BigSaltyDog

Chapter 4 The air inside the vault was frigid enough to turn every exhaled breath into a cloud of white mist. While McFinleyyy and Whizzley went to work on the inner safety deposit boxes with the frantic precision of seasoned safecrackers, Ye Olde Large Lad stood by the massive steel door, his immense frame blocking three-quarters of the corridor. Dinkz leaned against the wall, checking the time on a gold wristwatch he definitely hadn't bought himself. “We’re running out of time, lads. If Vance wakes up from Susan’s snooze-button special, we’ll have company.” “Keep your shirt on,” Whizzley panted, prying open a velvet-lined mahogany chest. Inside, row upon row of uncut diamonds caught the low halogen light. “Got it. Lord Ashford’s personal rainy-day fund.” Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the service corridor creaked open. Dinkz instantly raised his suppressed pistol, and Large Lad tightened his grip on the iron pry-bar. Through the doorway stepped two fig...

The vault door was three feet of solid, cold steel, tucked away at the end of a corridor that smelled faintly of polished mahogany and high-yield panic. While Sgt. Salty was currently executing a life-or-death tango on the floor above, the remainder of the crew had assembled in front of Lord Ashford’s prized possession. They looked less like an elite breach-and-clear squad and more like a collection of misfits who had taken a wrong turn on the way to the pub. McFinleyyy was crouched at the electronic keypad, adjusting his reading glasses with one thumb. “Right then. State-of-the-art cipher lock with a secondary biometric tumbler. Very fancy. Very expensive.” “Can you open it, or do I need to hit it with something heavy?” Ye Olde Large Lad rumbled, towering over him like an oak wardrobe in a tailored suit. He was currently holding a leather-wrapped iron pry-bar with the casual ease of a man holding a newspaper. “Hit it with something heavy and we’ll trigger the silent al...

Chapter 2  The scene was, by all logical accounts, a disaster. Through the massive arched windows of the grand ballroom, the Irish rain lashed against the glass like angry, microscopic fists. Inside, the sheer opulence of the Ashford Estate’s gala was a nauseating smear of gold, crystal, and diamonds. Sarah and Susan, having ditch the damp wool for those dangerous silks (the green velvet and black mesh, respectively, and yes, Sarah’s utility pouch was tucked exceedingly well), were already moving through the crowd, radiating a collective composure that made actual royalty look fidgety. Sgt. Salty, however, was having a difficult time with his ‘blending.’ He had managed the transformation from mud-caked SAS remnant to a ‘Continental security consultant’ primarily through the sheer, brute-forceapplication of a borrowed dinner jacket (which Susan swore was a size too small, and Salty swore was ‘aerodynamic’) and a severe, almost geological application of hair gel. But noth...

The heavy oak doors of the Ashford Estate weren’t meant to open for a man wearing combat boots with a split sole, but Sarah had a knack for making stubborn timber cooperate. With a soft, metallic snick, the side entrance clicked open. She slipped through the shadow of the rose trellis like ink dissolving in water, holding the heavy brass handle to stop the latch from echoing down the courtyard. Beside her, Susan was already inside, crouching low against the mahogany wainscoting, her fingers lightly tapping a silent rhythm on the frame of her silenced Walther PPK. Susan glanced back through the gap in the doorway, her dark eyes narrowing. “He’s running late.” “He’s not late,” Sarah whispered back, adjusting her hair clip. “He’s just loud.” Right on cue, a muffled, wet crunch echoed from the gravel path behind them, followed immediately by a sharp, strangled hiss of swearing that could only belong to one man in the British Isles. Sgt. Salty burst through the opening sideways,...

"Sarah and Susan Explain Why Your 'Quick Pint' in Temple Bar Was a Rookie Mistake": There are two kinds of people who walk into Temple Bar on a rainy Friday evening: tourists looking for authentic Irish charm, and fools who haven’t listened to Sarah and Susan. Sgt. Salty sat tucked into the back corner of a cozy, low-lit snug three miles west of the cobblestones, nursing a dark pint and watching the rain streak the leaded glass window. Beside him, Dannyboy was frantically wiping a fresh tear in his jacket sleeve—a souvenir from trying to navigate the crowded footpath outside Ha’penny Bridge ten minutes prior. "I only wanted to see what all the fuss was about," Dannyboy muttered, inspecting a receipt that looked long enough to be a mortgage agreement. "Ten euro for a pint of lager? And they didn't even drop it down with a saucer." Sarah didn't look up from her clipboard. "Dannyboy, if you wanted to spend ten quid on water, y...

The rusty double doors of the disused dockland warehouse didn’t just open—they were forcefully deleted from existence. With a deafening CRUNCH, Ye Olde Large Lad hit the corrugated steel like a runaway freight train. He didn't bother using a breaching tool; he simply leaned his immense frame into the metal, taking the hinges, frame, and half the surrounding masonry with him. He stepped over the wreckage, dusted off his high-vis jacket, and looked around the cavernous room with deep, unimpressed boredom. "Door's open," Ye Olde Large Lad rumbled. "Mind the step." Behind him, the matte-black, dented utility van—known affectionately as The Salty Dog—screeched to a halt at a 45-degree angle across the entrance. In the driver’s seat, McFinleyyy kept the engine revving, his hands a blur as he slapped the steering wheel. "That’s three seconds faster than the dry run! Tell me someone timed that!" "Focus, McFinleyyy!" Sarah snapped from...

The sheriff comes to town  Nobody actually knows where Jack McCoy came from. Some claim he used to be a small-town American sheriff. Others swear he spent the nineties chasing bandits across the dusty backroads of Texas. Large Lad insists Jack was once permanently banned from a cowboy-themed diner in Dublin for taking his job as “honorary deputy” way too seriously. Whenever anyone builds up the courage to ask, McCoy simply adjusts the brim of his hat, looks off into the middle distance, and mutters: “That’s classified, partner.” Then he turns on his heel and walks away. Nobody has ever managed to extract a straight answer. If you ever saw Sheriff Jack “Trashman” McCoy walking down the street, you’d immediately think two things: Something has gone horribly wrong, and That man is about to handle it. He wears a broad-brimmed sheriff's hat, a heavy dark coat, steel-toed boots, and a shiny silver badge that looks heavy enough to dent a bonnet. He carries a pair of aviator su...