They cross at the light, wearing sweaters and jeans, dyed ponytails under ball caps–no leather catsuits. Their masks are still damp.
In the lobby, Glory flips on the old incandescent sign, the bank’s public all-clear signal. She unlocks the door. There’s a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s only twenty of, Glory,” frowns her boss. “We don’t open until the Palms boys make their drop, remember?”
Then they’re in. Faith hits the guard in the throat. Charity shoots out the cameras. Angel and Clementine cover the tellers, caught in shock near the door.
“Nobody touch anything,” Glory purrs.