TUNNEL

37 days before the bank robbery

Chapter 1

Josh opened the door of his trailer.

The stale air inside gave way to the hot, dry desert air that flowed towards him.

He descended the steps by the door and glanced over his sunglasses.

Next to the long, green bench leaning against the rusty, white trailer wall stood his camping table, strewn with empty beer bottles.

A few days ago, he’d sat there drinking with some people, but never cleared away the empties.

The two empty beer crates now served as additional seating.

Josh walked over to his white motorcycle, which was parked at the edge of his property.

A gravel path led directly past it, beyond which—after a few scattered conifers—the vast, barren desert landscape of Castaic opened up before him.

A jagged mountain range loomed on the horizon.

He swung himself onto the machine in his brown leather pants and started the engine.

Then he drove off along the sandy gravel road that wound its way down from the pine-covered hill to the main road, his long black beard flowing slightly in the wind.

He turned right at the crossroads at the edge of the forest.

The wide sandy road led him into the open countryside.

Small bushes and rock formations passed by on the left, scattered seemingly at random across the dusty terrain.

When he reached the asphalt road, he turned left and accelerated.

His shoulder-length black hair and beard fluttered in the breeze.

The sun now beat down on his black cut—the emblem of the Ashes of Dusk MC emblazoned on the back.

He wore it day and night. To him, it was more than just clothing.

The leather heated up quickly, but he had long since got used to it.

He drove past a petrol station, over an old railroad line that hadn’t seen a train in years.

He finally came to a halt at a wide intersection.

Straight ahead lay a small settlement near Castaic, right on the lake.

Off to the left stood a motel complex—or at least that’s what it called itself.

By the standards of this remote area, this was already a luxury.

The operator apparently believed that a lush green lawn would help it stand out from the dusty surroundings.

In fact, the sprinkler systems ran almost around the clock to counteract the sun and the withering of the grass.

Out here in the county, the motel had long been considered an eyesore.

People just called it the “snobby motel”—or “Little Dubai.”

Josh turned right onto the main road.

Trees lined the road on both sides in a kind of avenue—a strangely beautiful scene in the middle of an otherwise barren landscape.

Just a few yards behind the rows of trees, the first cacti appeared—as if the desert were slowly reclaiming its space.

He drove past the transformer station on the right-hand side and left the Castaic settlement.

The highway now ran parallel to the old railroad line and after a few hundred yards made a slight bend to the left.

At the end of the curve stood the clubhouse: a long building with a steep roof, red doors, and several parking spaces in front.

To the right was a small annex with two gas pumps—the club’s own filling station.

Behind the steep roof stretched a wide flat section, about twelve meters long.

A rusty metal staircase led up to the roof terrace, equipped with a bar, a small music stage, and several cozy seating areas.

Directly below the terrace was the motorcycle workshop, run by the club itself.

At the end of the annex, a large red garage door led into the shop.

Emblazoned on it was a white logo with the words: Custom Motorcycles.

Josh drove his bike straight into the workshop and greeted Jax, who was working on a bike on one of the three work platforms.

Jax had a red mohawk and was still just a hangaround at the AOD, while Josh was the workshop foreman—nobody in the club knew more about motorcycles than he did.

He parked his machine at the back of the hall, where freshly painted bikes were usually left to dry.

He quickly got an overview of the current customer order, then stepped outside the shop to have a smoke.

“Joshy Boy!”

Doc had just arrived and approached him.

He was wearing bright red cowboy boots, zebra leggings, and a pink shirt.

Combined with his moustache and long, brown hair, this somehow created a strangely harmonious picture.

Doc liked to call himself a fashion rocker—and wore his outfits with pride.

He was well connected, constantly on the phone, and whenever he hung up, he had new, often useful information for the club.

For this reason, he was appointed Secretary—an officer rank that he filled with eloquence and speed.

“Greetings!” said Josh.

Doc grinned.

“I’m feeling this outfit more than I should—honestly.”

Then he strode into the workshop and greeted the working prospects.

From there, a red double door led straight into the bar—the so-called chapel.

The club was led by Father Chase, the president of the Ashes of Dusk MC from the Castaic chapter. He had short black hair, looked fit despite his fifty years, and wore a moustache.

His first name was Daniel, so some people still knew him as DC.

During his ten years in prison, he had found God.

After taking over the clubhouse, he decreed that swearing was never allowed in the chapel—the sacred hall of the building.

Rusty, the bartender, kept track and made sure people paid into the curse jar every time.

Doc returned from the workshop shortly afterwards.

He’d apparently heated up a burger in the bar’s microwave, which he was now eating on the go.

As for his clothes, he’d changed his mind again:

Black boots, leopard leggings, black shirt, and a red scarf.

“So, Joshy Boy, what’s up?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Not much so far,” Josh replied. “But I wasn’t there yesterday either.”

“Me neither,” Doc said casually.

In that moment, Jax came out of the workshop and asked:

“Where’s the guy with the yellow sweater? He can take his bike with him now.”

“He’s pooping in the tent,” Josh said dryly.

When Wade, another member of the AOD, joined the club back in the day, he was still a hangaround—without the right to sleep in the clubhouse overnight.

He had set up a small two-person tent behind the gas pumps, where he spent the night.

He did not have a permanent residence at that time.

Over time, however, he had organized a trailer, which he parked at the edge of the club grounds near the road.

Wade was rather simple-minded.

He was from Greenbow, Alabama, and, like his siblings, considered himself below average in intelligence. Apart from the fact that everyone in the family had bright red hair.

When his parents sent him for an IQ test, he scored 30—what he claimed was the highest score in his family.

Even though Wade was sometimes a little strange and often made less than intelligent decisions, the club quickly took him to their hearts.

After a long period of homelessness, he was given a home.

One evening, the group stood in front of the club and watched the wild goings-on along the high street.

There was always something going on here: motorcycles, trucks, souped-up cars, and, occasionally, police sirens in the distance.

Suddenly Wade came running.

Without warning, he attacked the blonde hangaround, JD.

“YOU WON’T SHIT IN MY TENT!” he shouted between his blows.

Since the club didn’t have its own restroom and the bar was often busy, some guests had gotten into the habit of relieving themselves nearby, often on or in Wade’s tent right outside.

Wade understandably took this personally.

Every Sunday, Father Chase held a different kind of mass in the chapel.

The sins of the week were confessed there in the form of a staged sermon.

In between there were musical interruptions from the club’s own band, The Wades, with Wade as lead singer.

Doc played guitar, Josh played drums, and Summer, another founding member and current vice president, sang second lead on some songs.

At the end of the mass, the sins were traditionally washed down with a cup of brandy, Wade’s favorite drink.

During one of those sermons a few weeks ago, Travis, an officer of the club and the Sergeant at Arms, confessed that he had pooped in Wade’s tent himself, but blamed it on JD.

Father Chase then asked for forgiveness too, because he had done the same thing.

A few days later it emerged that DC had concealed a room in the basement from the other members, a secret room hidden behind a door in the meeting room covered with posters.

Travis had discovered it by chance when he was looking for something and pushed open the hidden door.

Inside was a large steel safe, closets full of old cuts, and a gleaming white, fully functional porcelain toilet.

Once everyone knew the secret, all members were allowed to use the toilet from then on.

However, the rule for prospects still applied: hands off the throne.

Wade, who could now afford his own trailer and had parked it right next to the clubhouse, hardly ever used the toilet.

Out of tradition, and perhaps out of spite, some still used the old tent by the gas pumps more often than the cleaner option in the cellar.

“Everything okay, Wade?” Josh asked.

“Yes, sure, everything’s fine,” Wade replied. “Get ready.”

“I’m all set.”

“Then we’ll get going right away.” Wade climbed back over the railing and stepped onto the roof terrace.

“I have an epic plan. I actually wanted to unveil it yesterday, but Joshy screwed it up.”

“What happened?” Doc asked.

“I took geography. In the advanced course,” Josh interjected.

Doc looked at him, irritated.

“Really, no one would believe it,” Wade muttered, shaking his head.

“So, pay attention. Of course, we still have to discuss this with the others. But, we’re going to rob the biggest bank in Los Angeles.”

Doc raised an eyebrow.

“And we’re not just going to walk in there like that. We have to... what do you call it again? Use our brain cells.”

“Your brain, of course,” Doc commented dryly. “So, we will make a plan.”

“Exactly!” Wade nodded. “We’re digging a tunnel right in there. So not in, but out. An escape tunnel. From the back. I’ll show you once we are there.”

“Well then,” Doc grinned. “We take the most inconspicuous vehicle we have, the band bus.”

Wade resolutely walked down the stairs.

Doc looked after him, then turned to Josh.

“What exactly did you mean by geography?”

Josh shrugged.

“I fell off a ladder.”

“Idiot,” Doc muttered.

The two followed Wade across the street to the parking lot opposite.

The band bus was anything but inconspicuous: black paint, large shiny red rims, and on both sides the words THE WADES were emblazoned in bright graffiti style.

In addition, a huge band photo covered the entire side wall—headbands, leather jackets, sunglasses.

Anything but subtle.

Doc insisted on driving, Wade having long since disqualified himself after a string of fender benders.

Josh opened the cargo doors and climbed into the converted interior.

Walls lined with red fabric, two benches, a table in the middle, and a small minibar above the left wheel well.

Doc started the engine, put it in reverse, and rolled onto the street. Destination downtown.

He turned left toward the highway.

“But we can’t drive right up to the bank,” Wade interjected. “The cops will come right away if someone is just standing there.”

He had already dealt extensively with past robbery attempts—and every single one had gone wrong.

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” Doc said doubtfully. “Just because you park there for a short time?”

“Yeah, seriously,” Wade said. “They have constant surveillance there. Not a chance.”

“A tunnel,” Josh pondered. “It certainly sounds exciting.”

“Shit... we need a tunnel-digging machine for this,” Doc muttered.

They passed the old cigarette factory on the left, then the local hardware store, right on the highway.

Slowly, the dusty desert landscape gave way to the first green areas: dense undergrowth, moist soil, and more vegetation.

“We could definitely get a drill,” Josh said.

“Drills are not an issue,” Doc confirmed.

On the horizon, the last rays of sunlight cast a deep red light over the scene before finally disappearing behind the hills.

“We have so many things to think about!” Wade suddenly shouted.

“You have to observe,” he continued, “you have to know where the cameras are, who is working when and where...”

“Shift schedules, everything,” Josh added.

“If you’re going to pull this off,” Doc said, “you need an escape plan. And a backup plan. And a replacement backup plan.”

Wade nodded slowly.

“And I don’t think we can do it on our own,” he said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean, not on our own?” Doc asked.

“Your brain, of course,” Doc commented dryly. “So, we will make a plan.”

“We need a decoy,” Wade explained. “Someone we send ahead. With shooting iron. And in the end, we’ll make a nice escape.”

“Wade, can I tell you something?” Doc looked at him. “I don’t think we can avoid having guns ourselves when we rob a bank.”

“Sure, have a look when we get there,” Wade replied mysteriously.

“I’m really curious about your escape plan. Damn, that thing is probably secured with electronic locks,” Doc said.

“You need people who know about electronics.”

“Yes, I know that,” Wade said.

They had reached the city limits. Doc took the next exit.

“I don’t know,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“It’ll be more than a few wires,” Josh interjected.

“We have to disguise ourselves somehow so that we can take a closer look at the vault,” Doc said.

“Exactly—and that’s where things start to get messy,” Wade said.

“Why would it go messy?” Josh asked, irritated.

“Well, if we just go in there all dressed up,” Wade explained.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Doc clarified. “This needs to be scaled up. More professional.”

“Gosh, I know that. Why do you think I’m sitting here with you right now?” Wade replied.

Doc turned left, then slowly took the next right—they were now on the street where the bank was located, in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard.

He drove on at a leisurely pace, then turned into a narrow side street. There was a worn-out caravan that looked as if no one had moved it for months.

They passed the corner and headed for a small backyard parking lot behind a high-rise building, directly opposite the bank.

Tattered cardboard boxes lay between large garbage containers, some neatly stacked on old metal shelves, others crisscrossed the floor.

Doc switched off the engine.

The three climbed out of the bus.

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