On the Run & in Hiding with Stepmom

"Holy shit," he said. "Ma? Are you sure? We could be arrested for accessories after the fact," he said knowing the law as well as any prosecuting attorney or any criminal, defense lawyer.

Anthony looked from the truck to look at his stepmother before looking back at the truck again.

"Go! Drive," she ordered. "Hurry. Before the police come," she said raising her voice in excited but controlled panic. "After getting your father's hooded jacket, when you get out of the car again, get out with the hood over your head. Keep your head down and stoop as if you're shorter than you are. Whatever you do, don't look up at the cameras."

Anthony turned off his headlights, removed his license plates, and popped the trunk to get his father's jacket and a flashlight. He put on the jacket and pulled the hood over his head. He kept his trunk lid open and parked his black, Lincoln Town Car, the extended wheelbase version, behind and to the side the Brink's truck. Using the truck and his open trunk as his cover, with the truck blocking the view of the cameras, he pulled up parallel to the Brink's truck with his trunk in line with the back doors and on the far side of the cameras.

Just as she instructed her stepson to do, Emma covered her head with the hood of her coat before they both alighted from the car to peer in the back of the truck. Not looking up at the cameras, following the advice that she told her stepson, she kept her head down and stooped a little while walking to the truck. She peered in the truck with her son. As if she had just won a supermarket sweepstakes and were able to pile in as much food in her shopping cart as she could pile in bags of cash in their Lincoln, they hurried as if they were on a 3-minute clock.

* * * * *

"Ma, there's bags and bags of money in here," he said with glee. "There's so much money. There's a lot of bags and lots of money."

He stepped in the back of the truck. With them both already wearing gloves due to the cold weather, they were free from leaving any fingerprints as evidence to their identities.

"Duh, Anthony? It's a Brink's truck. What do you think would be in there, fish? Stop wasting time and hurry. Get the key. One of the guards has a key to the locked gate in the back of the truck. That's where the big money is. I wouldn't even bother with anything towards the front of the truck," said Emma as if she had robbed a Brink's truck before. "In comparison, the rest of the money is all chump change, mostly donation monies they collect from churches."

Anthony hoped down from the back of the truck and checked Vinnie's belt before he found the key in John's shirt pocket.

"I got it," he said hoping back in the truck.

He opened the locked gate where they kept the bags of their largest depositors, BJ's Wholesale, Costco, Target, T. J. Maxx, Sam's Club, and Wal-Mart.

"Take only the bags of cash. Forget the coin and receipts. You can tell one from the other by the feel and the weight of the bags. The receipts are in the waterproof, leather bags. Leave those. Take only the cash," she said again as if she had robbed a Brink's trunk before.

No doubt, with them leaving bags of lessor amounts of cash, and with them hitting the locked part of the truck that separated the larger bags of cash, the police and FBI would obviously know that this was a professional job. With everyone murdered and with there no witnesses, the police and FBI would obviously know that this was an inside job and/or a double cross. They'd never be suspecting and/or looking at a hitman's wife and his son as armored car robbers. They last people they'd accuse is a stepmother and her stepson. They'd never be looking for a woman for this horrific robbery.

As if he was Santa Claus giving money to the homeless, Anthony tossed bag after bag of money out of the truck while his stepmother loaded the bags in the backseat and in the trunk of his huge car. Working as a team, by not taking the coin, because the interior and the trunk of the car was so huge and with the self-leveling rear air suspense keeping the car level, they were able to take most of the bags of cash. They would have taken more but not wanting to be greedy and get caught, they made good their getaway before the police came.

They drove straight home and, from their private elevator that opened to their condo, they made several trips back and forth with a two-wheeler covered with a blanket. Thinking that they were transporting Christmas gifts, no one who saw them thought anything of a two-wheeler covered with a blanket. Once inside, as if they were sandbagging the wall in preparation of a flood, they stacked the bags and bags of money against the far wall in the living room.

"I wonder how much money there is," said Anthony turning on the TV and flipping for the news. "There's nothing on TV about the robbery. Obviously, the incident hadn't been reported yet."

Tying up loose ends and leaving nothing to chance, Emma tossed her son his car keys.

"Your car is hot. If not now, it will be soon. Get rid of it. Once the FBI analyzes the video and does tire tread analysis, something that will lead them right to us, they'll be looking for your car. With the car in the name of one of Don Vito's businesses, they won't immediately trace it back to us but eventually they will. Get rid of it now while we still have chance and still have the time," said Emma.

Even though he loved his car, Anthony nodded his head without argument.

"Okay, Ma," he said.

As if telling him that he was a good son without words, she gave him a warm smile.

"I'll buy you a new car later, a new Lincoln Continental. In the meantime, drive it to the underground garage in the Boston Common, conceal your face with your hand when going through the entrance. They have cameras there. Then, vacuum the backseat and the trunk, take whatever possessions there are that will identify you as the driver, wipe off your fingerprints, then cover it with your car cover. Buying us some valuable time, I'll report it stolen later," she said. "With so many cars entering and leaving, it will be weeks before they discover it parked there."

As if he was a Mafia soldier and his stepmother was a mob boss, Dona Emma instead of Don Vito, he seldom questioned his stepmother. Privy to all of his father's secrets, she was as much of a professional criminal as he was. Yet, being that she was never even suspected, caught, arrested, prosecuted, and incarcerated, perhaps she was the mastermind in this family and not her hitman of a husband who followed orders without question and who didn't plan his own jobs.

Trusting her completely, Anthony obediently obeyed his stepmother to the last detail as any good Mafia soldier would unquestioningly obey their Don. He knew that she did everything for a reason and with his best interest in mind. Just as she was his stepmother and he loved her, he was her stepson and she loved him. Together, with her the brains and him the brawn, they were an invincible and diabolical team.

"It will be weeks more before they tow it to Boston's impound lot and weeks more before they discover it there. Unless Don Vito rats us out, which I doubt that he will, and tells the Feds that he gave us the car, I doubt they'll ever come looking for us. No matter if they do or not, we'll be long gone by then," she said as if she was an expert at this sort of criminal activity, and obviously she was. "If anything, he'll be glad to be free of financially taking care of us."

Anthony turned to leave in readiness to dump his beloved car.

"Okay, Ma," he said. "I'll be right back."

She stopped his departure with more words of warning.

"Return here by subway. Do not take a cab. Do you understand? Do not take a cab," she said pointing her manicured finger at her son. "Taking a taxi is the best way to ruin your alibi. The last thing we want is a record of where and what time the cab picked you up and the time it delivered you home."

He nodded his head to show her that he understood.

"Got it. No cab," he said as he left to get rid of his beloved car.

* * * * *

By the time that Anthony returned home, Emma had opened every bag, unwrapped and counted all the money, and stored them in two, huge steamer trunks that she used on her Alaskan cruise with her husband years ago. Making sure the bills weren't consecutively numbered, not taking any chances, and tying up all the loose ends, the empty, bank bags were already burning in the fireplace along with the bank wrappers that wrapped the money. She even had time to relax and unwind with a glass of wine before Anthony returned home.

With Christmas music playing in the background, a warm fire heating the condo, and the lighted Christmas tree twinkling in the corner of the room, no one would suspect them of being armored truck robbers. Yet, with their names, perhaps, soon to be added to the FBI's most wanted list, they were just as bad as those from Charlestown who tried to rob the armored truck. Emma took a big breath along with her sigh of relief while staring at her two, huge, steamer trunks filled with money.

Not including the weight of the steamer trunks, each trunk was filled with one's, five's, ten's, fifty's, and hundred's. With a million in hundreds weighing twenty-two pounds and with her having four-million, four hundred, forty-five-thousand dollars and change, she figured there were several hundred pounds of cash. Fortunately, saving them a tremendous amount of weight to lug around, there were more larger bills than there were smaller bills. Otherwise, had there been more smaller bills than big bills, she would have burned the singles, fives, and tens in the fireplace and only lugged around the larger bills, the twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

"Now what do we do, Ma?" As if she was his sexy Dominatrix, Anthony looked at his stepmother with for direction, guidance, and leadership with perplexity. "How do we get out of the country?"

As if she was his girlfriend and he was her illicit lover, as if they already had sex, and as if she had already planned this caper months in advance instead of stumbling over it, she gave him a sexy smile.

"We don't leave the country. We stay here somewhere. I just don't know where yet. They'll be expecting us to do just that, to leave the country, and I don't want to give them any help in finding us. No planes, no trains, no buses, no cellphones, no credit cards, and no debit cards. We pay for everything in cash, even a cup of coffee and a newspaper. We'll buy some burner phones that we can use to make calls. You cannot call your girlfriend, your friends, or any relatives," she said pointing her manicured index finger at him. "Do you understand?"

He nodded his head.

"Yes, I understand."

As if they were CIA spies who were just exposed and burned, disappearing without a trace, she gave him the reasons that he needed to understand the importance of staying silently and invisibly off the grid.

"As far as everyone is to know, we no longer exist. We're dead. We're ghosts. We make a habit of using landlines instead of cellphones whenever we can and only talk to those that we must. We don't talk about anything when in an enclosed area, even in the car. Whenever we need to talk, we go for a walk outside, in the way that Don Vito does when he needed to talk in private without running the risk of being recorded by the FBI. Capisce?"

Anthony nodded his head again.

"I understand," he said.

She gave him a look of warning.

"We use nothing that the FBI can trace to our new location. We never mention the robbery or anything that happened that night. If we need to discuss anything sensitive, we talk in code and/or whisper in each other's ears."

Anthony nodded his head again to let his stepmother know that he understood.

"Okay," he said. Already following her rule of silence, one, two-syllable word was all that he said.

She looked at her stepson as if she was thinking of something while planning something else.

"Do you have a clean gun? Something that can't be traced back to you? I need something small enough and light enough to fit and carry in my purse without it being obvious that I'm carrying a concealed weapon," said Emma.

Anthony left the living room and returned from his room carrying a Ruger LCRx, lightweight, carry, revolver, a .38 special. Not touching the gun with his bare hands, a student of his father, he was wearing gloves.

"It's never been fired. I've been keeping it clean and at the ready. As you can see, the serial numbers were removed," he said showing her the side of the gun. "This was the last gun that Dad brought home before being arrested," said Anthony handing the gun to his stepmother. "I kept it just in case it came in handy. I hid it so that the cops didn't find it in their search of our old house."

Before accepting the gun from her son, she put on her blue, leather gloves. Emma took the gun, checked to see if it was loaded, turned off the safety, and put it in her purse. Being that the steamer trunks were on wheels, she no longer needed the two-wheeler. Instead of using her cell phone, she picked up the land line receiver to call someone. Not mentioning him by name and not telling him who she was, the man on the other end of the line knew who she was by the number she called.

"I need to go fast. I need to leave here," she said lying. She gave him the code word, "here" for needing to leave the country. "I need everything, the whole package for a party of two," she said to the man on the other end of the phone as if she was ordering a turkey, Christmas dinner instead of new, fake identities for her and her stepson.

"When? Today. I need them today. I need them now. I'll pay extra. Whatever your price is I'll pay you double and in cash," she said. "How much? That's a bit steep, isn't it? Okay, okay. Yeah, yeah, I get it. It's Christmas. Merry Christmas to you too. I'll be there in fifteen," said Emma hanging up the phone and turning to Anthony. "Let's load the trunks in the Navigator," she said.

* * * * *

The man, a swarthy type, in the way that Anthony couldn't help himself from staring at his stepmother, the forger eyed Emma up and down as if she was standing before him naked. Now that her husband was in jail and unable to come to her rescue or to her defense, she was fair game for every sleaze ball who wanted to have sex with her. Except for the photos that he now took of them, he already had the ID's ready for them. As if this was his Christmas bonus for such a quick turnaround, he looked eager to receive his exorbitant payment and, perhaps, even more.

"Why don't you have your stepson wait outside? I need to talk to you about somethin'," he said giving her a look of lustful horniness.

She nodded to her stepson to step outside while the man gave her the eye. Knowing what he wanted, she gave him a sexy smile. Then when he looked down to add their photos to their ID's, she looked at him with disdain. She looked at him as if he was dreaming and thinking that she'd have sex with him. There was no way that this creep was touching her.

If she refused Don Vito's sexual advances, why would she embrace his sexual advances? He was nothing but a forger. He was nothing but a loose end. He was someone who could point the mob and/or the FBI in her direction as to where and how to find her by her new identification. If he was anything, he was a dead man.

"What? What do you want? Make it fast. I need to go," said Emma knowing exactly what he wanted.

He smiled and reached out to grab and grope her big breast before reaching around her to feel and squeeze her shapely ass. She stared down at his fingers fingering her already erect nipples through her blouse and bra. To say that she was horny and sexually frustrated was a gross understatement. To say that she'd have sex with practically anyone, including her stepson, especially her stepson, would be another gross understatement. Only, she didn't have time for this shit. She didn't have time for, yet, another man who wanted to fuck her and/or who wanted her to blow him.

Making him feel confidently comfortably and unsuspectingly relaxed, she smiled at him while allowing him to touch her, feel her, fondle her, and grope her. Then, unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping his pants, he reached inside his underwear and pulled out his already erect prick. While staring at her, as if she'd be interested enough to watch him masturbate himself, he stroked himself to an even harder erection. He stared at her with sexual excitement and with forbidden lust, as if she was already naked, on her knees, and ready to suck his cock.

"This won't take long. I'll give you a hefty discount, a special, one-time price, if you're sexually nice to me," he said reaching out to push down on her shoulder.

Running out of time, she feared that her husband's ID man may have already alerted Don Vito or the FBI for whatever reward there may be. Not taking any chances, as soon as he made the ID's and handed them to her, she opened her purse with her gloved hand. What was he thinking? With her morally and criminally no better than him, she was the wife of Fatal Frankie, a dangerous and deadly hitman. She reached inside her purse as if to pay him and showed him two stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills before retrieving her gun.

As if having taken lessons from her Mafia hitman of a husband, as soon as she drew her gun, she shot the man twice, execution style, once in the chest and the second shot in the head. She grabbed his laptop, removed his paper file from his desk, and took the security camera memory chip. As if she was Michael Corleone in The Godfather and in the Italian restaurant after he shot Barzini played by Richard Conte and Captain McCluskey played by Sterling Hayden, she dropped the gun and left.

"Let's go," said Emma when going outside to Anthony. She handed him his new identification. "Memorize everything that's there, social security number, new address, date of birth, and your new name, James Rogers, and I'm Julie Rogers. We're husband and wife. In case we're stopped by police, you need to recite everything fluently, as if you were born with his name and social security number. This is our marriage certificate, birth certificates, drivers' licenses, and passports," she said handing him the folder. "With this our new life, everything is in there."

* * * * *

Taking turns with the driving, switching off every two hours, Emma drove their Lincoln Navigator west until she reached Jackson, Kansas, on the eastern part of the state. With no one looking for her son, she dropped him off at a used car lot and instructed him to buy a vehicle big enough to fit their steamer trunks. Disappearing in with the scenery, he bought a used, dodge minivan. Then abandoning their Lincoln Navigator at a busy, 24-hour, strip mall and away from the watchful eye of security cameras, they continued driving west.

From there, they could have driven north into Canada or south to Mexico. Instead, they drove for nearly two-hundred miles more west until they reached Wichita, the western part of the state, where they rented a room in a clean looking motel that had a restaurant attached to it. Tomorrow, they'd enlist the help of a real estate agent to rent a house. Being that no one would be looking for them in the middle of nowhere and in the middle of Kansas, the last thing that they wanted to do was to alert the IRS by flashing some cash and buying a house.

"I need a room for my husband and me, one with a king-sized bed if you have it," she said handing the clerk her money before he handed her the key. "We'll be here for a few nights until I can find a house in town to rent."

As if he was Norman Bates from the Bates Motel heading to his room to sleep with his mother, Norma Bates, Anthony looked at his stepmother with sexual excitement when she received the key and headed for the motel room. Walking with her in silence, especially if there was anyone within earshot of them, he stared at her as if she was already in her bra and panties. He continued staring at her as if she was already in one of her sexy nightgowns and showing him the tops of her meaty, jiggling breasts, and her long line of sexy cleavage. Instead of looking at her as if she was fully dressed and paying her the respect that any stepson should pay his stepmother, he stared at her as if she was topless or naked.