A Coolvalstories Production
© Valentine Nkemjika
The Broker Season 1 (Last Bell at Lincoln Elementary)
Detroit, Michigan – 10:03 AM
Cold. Gritty. Restless.
Downtown Detroit buzzed with the kind of Monday tension only overworked bankers, honking cab drivers, and street vendors truly understood. But inside a nondescript black Dodge Caravan parked across from Detroit Central Credit Union, tension meant something entirely different.
Inside the van sat Reggie “Red” Dawson — mid-40s, ex-military, eyes like stone. His leather-gloved hands drummed softly on the steering wheel. The scar across his jaw tightened as he glanced at the digital watch on his wrist.
“Two minutes,” he muttered.
In the backseat, Trey Lewis, 28, slim with jittery fingers and a laptop balanced on his thighs, tapped rapidly. Lines of code flickered across the screen.
“We’re good,” he said. “Security looped. You’ve got four minutes before the system reboots.”
Beside him, Carlos Montoya adjusted his Kevlar vest, his eyes wild, trigger-happy. Tattoos ran down his neck like rivers of rage.
Reggie turned in his seat. “You know the drill. In and out. No blood. Get what we came for and vanish.”
Carlos snorted. “If anyone gets in the way, I’m dropping ‘em. No hostages, no hesitation.”
Trey looked up. “We agreed. No civilians. Especially not—”
“Time’s up,” Reggie said flatly, stepping out.
Three men. Black masks. Silenced weapons. One goal: clean score, early retirement.
They crossed the street like shadows.
Inside Detroit Central Credit Union – 10:06 AM
The lobby was filled with the usual Monday morning suspects — a pensioner filling out a deposit slip, a mother balancing her toddler on her hip, two businessmen arguing about wire transfers.
The security guard barely had time to blink before Reggie’s fist connected with his temple. He crumpled silently.
“Everyone down!” Carlos roared, firing a warning shot into the ceiling. Screams. Panic. Chaos.
Reggie headed straight for the vault manager. “Code. Now.”
Trey held the lobby hostages at gunpoint while checking his phone timer. “Three minutes, Reggie.”
The manager fumbled with the keypad, sweating bullets. The door opened with a heavy metallic groan.
Stacks of cash. Neatly bundled. Freshly delivered.
Reggie’s face stayed stoic. “Bag it.”
They moved with military precision. Cash into duffels. Duffels into backpacks. But something didn’t feel right.
A red light blinked on Trey’s phone.
He froze.
“Silent alarm’s been triggered,” he said, panic rising in his throat. “They’re on us.”
Reggie zipped the last bag. “Move!”
The Getaway – 10:17 AM
Back in the van, sirens howled in the distance. Trey peeled through the streets like a madman, tires screeching, windshields fogged from panic.
“Blockades going up ahead!” he shouted.
Carlos threw open the side door and fired at a cruiser following too close. The cop car swerved and slammed into a fire hydrant, spraying geysers of water into the air.
Reggie scanned the side streets. “We’re boxed in.”
Then he saw it — the school. A two-story brick building with colorful murals and a playground out front. A banner read: “Welcome to Lincoln Elementary – Where Every Child Shines!”
He hesitated.
Carlos saw it too. “Let’s go. We take hostages. We live another day.”
Trey’s hands trembled. “That’s a school, man.”
Reggie made the call.
“Do it.”
The van tore through the parking lot, knocking over a crossing sign. Teachers screamed. Children ran. The bell rang mid-chaos — the last normal sound anyone would hear that day.
Lincoln Elementary – 10:21 AM
Inside, Ms. Dana Rivers, a 32-year-old 4th-grade teacher with braids pulled into a tight bun, was helping her students line up for recess when she heard the crash.
Then the screams.
“Back inside! NOW!” she shouted.
Her voice was calm but fierce. Years of practice. Years of drills for everything from tornadoes to intruders. But this wasn’t a drill.
The robbers stormed in — Carlos leading with a shotgun, Reggie behind him directing people into the auditorium. Trey hesitated at the entrance, breathing hard, eyes darting.
Children cried. A teacher fainted. Desks overturned. The world shifted.
Detroit Police Command Post – 10:45 AM
“Talk to me,” Chief Anita Rowe barked into her radio. Her short, graying hair peeked from beneath her hat as she stared at a drone feed.
“Three armed suspects. Forty-plus kids. Staff included,” said Detective Morgan Chase, eyes locked on the building blueprints.
A former Marine turned negotiator, Chase had seen his share of hell. But nothing chilled him more than children trapped in crossfire.
“Snipers?” Rowe asked.
“Negative. Too many moving bodies. We risk a massacre.”
Outside the school, a crowd of horrified parents was forming. Some wept. Some shouted at officers to “DO SOMETHING!”
One man, face streaked with tears, clutched a school photo. “My baby’s in there!”
Chief Rowe clenched her jaw. “We wait. We negotiate. No cowboy moves.”
Inside the Auditorium – 11:06 AM
Reggie had barricaded the doors. Chairs were stacked against exits. The kids were all on the floor — some hugging, some frozen.
Skylar Owens, 8, quietly drew on a wrinkled paper with a red crayon. She didn’t cry like the others. Her drawing showed her house, her dad, her dog — and a strange black van with a frown.
Ms. Dana noticed and knelt beside her.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
Skylar whispered, “I don’t think the man with the scar wants to hurt us.”
Dana looked up at Reggie, standing still, almost meditative, watching them.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” she said softly.
Final Scene – 11:22 AM
Reggie called the police line through the school landline, now rerouted by Trey.
“This is Reggie Dawson. We have hostages. Kids. Teachers. If you don’t want blood on your hands, I want a helicopter in the next two hours. Fueled. Piloted. No trackers. Or else…”
He hung up before Chase could reply.
Outside, panic surged.
Inside, Trey sat in a corner, hands shaking. “This isn’t what we planned.”
Reggie looked at the sea of frightened children.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s not.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
