Sprinting my way through the crowded Manhattan subway station, my heart was beating out of its chest. I was being chased by two policemen. I heard their footsteps becoming louder and louder with every step. I sprinted up the steps onto the crowded street, shoving people aside. I tripped and fell at the crosswalk, but I was still out of reach from police officers. I felt the hard concrete under my hands as I stood back up. Fumbling with my bag full of gold bars, I started sprinting again. I caught a glimpse of my getaway driver in the distance. For only three more blocks, I had to outrun the officers. I had plotted out these very moments for the past seven years. Everything was thought out to the very last meticulous detail. Then, disaster struck.
