Prime Minister had just been replaced, after all. Who knew what backroom deals had been struck?
One thing was clear: Outside of , nowhere on this planet is truly safe. The moment his United paycheck cleared, he was hiring a damn security team.
---
The gang leader checked his watch and called out to the eleven men lingering by the bank entrance:
"Four minutes. Clean up the vault, wipe all traces. And… do whatever else you want." His voice carried a dark thrill. "I don't want tomorrow's headlines giving the cops leads."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the group. No one objected as some exchanged grins and muttered plans.
The garbage truck's headlights flared to life, flooding the dark street with light. A stray dog bolted from the shadows.
Claire, still unnoticed, trailed two robbers toward where the hostages were held. The other eight vanished back into the bank.
---
Megan Fox had a strip of movie screen fabric crammed in her mouth. Her body was bound in a crude, almost mocking parody of ropework—tight enough to strain against her curves.
Across from her, her fiancé, Brian Austin Green, writhed on the floor, a filthy sock gagging his protests. His muffled "mmph!" sounds were relentless, though no one cared to interpret them.
Around them, bound bank guards and film crew members slumped against walls. Some bore fresh bruises or split lips.
Then there was Shia LaBeouf—Transformers' lead—dangling midair in a harness, wrists wrapped in white cloth like some macabre marionette. Only his occasional twitches confirmed he wasn't already dead.
God, please don't let this be my last movie. Megan's pulse hammered.
The Transformers shoot had wrapped months ago. Director Michael Bay had dragged them to the UK for reshoots—a "British flavor" publicity stunt to boost local box office.
If only that were the worst of it.
Shia wasn't just co-starring; he was every media outlet's Hollywood golden boy, touted as "one blockbuster away from superstardom."
Megan didn't buy the hype—the film wasn't even out yet—but Brian sure did.
Their relationship had started on Bad Boys II, though "started" was generous. She'd never quite shaken the ghost of someone else.
By 2004, they'd made it official. By 2006, they were engaged—complete with matching name tattoos.
Brian had begged for the ink. She'd resisted, but his insecurities wore her down. Now, as her career eclipsed his, those same insecurities festered.
"You're mine," he'd snap, citing their 14-year age gap. "Don't get too cozy with pretty boys on set."
Pretty boys like Shia.
When Transformers wrapped, Brian had whisked her to California, relieved. But the moment reshoots were announced, he'd followed her to London like a paranoid shadow, glowering through every scene.
Tonight's fight had been the last straw. She'd pulled him aside to talk—then the shouting started.
Then the bank robbers spilled into the street.
Then this.
---
Brian's gagged grunts grated on her nerves. Megan ignored him, straining to listen for returning footsteps.
She knew how men looked at her. Those masked figures had lingered earlier.
Please, no. Not like this.
The door creaked open.
Three hooded men strode in, zeroing in on the hostages.
---