Story code: ST-000919
Part 2: The Collateral Damage
The blinding headlights pinned Marcus against the glass like a moth in a spotlight. Panic, cold and sharp, overrode the dull ache in his joints. He dropped his plastic scraper, scooped the heavy black credit card and driver’s license back into the open wallet, and grabbed the girl by the oversized shoulders of her canvas jacket.
“Get down,” he hissed, shoving her roughly behind the massive terra-cotta planter flanking the entrance.
She scrambled into the narrow gap between the cold stone and the thorny decorative junipers just as the black sedan’s engine cut off. Marcus kicked the empty drugstore acetone bottle out of sight and scrambled to stand at attention. He squared his shoulders, trying to expand his chest to block the smeared, gummy white residue of superglue left on the pristine corporate glass.
The driver’s side door slammed. Mr. Gable marched across the pavement, his pristine Italian leather shoes clicking ominously in the quiet morning air. Gable was barely thirty-five, wore custom-tailored suits, and treated the support staff like broken vending machines.
“Marcus,” Gable barked, stopping three feet away. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “You smell like a discount nail salon. What is that stench?”
“Good morning, Mr. Gable,” Marcus said, keeping his hands clasped behind his back to hide the fact that his knuckles were white and shaking. “Maintenance issue, sir. I was just taking care of it.”
Gable’s eyes narrowed. He stepped to the side, peering around Marcus’s bulky frame. He spotted the hazy, smeared patch of half-dissolved adhesive on the glass door. Then, he looked down at the pavement. Marcus followed his gaze, his stomach dropping.
A single, torn protest flyer lay on the concrete. *EAT THE RICH.*
Gable picked it up with two fingers, his face darkening. “A maintenance issue? Or did you let another pack of those environmentalist rodents get to the door?”
“I caught them early, sir,” Marcus lied, his voice gravelly and low. “Chased them off before they could do any real damage. Just a little adhesive. I’ve almost got it off.”
“Almost isn’t good enough,” Gable snapped, dropping the flyer and grinding it under his heel. “This branch opens to high-net-worth clients in two hours. You’re supposed to secure the perimeter. That means they do not touch the glass, Marcus.”
“I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all!” Gable’s voice echoed off the empty brick facades of the financial district. He looked Marcus up and down, his gaze lingering on the worn cuffs of the security uniform and the slight lean Marcus had to adopt to favor his bad hip. “You’re too slow for this post. I told regional management last month you were a liability. What were you doing? Sleeping at the desk? Pacing the lobby at a crawl?”
Behind the terra-cotta planter, the juniper branches rustled slightly. Marcus swallowed hard, silently begging the girl to stay completely still.
“I was doing my rounds, Mr. Gable. I have a wife at home who needs me to keep this shift. I need the medical benefits. Please. I’ll have the glass shining before the tellers arrive.”
It burned Marcus’s pride to beg. He had worked his whole adult life, paid his taxes, kept his head down. Now he was bowing to a man half his age, pleading for the right to keep wearing a polyester uniform.
From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw movement through the dark green leaves. Eleanor was peering out. Her tear-streaked eyes were fixed on Marcus. The defiant, angry spark she had carried when she was glued to the door was completely gone. In its place was stark, horrified realization. She was watching a sixty-two-year-old man humiliate himself to protect his livelihood-a livelihood she had casually jeopardized to make an abstract political statement to her father.
“Your wife’s medical bills are not First National’s problem,” Gable said coldly. “And neither are you, as of this moment. I want your badge, Marcus.”
Marcus felt the blood drain from his face. “Sir, please-”
“Hand over the keys and the badge. I’ll review the security tapes myself. If you let them get within ten feet of this door before you reacted, I’ll make sure HR denies your severance.”
Marcus felt the heavy leather of Eleanor Sterling’s wallet pressing against his thigh in his pocket. He slowly reached up, his fingers trembling, to unpin the brass badge from his chest.
“Wait!”
The voice was cracked and raw. Eleanor stumbled out from behind the planter. Her hands were bright red, peeling, and raw, her ratty green jacket covered in dirt and dead juniper needles.
Gable jumped back, startled, before his expression twisted into pure fury. “Who the hell are you? Have you been hiding here?”
“Leave him alone,” Eleanor said, stepping between Marcus and Gable. Her voice trembled, but she lifted her chin. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I did. I glued myself to the door. He was just trying to get me off before you saw.”
Marcus closed his eyes in despair. He had tried so hard to give her an out.
Gable let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “You think you’re helping him, you filthy little brat? You just proved he lied to me.” Gable pulled a sleek silver smartphone from his inside pocket. “I’m calling the police. You’re going to jail for trespassing and vandalism, and Marcus is going to face charges as an accomplice for hiding you.”
Eleanor paled. “No, you don’t understand. You can’t call the police on me.”
“Watch me,” Gable sneered, dialing three digits.
“My name is Eleanor Sterling,” she blurted out, her voice cracking with desperation. “Look at me! My father is Richard Sterling. He owns this bank!”
Gable paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked at her tangled, unwashed hair, her ripped jeans, and the dirt smeared across her cheek. He let out a derisive snort.
“Right. And I’m the King of England,” Gable mocked, pressing the call button and lifting the phone to his ear. “Operator? Yes, I have a break-in at First National…”
Marcus’s hand clamped down over the heavy metal credit card hidden in his pocket. He had seconds before the dispatcher logged the call, seconds before the police arrived and turned this into a media circus that would undoubtedly destroy his life, his pension, and his wife’s safety net.