Phelps: What's the situation?
Officer 1: Half a dozen shooters, sir. Cold blooded sons of bitches. Real professionals.
Phelps: What do you mean?
Officer 1: Witnesses say they bounced in, aced the guards and went straight downstairs. Christ knows who they're working for but whatever's in that vault, they want it bad.
Galloway: You picked the wrong bank to rob, my friends.
Phelps: Move it inside! We've got to clear out the bottom floor.
Galloway: Come on! Make a push for the building.
Officer 1: They've blocked the goddamn stairs! Detective, take the elevator!
Galloway: All right, I'll wait here. Don't give them a chance to re-group!
Phelps: Wish me luck.
Robber 1: Wrong floor, policeman. You have no idea who you're fucking with.
Phelps: Your buddies upstairs are dead. That leaves you, pal.
Galloway: Come on, Cole, what's taking so long?
Robber 2: I know you're there!
Phelps: Just you and me. You can live to tell the tale. Clip's dry. That's it! That's all of them.
Car 11K, shots fired, suspects are down. We're Code Four here, but I need an ambulance at the Bank of America, Seventh and Olive. Notify coroner and detective headquarters.
Operator: Roger on your ambulance, 11K. All units, Code Four on the 211 at Bank of America. Code Four.