If you want to live to the end of your shift, don’t get complacent. I had been working for an armored car company and had cultivated what I called a healthy paranoia. 11 men in seven years had died in my company alone doing my job. I had no intention of making it an even dozen.
I had just picked up about half a mill in third class securities, the equivalent of checks made out to other people from a stock broker firm. I was riding the escalator down to get back to the truck. I was turned sideways on the stairs, so I could see above and below me. One man had taken a .357 round to the back of the head on an escalator because he forgot.
I looked down and on the other escalator I saw him. A kid, maybe 18, his hand in his jacket pocket. As we glided to within six feet of each other he took his hand out. It held a small revolver about the size of a .38, black frame, silver cylinder. The thought that rushed through my mind was “Shit, he’s going to put two rounds into my chest before I can clear leather.”