Inside the vault, as alarms blared, Trevor held the reel up to the fluorescent light. "You know what this is, Mikey? It's not a movie. It's a confession. Solomon's old partner—he was the one who tipped off the FIB about the North Yankton job. All these years…"

He tapped out a reply: "Who's driving?"

The next ten minutes were a ballet of chaos—bullet casings dancing on asphalt, the percussive thump of a grenade launcher, Trevor cackling as he jumped from the moving car onto the hood of a pursuing cruiser, punching through the windshield to grab the driver.

Franklin flew low, skimming the rooftops, heading toward the hills. "Where to, M?"