Thin and graceful fingers rub across a chin, freshly shaven and still tingling from the after effects of a four bladed razor.  A foreign made, ten-dollar a pack, cigarette is clamped between the first two fingers of the same hand as he brings the overly expensive smoke to his lips.  A soft glow brightens the face of a thirty something gent with with a haircut and Armani suit to match his flavor of cigarettes.  He sits behind the wheel of a pearl silver M3 class BMW grey eyes locked on the big doors<br/><br/>To all appearances he seems like a business man, a successful one at that, but on the inside Jake Palmer is a nervous man. Perhaps even a little anxious.  Nothing of this would be seen on the outside though.  He has been watching this particular saving and loan institution.  He has the exact times of movement of monies to and from, as well as what kind of security and which armored company is the carrier.  His plan is without reproach.  He was prepared and ready.<br/><br/>That was the problem though.  He hasn't pulled a job yet that didn't get a wrinkle or two thrown into it.  He had even used his weapon on his last job.  He hadn't killed anyone, and still hasn't in the six jobs he has been involved in, but he had to make a belligerent rent a cop bleed for being just a tad incorrigible.<br/><br/>Another draw on the cigarette and he pops the door of the Beemer and unfolds his six foot two inch frame from the overpriced coupe.  With movements filled with purpose, he closes and buttons the jacket of his suit and heads towards the large glass double doors