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                                                        The Hit
 The Glaswegian sat sipping his coffee as the St Patrick's Day parade rolled on by. It always amazed him that the Irish celebrated a man who unleashed Catholicism and all its ills on Ireland. They should be burning the effigies instead of celebrating them. He let the thought linger for a few seconds and cleared his mind of all distractions. He had a job to do.

It was just after midday and he wouldn't move until the band marched down O'Connell Street. The Glaswegian needed the noise to disguise the carnage he was about to let loose. Half of his contract had been paid, the other half would be transferred upon completion of the assignment. Fifteen more minutes passed as he calmly ran his thumb over the edge of his cup. The coffee was good; not great, just good.
The band began their journey into the heart of Dublin as the Glaswegian ran a crisp white cloth over every surface he touched. Nothing was left to chance. He slipped off the main street and carefully shielded his appearance from every form of surveillance. His black beard, dark eyes and protruding teeth were all false; the chances of being identified were negligent but he was meticulous in that respect.
The old structure rested halfway down a urine soaked back-street. It had a fire escape leading to several windows; he knew the window, the layout and the schematics of this building, intimately. Quietly and deliberately he made his way into the building and followed the carefully constructed holes that led to the basement. When he reached the basement he found an old lift-shaft with a long ladder leading into the darkness. From this point onwards he listened intently as the drumming outside got louder and louder. Perfect, he thought as he began his downward climb. The insulation confused him until he realised it was sound-proof, an extra precaution, to further disguise the noise of the ongoing construction.
The Glaswegian allowed himself a rare smile. This was a team he admired. They were, like him, professional in their approach to criminality. Slowly he unsheathed a blade and cut a section large enough to crawl through. As he crept into the vault, he noticed that the team of four men were working in perfect harmony. One was bagging the goods, another was manning the scanners and two were emptying the strong-room. The timer was running down and they were set to leave in exactly five minutes. Once more he shook his head in admiration. This was like running a blade across the canvass of a masterpiece - he was momentarily saddened as he pulled the pin of the grenade and threw it into the vault. He stood left of the wide hole that had been drilled in the wall. There were slight muffles as the crack of the grenade silenced the team. He threw one  more in, just to be sure.
He caught his breath, steadying his pulse before crawling into the vault. This was messy, however, he had his instructions. He checked the vitals of each of his victims and the first three were dead - he was happy. Jimmy Henshaw, who he knew well, had a pulse, of sorts. He pulled out snub-nose gun and pressed it against Henshaw's temple. He knew Henshaw would step in front of the grenade and judging by his injuries, he had borne the brunt of the explosions. The Glaswegian rarely saw that type of loyalty amongst criminals - it unsettled him. Henshaw was a bloody rag. The odds were stacked against him living the next ten minutes, let alone the next five days; when the bank reopened. He placed the gun back in his holster.
The executioner stepped away from Henshaw before taking two black duffel bags. It was all he could manage and wasn't about to jeopardise his assignment by being greedy. His contract stipulated two bags; he would deliver two bags. He looked back at Jimmy Henshaw once more wondering if he should put a bullet in his head. No, he thought, he's finished.
Today was a day of rarities for The Glaswegian. He stood in front of the vault entrance with the bags resting across his wide shoulders. 'You’re dying because of a woman, Jimmy. You were the anchor that kept her steady and he wanted you cast adrift, my friend. I owe you that much...now let go.'