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The Box

A Bruder Heist Novel Book Two

Jeremy Brown

The Box

Kindle Edition

© Copyright 2021 Jeremy Brown

Wolfpack Publishing

5130 S. Fort Apache Rd. 215-380

Las Vegas, NV 89148

wolfpackpublishing.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-64734-572-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64734-573-0

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Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part II

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part III

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

A Look At The Wake (A Bruder Heist Novel Book Three)

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About the Author

The Box

Part One

Chapter One

When the armored car came into view just past nine in the morning, Bruder and Kershaw and the other two in the crew were ready for it.

They were on a windblown straightaway of two-lane asphalt called Pine Lane in the northwest quadrant of Iowa.

An overnight dusting of snow rippled sideways across the road like flat white serpents and disappeared into the ranks of brown cornstalk stubs.

It wasn’t enough snow to bring out the plows and there wasn’t any ice to require salt trucks, which was good. Either one of those might have caused trouble.

Bruder and Kershaw waited in the concrete tunnel beneath a railroad overpass, the only feature of note in any direction. They wore heavy winter work clothes and reflective vests and hard hats with the symbol for the Iowa Department of Transportation on them.

Under the hard hats they wore insulated balaclavas with the mask part tucked under their chins to leave their faces exposed. Under the balaclavas everyone wore electronic earbuds connected to radios. The earbuds also amplified ambient sounds and speech but clamped down to protect the wearer from sudden noises above eighty five decibels, like gunshots and explosions.

Surveying equipment and hard plastic cases were piled outside the tunnel, where they could be seen from the road, and Bruder and Kershaw walked around beneath the railroad and pointed at the concrete and nodded or shook their heads.

The road and the railroad crossed each other at exactly ninety degrees, like an X, with the road going northwest to southeast and the tracks going southwest to northeast.

The tracks ran on a low berm, like a wrinkle in the otherwise flat landscape, and the road beneath it was dug out slightly below ground level.

The old concrete tunnel was too narrow for two modern-day vehicles to pass each other. The entrance looked like a World War II bunker, with thick concrete retaining walls starting wide and narrowing like a funnel. It was too low for anything taller than ten feet, even with the road dug out, so all the big rigs and buses used different roads.

It was also much too small for any road work equipment, and the road under the overpass was scarred and pitted concrete that turned to newer asphalt as soon as possible on the slight inclines coming out from under the tracks.

Permanent signs with flashing lights warned drivers to stop about one hundred feet from the tunnel, where they were supposed to verify no oncoming traffic was already in the chute. It was a straight shot from both stopping points through the tunnel, plus the rest of the road all the way to the horizon, so there wasn’t much guesswork involved.

The armored car coasted to a stop at the northwestern sign, then crept forward to Connelly, the man standing out there with another stop sign on a pole. He was dressed the same as Bruder and Kershaw, with thick canvas coveralls and a reflective safety vest and a DOT hardhat.

Connelly also had two Glock 17s inside the coveralls and his balaclava was pulled up, allegedly to keep his face warm, but mostly to keep anyone from recognizing him.

A pair of safety sunglasses hid his eyes.

His radio had the talk button locked down so the others could hear his conversation.

Bruder and Kershaw listened, and waited.

Aiden Connelly was thirty years old and liked to think of himself as a breacher.

He had an open, Irish face with a resting smirk that acted like an inkblot test for other people.

For those who wanted to enjoy life, looking at Connelly’s face made them say, “What’s so funny?”

Those who had a piss-poor outlook and went around in search of examples to reinforce their misery looked at Connelly and said, “What’s your problem?”

Connelly enjoyed both reactions, because they either led to fun or a fight, which to him was also fun.

He liked the word breacher because it described him personally and professionally. He prided himself on his ability to chat with almost anybody and put them at ease, make them feel special, like he was cracking their emotional and intellectual defenses. He mostly used it on women, but it came in handy when he was working and had to establish a rapport.

He could also blow just about anything up or open, a more literal application of the breacher tag.

When the armored car stopped next to him, he was looking up at the blue morning sky, unblemished from horizon to horizon except for a few contrails being slowly scattered and erased from the tail forward.

He turned and smiled, letting it show in his eyes, and looked through the thick, hazy window at the bearded man inside. He didn’t recognize the man but knew the vehicle as a 1987 International, probably purchased at auction or pulled out of

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