by Sommer Smith
There was always that moment when it felt like they ought to be able to move beyond the usual pleasantries, grab a cup of coffee and have a collegial conversation about their jobs and life in Dagger Lake. But from the look of Cal’s attire—ice fishing overalls and bulky wool coat—as well as the anxious expression on his face, that talk wasn’t going to happen today.
“What’s going on? Why’s the door locked?” Cal’s voice brought her back to the present, and she stepped sideways to get out of his way. Their elbows bumped, and her cell slipped from her grasp and disappeared into a pile of deep, wet snow.
No! She needed to answer that call. If Davey was coming to live with her, there wasn’t a moment to spare. She dropped to her knees and began to dig, clawing through the slush until her fingers closed around a rectangular object. Her phone, dripping wet, with moisture already seeping through the casing. She pushed herself up, her thumb frantically pressing the power button, but the screen remained blank. She tried again. Nothing.
Cal reached across the stoop and swiped a sleeve against the phone’s screen. “If you power it off and wait a few minutes, it might still work. Look,” he said, tilting his head downward. “I think I see something inside on the floor.”
As Cal pressed his face against the window that framed the bank’s threshold, she rechecked her cell. Fuzzy gray lines now crisscrossed the screen, but there was still no reception. How long would she have to wait to find out if the folks at Children and Family Services had approved her application? She tamped down her frustration. Maybe there was a landline she could use in the lobby. Her eyes darted back toward Cal. That was when she noticed the look on his face. Assessing and hard. Tracking the downward direction of his glance, she saw what she had missed on her first peek through the glass—the body of a man lying facedown on the floor, a wide circle of blood pooled beneath his head. Given the navy blue uniform and the thin, gray hair, she assumed that the injured man was Zander Phillips, the weekend security guard at the bank.
“Oh no.” She bit back the scream that was lodged in her throat.
Cal pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for her to step away.
She moved toward the spot by the side of the building where he stood waiting.
“What’s going on?”
Cal’s face was grim. “It looks like we stumbled into the middle of a robbery.”
“What about Zander? Do you think he’s dead?”
“Not sure. But it doesn’t look good.”
Her mind switched into paramedic gear. “If we could break a window and get inside, I might be able to help him.”
“No, Abby. At this point, it’s not safe. The fact that there are so many cars in the lot makes me think that the robbers are still in the building. More than one shooter could be inside, holding other hostages. We need to get backup here right away.” He reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a set of keys. “Here. Take these. My truck is parked in the lot. And my phone is in the cupholder between the seats. The code is five-five-seven-two. Call nine-one-one and tell the operator to send as many deputies as she can muster.”
“Five-five-seven-two,” she repeated, her heart pounding in her chest. As Cal pulled his Glock from the holster under his coat, she swallowed hard. “I can do that. But what about you?”
“I’m going to do a recon of the outside of the building. The more I can learn about the situation, the better it will be when backup arrives.”
She ignored the rest of the questions crowding her brain. All she could think about was Zander. Minutes, even seconds, could decide if he lived or died. But Cal was right. The best course of action was to call for help. Once the 911 operator passed the message to the proper authorities, it wouldn’t be long before deputies arrived on the scene, armed with weapons and shields. The team on the ambulance would be right behind them, well prepared to do everything they could to handle the medical emergency. The bank robbers would be apprehended. And the hostages would be safe.
But before any of that could happen, she needed to find Cal’s truck. She retraced her steps along the path, stopping at the curb to look for his familiar blue F-150. Bits of frozen ice pelted her face as she struggled to discern the contours of the snow-covered vehicles scattered haphazardly across the lot. It was already getting dark, and a green-gray dusk shrouded her vision. She raised her hand to shield her eyes and peered out through a veil of falling snow. Yes! There it was, a dusting of flakes already covering the truck bed and the side windows. She ran across the lot, skidding through the slush as wetness seeped through the soles of her shoes.
She pressed the button on the key fob. The horn honked, the taillights flashed and the locks disengaged.
Pulling herself up into the driver’s seat, she slammed the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath and brushed the snow from her shoulders. Inside the cab, the frosted windows bathed the space in a tomb-like glow, making it hard to see more than a few inches in front of her. Cal had said that his phone was in the cupholder, but—her fingers clenched from the cold as she raked her hand across the console—it didn’t seem to be there.
She flicked on the overhead light and scanned the cab. The charger was empty. Where was the phone?
Desperation guided her senses as she pried her hands into the sides of both seats. But there was nothing there, except for a pack of mints and a broken pen.
Had Cal been confused with his directions? Maybe he’d made a mistake and left his cell at home. She shook her head. That wasn’t likely. It had to be somewhere in the truck. It had probably slid off the console and lodged under the seat.
The beam on the ceiling flickered and dimmed. It was still so dark inside the cab. She pressed the key into the truck’s ignition, and the light blinked back on as the motor responded with a dull roar. It was tempting to put the truck in gear and head into town. She might have to do that if she couldn’t find the phone. But with Zander bleeding out on the floor of the bank, every second was precious.
Her breath came out in short bursts, forming a thin cloud of condensation on the windows. As she flicked on the defroster, her eyes raced across the dashboard, searching for the knob that controlled the wipers. The one in her car was to the left of the gearshift, but the F-150’s was on the turn signal.
She rotated the dial.
A green arrow began to blink. She twisted the notch underneath it. There was a moment of hesitation before the blades engaged, but it took only one pass for the wipers to clear the snow from the glass, making it easier to see.
But the phone was nowhere to be found. Leaning over the headrest, she checked the back seat. And there it was, laying upside down on the floor. She stretched her arms to pick it up and then slid back down on the seat.
Her legs were shaking as she set the phone on her lap. What was the code again? Five-five-seven-two. She had just punched in the last of the four digits when the click of a handle being pushed and released sent a shock wave of tension straight up her spine.
“Cal?” she said.
Not Cal.
She froze for a second as the side door flew open, and a dark-haired woman with a gun pulled herself into the passenger seat. “Don’t move,” the woman said.
She couldn’t if she wanted to. A cloud of fear fogged her brain as she stared at the pistol aimed at her chest. Her heart seemed to stop, and then it began to drum frantically. But she couldn’t allow herself to lose her nerve. Her eyes slid sideways, and a germ of an idea took root in her brain. The console between the seats was high enough to shield the lower part of her body. Which meant that the woman sitting next to her couldn’t see the phone.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in anticipation. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she reached down toward the cell and silenced the volume. With the tip of her thumb, she skimmed the call icon. For the beat of one second, her finger remained poised against the glass, wait
ing to slide across the numbers on the screen.
Nine...one...
A sharp object nudged against her ribs. Her hand froze as the woman pressed the barrel of the pistol hard against her chest.
“What is it about ‘don’t move’ that you don’t understand?”
* * *
Cal kept his head down as he crept past the low-lying evergreens along the north side of the building. Under normal circumstances, he would settle into a safe spot and wait for backup. But given the unknowns of the situation, he couldn’t remain still. The threat of hostages was a very real possibility. He glanced down at his watch. Any minute now, Abby would be dialing 911.
According to protocol, the message would be passed to the deputy manning the desk at the sheriff’s department, and every available officer in the area would be sent to the scene.
And when they arrived, they’d be grateful for a solid recon of the site.
He reached the corner of the lot and made the turn toward the back of the building. The snow was coming down harder now, obscuring any footprints along the path. His mind scrambled to imagine every possible scenario to explain what might have happened in the lobby of the bank. How many civilians had been inside? How many robbers? Why hadn’t the teller on duty pushed the emergency button to notify the police? He couldn’t be sure, but Zander Phillips probably never had a chance. The guard’s gun was still in his holster when his body hit the floor.
He could only speculate about the events that followed. Any remaining hostages would have been taken at gunpoint to a back room as the robbers—based on past experience, there had to be at least two, maybe three—emptied the cash from the drawers. Breaking into the safe would be their next step. Which explained why the lobby was deserted when he and Abby arrived at the door.
Frustration gnawed at his senses. How had he failed to realize that something was wrong the moment he pulled into the parking lot? There were too many cars for closing time on a Saturday afternoon. He had noticed Abby’s white Nissan as well as the late-model minivan and light blue Taurus that he had seen on previous visits. But the black SUV with tinted windows and out-of-state plates parked by the entrance should have raised his suspicions.
But no. He had walked right by it, lost in thought, already anticipating his upcoming weekend ice fishing with his dad, and far too distracted to put two and two together and realize something was wrong.
That had been a mistake.
Treading lightly along the path, he approached the security door on the west side of the building. He considered the layout of the bank as he planned his next move. The door opened into the hall next to the lobby, and its tempered steel construction would make it impossible to break through.
Of course, there was always the chance that the robbers had gotten careless. They had no reason to be expecting trouble so near to closing time on a Saturday afternoon.
Cal reached for the handle. He drew in a quick breath as it turned in his hand.
He stepped into the hall, his finger on the trigger of his Glock.
As the door swished shut behind him, a shot rang out, splintering the wall above him, well off the intended mark. It was followed by another blast from the opposite direction. That one was close. Too close.
He plastered his body against the smooth, cool surface of the pillar at the far end of the lobby and returned fire. His heart thudded as he did the calculations in his head. So far at least, there seemed to be only two shooters and no signs of hostages anywhere. From the trajectory of the bullets, it seemed that the younger gunman was lurking in the shadows along the front wall while the second shooter was crouched down behind the cashier’s station in the back of the lobby.
It didn’t take a genius to predict what would happen next.
One of the men would make a move, counting on the other to provide cover.
He held his Glock steady with both hands, blew out a long breath and peeked around the column. A rippling crack sliced through the air. He yanked his head back just in time as fine, gray grit rained down on his hair.
He wiped the dust from his face with his sleeve. Sweat beaded along his temples. Three more shots, and the pillar would be gone. He needed to relocate to a place where his exposure was limited. But crossing the room without drawing fire would be next to impossible. Already the robbers were fanning out on either side of him. In a matter of seconds, he would be outflanked. It was now or never. As he glanced back around the column, another bullet streaked by him, whistling inches from his head. But this time he was ready. He swiveled in the direction of the shooter and fired twice. Then he took off running.
Had any of his bullets hit their mark? He couldn’t be sure. His only goal at the moment was making it across the lobby unscathed. He was almost there. Just a few feet to go. He stumbled sideways and rolled onto his back. Holding his gun in front of him, he pushed himself toward a table, knocking it sideways to form a barricade.
He took a steadying breath and prepared for round two. There were seven bullets left in his magazine. And an extra clip on his ankle holster. Plenty of ammo.
And if Abby had called for help, backup would be on the way.
He peered around the side of the table and took stock of his shooters’ positions. One of the gunmen had barricaded himself behind the cashier’s station. The other was lying on the floor, clutching a bloody hand to his chest. So he hadn’t missed with his shot. From the way the fallen man was moaning, the injury appeared severe enough to count him out.
One down and one to go.
Cal pulled himself upright, his gun at the ready. He had a clear shot at the first gunman, and the chance to end this now.
But when he twisted his head, his stomach clenched. A tall woman was standing in front of the door he’d entered minutes ago, her brows bent into a deep frown as she pressed her pistol against Abby’s head. Abby’s eyes met his with a look of abject disappointment.
“Drop your weapon now,” the woman said. “And kick it over to me.”
Cal’s finger froze on the trigger. He could probably still get off a shot. But as he looked at Abby, he knew the risk was too great. Her face was pale and drawn against her jet-black hair. But there was fire and determination blazing in her eyes.
He had run out of options. There was no other choice but to obey the woman’s command.
Setting down his gun, he nudged it out of reach and raised his hands in surrender.
The younger of the shooters, a man in a black T-shirt, stepped around from the cashier’s station. With a slow and steady gait, he walked across the lobby, the snarl on his lips daring Cal to move.
Cal’s eyes didn’t waver as he held the robber’s taunting gaze.
Two steps closer, and the man was at his side. Without speaking a word, he raised his .44 Magnum and brought it down hard on the back of Cal’s head.
And everything faded to black.
Copyright © 2021 by Jean Bullard
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ISBN-13: 9780369716088
Attempted Abduction
Copyright © 2021 by Sommer Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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