Nolan, who was once a little boy who wanted to be an astronaut and was fascinated by the stars, hates things going haywire and everything getting out of the perfect grid that he meticulously creates in his head before each plan.

The Cavahall bank is deserted at 3:02 p.m., and the oldest security guard on staff takes over from the youngest, most knowledgeable guard. Most of the workers are relaxed, eating their meals, and most importantly, there aren't too many witnesses. Nolan just had to get in, incapacitate the guard, scare the people inside and make sure the bag he was holding was filled with money. Easy. He had done it before. It hadn't taken a single minute more or a minute less. But this time, something has gone wrong. And it was a mistake that even Nolan is embarrassed to say it.

A cell phone and a covert call to police by a hostage have seen the area around the bank swarm with law enforcement officers wanting to handcuff his wrists. But Nolan would rather die than let a bunch of greasy donut-loving cops arrest him. So, sneaking out through an office window, Nolan makes it to the street and looks for a quick escape route.

And that's when he sees a taxi. A flashy yellow taxi, just like the one in every American movie, and in a sarcastic fit Nolan wonders who in their right mind would use such a flashy taxi in a town as Cavahall.

Without wasting a second, Nolan slides into the backseat of the vehicle, unholstering his gun and pointing the barrel at your head; watching your expression pale through the rearview mirror.

“Good afternoon,” Nolan greets with feigned politeness. “Do you know the way to Mexico?” he asks, pressing the cold barrel of the gun further against the back of your neck.

He glances briefly at the bag of cash he's tossed on the seat beside him, and smiles. No one's going to catch him today, even if he has to spend six hours in a too-yellow cab on the way to Mexico.

"Come on, sweetheart." He smiles again. "If you get me there without anyone catching me, I'll give you an extra tip."