by Pamela Clare
They all watched while Darcangelo took it out, locked the slide open, checked to make sure the weapon was clear, then aimed it out toward the forest.
“Why’d you decide to go with this instead of something like the Bodyguard?” Ramirez asked. “This is for off-duty concealed carry, right?”
Ramirez had taken an interest in firearms ever since he’d survived that attack on the tour bus in Mexico. He’d made more than a few trips to the gun range with Marc and the guys, and was a deadly shot with his Glock 22.
“The threaded barrel is one thing.” Darcangelo held the new pistol flat on his outstretched palm. “I can attach a suppressor if I want to take this into action on-duty. Also, the magazine carries eight rounds. The magazine on the Bodyguard only loads six. But I guess the big thing for me was the feel and the caliber. The Bodyguard is a small weapon, and I have big hands. And I feel better about firing nine millimeter than I do three-eighty ACP.”
Darcangelo handed the weapon to Ramirez, who was a photojournalist by profession.
“God, this is sweet.” Ramirez released the slide lock, then sighted on the forest, before passing it over to Sheridan.
“Got a case of gun envy, Ramirez?” McBride asked.
“You know it.”
“A three-eighty round will put someone down, won’t it?” Sheridan also sighted, before popping the magazine out and sliding it back in.
“Sure it will—most of the time.” Marc took the pistol from Sheridan, tested its weight in his hand, sighted, then passed the SIG on to West. “Sometimes you get a guy who’s hopped up on cocaine or meth or is just plain psycho, and he won’t even feel a smaller round. You want to stop someone? Go with nine millimeter—or better yet forty-five.”
“What do you carry, Nate?” Sheridan, who’d just resigned his position as a high school teacher to make a run for lieutenant governor, was no slouch when it came to pistol marksmanship, even if he didn’t have the military or law enforcement experience that most of them had.
“A Colt M1911.” West, a former Marine special operator, passed the P239 over to Rossiter. “It’s slender enough to carry concealed. I can carry it cocked and locked, and it fires a forty-five round. I don’t care what anyone says about nine millimeter—”
“Oh, here he goes again.” Darcangelo rolled his eyes.
“—there’s a reason they say, ‘They all fall to ball.’ Besides, I don’t need a rail and all that fancy shit. I just want a reliable weapon that fires a powerful round.”
“Spoken like a true jarhead, West.” Darcangelo shook his head.
“I’m fine with nine millimeter.” Rossiter was a former Mountain Parks Ranger and paramedic who now test-drove prosthetic legs for extreme athletes. “I’ve got a Glock 26 for concealed carry and an HK forty-caliber semi-auto for home defense.”
His stomach growling, Marc walked over to look at the burgers, but McBride shoed him away. “I figured you just had some sort of James Bond rig in your fake leg—flex your ankle and fifty-cal rounds shoot out of your heel or some shit.”
“Who says I don’t?” Rossiter handed the weapon back to Darcangelo.
“How about you, McBride?” Sheridan asked.
“On duty, I pack a pair of Springfield TRP pistols.” McBride, a former Navy SEAL, was the chief deputy U.S. Marshal for the Colorado territory and the second highest ranking law enforcement officer in the state.
“They fire forty-five, in case you’re wondering, Darcangelo,” West added with a grin, rubbing the point in.
McBride went on. “If I want to conceal off duty, I’ve got a few to choose from—a SIG P239, a Bodyguard, a Walther PPS, a Ruger…”
The door opened, and Natalie walked out with an empty platter.
“Gun talk. I should’ve known.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed her husband’s cheek. “Zach shops for guns the way many women shop for shoes and purses—it’s constant and ongoing.”
This made the guys chuckle.
Natalie held out the empty platter. “I hope those burgers are done. The kids are starving. Apparently, their parents never allow them to eat except when they come to our house—and then they eat everything.”
“Perfect timing.” McBride lifted the burgers one at a time off the grill and put them on the plate. “I’ll get our steaks going. If I acknowledged the appearance of sexism in this request and promised to make up for it by doing something that honors your equality, would you mind grabbing me another beer?”
Natalie smiled, but shook her head. “I think Marc took the last one.”
Six heads turned Marc’s way.
“Nice.” Ramirez looked pissed.
Darcangelo glared at him. “Way to go, Hunter.”
“Hey, this was my first and only.” Marc pointed to the bottle in his right hand.
But McBride was still staring at Natalie. “Are you saying we’re out of beer?”
Natalie carried the full platter toward the door, which Darcangelo opened for her. “Didn’t you make it to the liquor store? We’ve got some wine coolers and a bottle of chardonnay already chilled.”
Wine coolers? Chardon-fucking-ay?
The guys exchanged glances.
And Marc knew what he had to do. He tossed back the rest of his Fat Tire, sat the empty bottle down, and reached for his shirt. “No problem. I’ll head into Evergreen on a beer run.”
Darcangelo snapped his gun case shut, locked it. “I’ll go with you.”
# # #
How Marc’s volunteering to make a beer run with Darcangelo had turned into six men packed into McBride’s SUV—Ramirez had been called out on assignment—Marc couldn’t say. The moment the women had heard they were going into town, they’d been pelted with requests. Kat James, Rossiter’s wife, needed baby wipes. Kara McMillan, Reece’s wife, had forgotten to bring ice cream to put on top the pie. And Megan wanted something of a personal and private nature, which she had revealed only to her husband.
And their beer strike force had become an expedition.
“Here’s how we’ll do this.” Marc looked back over his shoulder. “Alpha Team—that’s me, Darcangelo, and McBride—will take the liquor store, dropping off Beta Team—that’s Sheridan, Rossiter, and you, West—”
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” Rossiter cut Marc off. “I’m not part of any beta team.”
“Yeah, me neither,” West added. “And don’t even suggest ‘Baby Wipe Patrol’ or ‘Tampon Squadron.’”
So that’s what Megan had wanted.
“Okay, fine.” Marc nodded. “Alpha Team will take the liquor store, dropping Team One off at the grocery store. We rendezvous at the vehicle in the liquor store parking lot at eighteen-hundred hours.”
They had their strategy. Each man knew what he had to do.
Marc would be back relaxing on the deck in no time.
# # #
Marc followed Darcangelo and McBride through the door of the liquor store, a bell jingling as they entered. The place was all but empty, Led Zeppelin’s Dyer Maker playing on the sound system, the air conditioning blasting. A pretty young woman stood behind the counter. A kid with tattoos, saggy pants, and metal bits in his face was the only other customer.
“Where are your refrigerated microbrews?” Darcangelo called out.
The young woman—early twenties, five-five, blond—said nothing, but pointed toward a refrigeration unit against the rear wall, watching them as they moved through the store. Marc might not have given her a second look had their gazes not collided in that moment. In her eyes, he saw terror.
Everything seemed to slow down as he took it all in. The woman’s dilated pupils and rapid breathing. The kid with the tattoos seemingly perusing French wines—yeah, right—his gaze furtively following Marc and the guys. The slightly open cash drawer.
They’d arrived in time to interrupt a robbery.
“Rossiter wants us to pick up a six-pack of Boulder Beer’s Never Summer Ale if they have it and Sweaty Betty if they don’t,” Darcangelo was sayi
ng. “Twisted Pine brews an Oak Whiskey Red that is fan-freaking-tastic.”
“Fat Tire is good enough for me,” McBride said. “I had some chili beer down in Mexico that was the best damned brew I’ve ever had with steak, but I know I’m not going to find that here.”
Marc needed to get their attention. He stopped, turned as if he were heading off to the wine section. “I think I’m going to grab that bottle of chardonnay Natalie wanted. Got to keep my wife happy.”
They stopped and looked back at him, their law enforcement instincts catching up with their facial expressions by the time his words sank in.
“Sounds good.” Darcangelo’s gaze moved quickly from the woman at the counter to the man with the tattoos.
“Get something from California. I hear French wines suck this time of year.” McBride glanced covertly at the dome mirror on the ceiling.
There on its distorted round surface, Marc saw a second man crouched down behind the counter next to the cashier. And the bastard was armed.
While Darcangelo and McBride kept up the beer chatter, each of them picking up a couple of six packs, Marc walked over to the wine section. “Got any California chardonnays on sale?”
The woman at the register was growing more and more afraid, her gaze darting nervously from Marc to the man with the tattoos, her face pale. “N-no.”
Marc stopped at an endcap display of white wines and pretended to read the labels, trying to keep one eye on the woman and the other on the kid with the tattoos, waiting for Darcangelo and McBride to get into position. “You know, I have no clue what the difference is between a Riesling, a Pinot Grigio, and Chardonnay. They’re all white, right?”
The woman at the counter gave a wooden nod, clearly very close to panic. But Darcangelo and McBride were on their way to the counter now.
She didn’t know it, but she was about to be saved.
“You think this is enough for all of us?” Darcangelo asked, setting two six packs down on the counter and pulling out his wallet.
“I don’t know.” McBride set his beer down on the counter, too—Rossiter’s Sweaty Betty and some IPA. “How much are you planning on drinking? Didn’t you learn your lesson at West’s bachelor party?”
“You’ve got a point.” Darcangelo turned toward the woman. “I’ll just take these today together with…” In the blink of an eye, he reached behind the counter, grabbed the gunman by his hair and jerked him to his feet, dragging him across the counter and pinning him there. “…this piece of shit.”
The gunman yelped, something heavy clattering to the ground—a Glock 19.
The tattooed kid reached for a weapon concealed inside his jacket, but Marc had already drawn, his Taurus PT 709 aimed at the idiot’s chest. “Don’t even think about it. Down on the ground! Now!”
Tattoo Kid slowly got to his knees, a sneer on his acne-scarred face.
“What’s your name? Christy? It’s going to be all right now, Christy,” Darcangelo said to the terrified cashier, his tone of voice shifting from soothing to mocking as he spoke to the assailant. “You like to carry guns and scare women? You’re in deep shit, asshole.”
“Fuck you, you fucking pussy!”
The cashier was weeping softly, near to hysterics. “M-my dad…”
Marc heard McBride dialing 911 over the rasping sound of duct tape being torn from a roll.
“This is McBride. I want to report an armed robbery at Evergreen Liquor. Three off-duty law enforcement officers are on the scene. Requesting backup.”
Marc heard the rasping sound of duct tape being torn from a roll.
Tattoo Kid’s sneer disappeared. “You’re cops?”
“Not your day, is it?” Marc moved in, weapon aimed, finger on the trigger.
“No, man, it’s not your day.”
Marc ignored the kid’s bravado. “Lie flat on your stomach, legs spread, hands behind your head. Oh, look, you’re a pro. I bet you’ve done this before.”
He patted the guy down, found a Cobra 9 mm in his jacket and a switchblade in his front jeans pocket. “I’ve always wanted to ask this question. Why do you walk around with sagging pants? Do you think it’s sexy? Does it make you look tough? ‘Look how bad I am. I don’t even pull up my pants.’ You look stupid, man. Chicks don’t like it. I bet you never get laid or even—”
Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at!
A scream. Shattered glass. Spraying liquid. The scent of alcohol.
High-caliber rounds poured out of nowhere, blasting bottles to bits, turning the floor into a slick mess of liquor and broken glass.
Marc dove for the floor, shards and slivers cutting his skin, alcohol stinging the cuts as he scrambled on his forearms toward the kid, who tried to get to his feet, clearly hoping to run.
“Bad fucking idea!” Marc shouted, pressing the barrel of his Taurus against the son of a bitch’s cheek.
So that’s what the kid had meant about it not being their day. Somewhere in the store was a third assailant—one who wasn’t afraid to shoot at cops.
Then the lights went out.
From across the store came McBride’s voice.
“Okay. This shit just got real.”
# # #
Knowing he needed to neutralize the kid so he could deal with the shooter, Marc turned his pistol in his hand and struck him upside the temple, knocking him out. Keeping low, Marc made his way toward the center aisle.
“You fucking pigs, listen to me!” The voice came from the back of the store. “Put down your guns, and let Trance and Havoc go! I’ve got the girl’s dad back here, and I’ll shoot him in the fucking face if you fuck with us!”
The woman was crying.
Great. Just what we need—a hostage situation.
McBride answered. “We’ve already called for police backup. There’s no way out of this now except for you to put down your weapon and let the man go. You’ve already shot one of my partners and killed one of your friends. Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
Marc glanced around the endcap, made eye contact with McBride, who crouched on this side of the counter next to the assailant he and Darcangelo had brought down. The man lay on his belly on the floor, mad as hell, his wrists and ankles bound with duct tape, his mouth covered.
So McBride was bluffing.
But where was Darcangelo? He must have taken cover behind the counter with the woman, trying to protect her.
McBride signaled to Marc.
One shooter. Ten o’clock.
Marc nodded.
He worked his way silently back the way he’d come, stepping carefully over the unconscious form of Tattoo Kid, his shoes grinding slivers of glass into the floor, the reek of alcohol overpowering.
“Who’s dead?” Panic slid into the shooter’s voice. “Trance? Havoc?”
“The ugly one with the tattoos,” McBride answered.
“Trance! Oh, God!” The shooter sounded so young, just a kid.
“I tell you what. We’ll cut you a deal.” McBride was trying to distract the shooter, buying time for Marc to find him and take him out. “You send the man out to us and run out the back door, and we won’t follow you.”
“Fuck you! You think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re in big trouble if you don’t wise up right away.”
Only half-hearing the conversation, Marc made his way aisle by shattered aisle toward the back, searching the store for any sign of the shooter. He didn’t want to get too close. If the shooter’s weapon was outfitted with optics, he’d see Marc before Marc saw him, and then this beer run would turn into a last op.
Near the back of the store, he stopped, got down, and watched for any sign of movement. And there, inside the refrigeration unit, he saw the dark outline of a man, legs visible between shelves, the barrel of a what looked like an AK knock-off jutting out from between broken champagne bottles.
But how was Marc going to reach him? Getting inside the refrigeration unit—Marc could see now that it was actually a big walk-in refri
gerator with shelf units that faced into the store—would mean exposing himself. He couldn’t fire on the guy because he had no idea where the hostage was.
“Is a few hundred bucks worth life in prison?” McBride asked.
Marc could answer that question.
No. Fucking. Way.
“You got kids? A mom who loves you? Anyone you care about? If you don’t send the girl’s father out right now, you’re not going to see them again.”
“Shut the fuck up! Shit! Shit!” The shooter was starting to break.
Movement.
Marc’s gaze shifted to the opposite side of the room.
Darcangelo.
Marc pointed toward the door with a jerk of his head, saw Darcangelo nod, then disappear.
A moment later, a single bottle tipped onto the floor and rolled down the far aisle, the sound drawing the panicked shooter’s attention, the barrel of his rifle now pointing away from Marc.
In a blink, Marc was on his feet. Keeping low, he slipped as silently as he could through the door that led to the back rooms of the store. He slowly made his way along a concrete wall and around stacks of cardboard boxes to the refrigerator’s entrance. The door stood ajar.
He took a breath, mentally preparing himself, then pivoted, aiming his weapon at the shooter, his body partially shielded by the thick steel door. “Drop your weapon! Drop it! Now!”
The AK fell to the floor with a clatter, and Marc found himself looking into the eyes of a panicked boy who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen, if that.
He lunged for his weapon, but Marc kicked it to the side. “Oh, no you don’t! Freeze!”
But the kid was desperate.
He ran at Marc, aiming a high kick at his head.
Marc ducked, holstered his weapon. “You want to play? Have it your way.”
But then Darcangelo was behind him. “Allow me, Hunter. You go find the girl’s dad. I’ll handle Karate Kid, here. I haven’t had a good workout in weeks.”
Marc gave Darcangelo a nod and headed off down the hallway, the sound of sparring following him as he went—a thud, a groan, and Darcangelo’s voice.