A command, not a request. But Carla was happy to comply. Wilbur quietly hit up each person in turn. Brittany and Ali took the time to order their coffees.
When Bailey slid the last drink over the counter, Wilbur thrust the mug at her, overflowing with bills. “Here ya go, Miss Bailey. Best woman in the world, after my Gertrude.” His lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. “We wasn’t gonna let this be on your tab. Looks like you made a pretty penny.”
Bailey accepted the mug, eyes gleaming. “Oh, you all, I don’t know what to say.”
“You deserve it!” Angie called.
“Go ahead, count them suckers.” Wilbur jerked his chin toward the money.
One by one, Bailey slipped them out. Fives, tens, twenties. At the bottom was a one-hundred-dollar bill.
Wilbur. Carla would bet on it. But the old curmudgeon would deny it with his last breath.
“Thank you,” Bailey whispered. “Thank you all, so much.”
Carla applauded and raised her cup. “Here’s to you, Bailey!” Soon everyone’s cups were raised.
“Thank you again.” Bailey looked almost embarrassed as she stuffed the money back into the mug and slipped it onto a shelf beneath the counter.
Pastor Hank sipped his drink, then raised it once more. “And now, S-Man, time to sign that contract!”
They all whooped and hollered. Ali and Brittany laughed.
Movement at the door caught Carla’s eye. Frank West stepped inside.
“Hi!” Paige glided to him like metal to a magnet. They hugged, then pulled back to gaze into each others’ eyes.
Carla leaned toward Brittany’s ear. “Are they gone or what?” She gave her head a slow shake. “Totally.”
S-Man opened his computer bag and pulled out a stack of paper. Carla raised her eyebrows. “Good grief, looks like one of my real estate contracts.”
“Yeah, this is three copies. Lots of pages to sign.”
“Tough work there, Ted.”
He smiled at her, and his serious face and dark knitted eyebrows relaxed. Carla had told Leslie all along — S-Man’s cute when he smiles.
Ted held up the contract. “This” — he shook the paper — “is what I’ve been working so hard for during the past two years. Writing all day, learning the craft, not making a dime. And now…” He blinked, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.
“Now you’re headed toward fame and fortune!” Leslie raised her hands in victory. “Like the publisher said, ‘Stellar writing. The nation’s next science fiction star.’”
No kidding, thought Carla. Seventy thousands bucks each for two books. That had to be a big advance for an unknown writer.
“He’s already a star, thanks to our blog.” Wilbur wagged his head. “Man’s almost as popular as I am.”
“All right, who’s got a pen for this historical moment?” Pastor Hank patted his empty shirt pocket.
“Right here.” S-Man already held one in his hand. “But this won’t be quick. I have to sign all three copies, plus initial every page.”
“That’s all right, Ted. I’m clapping all the way through.” Bev started to applaud.
Carla joined in along with everyone else.
Ted leaned over the counter and began the happy task they’d all come to witness.
NINE
Mitch and Kent each hid a handgun in the large right pocket of their jackets. Brad grabbed his own coat from the floorboard and patted its bulge. “Already got mine.”
Kent threw him a hard look.
The three men jumped from the truck. Lifted two large duffel bags out of the back. The heavier one was filled with four MP5 submachine guns and enough thirty-round magazines to take down a small army. Kent unzipped the lighter bag and pulled out a white envelope. Brad stuck it in the waistband of his jeans. Kent closed the bag and gave it to Brad to carry. Mitch took the bag full of weapons.
They looked at each other. This was it, and God help them.
For you, T.J.
Kent checked his watch. Eight o’clock.
They cut diagonally across Second toward the corner of Main, trying to look nonchalant. The morning air felt fresh and tingling on Kent’s cheeks.
Would he ever feel it again?
Sudden grief for all he would lose pierced him. Freedom, home, Lenora. He knew he’d go to prison for this. Maybe for life.
He turned his head and spat on the street.
They reached the curb of Main Street and stepped up to the wide sidewalk. Java Joint would be on their left, a few doors down.
At the bottom of the block, a man in an old Subaru pulled into a parking space. Kent kept an eye on him.
The world narrowed. The sound of their footsteps, the street, their target’s front entrance. Adrenaline surged through Kent, making his fingers twitch. The power. Nearly beat his heart right out of his chest. Each step melted away the months of sickening helplessness.
Today Kent Wicksell would see justice for his youngest son.
He breathed in, breathed out. Walk normal. Look normal. He could hear Mitch sucking air, could feel his pent-up energy. Brad’s shoulders were back, his face like stone.
Five more feet. Kent slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, squeezed the cold metal of his weapon.
Hold back. Not yet.
They reached the door. Kent threw it open and yanked out his gun.
TEN
John Truitt had just stepped onto the sidewalk, headed for Java Joint, when he saw the three men. Two carrying duffel bags. No one else on the street — typical for this early on a Saturday morning. Retail shops didn’t open until ten.
Something about those men. They walked like they were in no particular hurry. But those duffel bags… and their straight backs and roving eyes didn’t —
The pen. And his cell phone. He’d left them in the car.
John sighed and turned back toward the Subaru. The new epilepsy medication really addled his brain. Made him light-headed too. He was already running late. S-Man had probably signed his contract by now — without the fancy new pen John had bought him. Should have had Bailey bring the present.
He opened the passenger door and leaned down to fetch the gift from the seat. The pen was in a nice wooden box, wrapped in green paper. John snatched it up and straightened — too fast. Dizziness hit.
He shook his head and blinked, waiting it out. With a deep breath, he closed the car door.
Back on the sidewalk, he realized he’d still left his cell phone behind.
Forget it. He wouldn’t need it anyhow.
The three men had disappeared. Must have gone into Java Joint.
John smiled to himself. Wonder if they know they’re walking into a party.
ELEVEN
Paige noticed a flicker of worry on Bailey’s face and suspended her hands midclap. In front of her, Frank kept applauding. Paige leaned over the counter toward Bailey. “Something wrong?”
She tossed her head. “Oh no, it’s okay. I was just wondering where John is. He’s supposed to be here, but this new medication he’s taking…”
Bailey’s eyes focused over Paige’s shoulder, toward the window. Her expression flattened. Paige turned. Spotted three men approaching the door. Two of them were carrying duffel bags.
The hard looks on their faces…
Paige reached for Frank’s elbow.
The door flew open. The three men leapt inside.
Guns. They had guns.
“Freeze!”
“Don’t move!”
“Freeze now!”
Everyone’s head snapped around.
The men threw down two duffel bags, and one landed with a clatter. The last man inside banged the door shut and bolted it. Three weapons pointed.
Brittany and Ali shrieked. Frank whipped his right hand toward his gun.
The first of the three men fired.
Bam-bam-bam.
Frank jerked back, and his hands flew up.
He crumpled at Paige’s feet.
No!
Paige screamed. Someone else screamed. The room shattered into chaotic wails.
Paige sank to her knees, all breath stopped in her throat. “Frank. Frank!”
“Get up!” The man who shot him stalked over, weapon pointed at her face. “Get up right now and move back to the counter.”
The youngest man’s face twisted. “All of you, shut up! And get your hands in the air!”
Screams choked into stunned gasps. Shaking hands raised.
The barrel jammed into Paige’s cheek. “Get up. Now.”
She moved. Somehow. Pushed to her feet and shuffled back a step. A second. Swaying. Nausea clawing at her stomach. Her blurring gaze fixed on Frank. He wasn’t moving.
Dear God, please, no, no, no…
Her heel hit the base of a stool. Seconds ago, Frank had stood right there. Clapping.
This isn’t happening. It isn’t real.
Paige smacked both hands over her mouth. Please, Frank. Move.
The man who shot Frank backed up. His face was red, deep-set eyes narrowed. “Brad, go!”
The second man stood near the first, gun pointed. He rested on one foot, the other leg bouncing. His cheeks were sunken and the pupils of his beady eyes huge. Sweat ran down his temple.
The youngest man, called Brad, slid his gun into his pocket and yanked up the bottom of his jacket. Pulled a white envelope out of his jeans waistband. He strode to Frank and bent down.
“No!” Paige lurched toward him.
The first man leapt forward and shoved her. “Sit down!” He pushed her onto a stool next to Jared Moore. The man’s teeth gritted, cords ropelike on his thick neck. “Don’t move or you’re next.”
The world blurred. Paige blinked hard, fighting to see Frank. Vaguely, she registered others gasping. Leslie. Angie.
Brad was stuffing the envelope halfway down the back of Frank’s pants. He pushed to his feet, then grabbed Frank by the shoulders and flipped him over.
Frank’s uniform shirt shrieked three crimson holes.
He was dead.
Paige’s mouth opened. A primal cry rose from her soul, clattered up her throat. She slumped to her left. Jared caught her and held on.
Brad clamped his fingers around Frank’s wrists and dragged him toward the door.
“No, no!” Paige struggled against Jared, fighting to get up, reach Frank. She didn’t care, they could kill her. They’d already killed her. “Let me go!”
The first man turned his gun on her in cold hatred.
“Shh, Paige, stop.” Jared’s voice shook. His arms were like iron.
Paige went numb. Some part of her watched Brad unlock the door. The second, skinny man jerked backward, gun still pointed at the group, until he could hold the door open with one hand. Brad shoved Frank over the threshold in a sickening tumble. Closed and bolted the door.
Paige burst into sobs and collapsed against Jared’s chest. The only feeble thought her mind could hold was sixty seconds. One minute ago, Frank had been here with her. Now he was gone.
She hung on to Jared, squeezing his arms. Tell me, tell me this isn’t happening…
“All right, everybody, listen up.” The shooter’s voice could have cut steel. “You seen enough to know we mean business. Anybody who moves is dead.”
I’m already dead.
The hitched breathing of her friends filtered into Paige’s ears. Shock draped a wool blanket over the room.
Frank, Frank…
The shooter jerked his chin toward Brad. “Get the weapons.”
Brad ran over to one of the duffel bags and wrenched back the zipper.
TWELVE
As John walked up Main toward Java Joint, muffled shouts sounded. He cocked his head. What was that?
Three sharp cracks in a row.
Gunshots.
Screams followed. Yelling.
Bailey.
John’s feet rooted to the pavement. Sheer, cold terror washed over him.
S-Man’s present slipped from his fingers. Next thing he knew, he was running.
Java Joint’s door swung open. A body clad in a policeman’s uniform tumbled out.
John slid to a halt. Frank West.
The café door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked.
Frank lay crumpled on his side facing the street, still as stone. Something white and flat stuck out of his pants at the back.
The screams from Java Joint stopped.
John’s mind spun. What was happening? He stared at the still form. Frank had been shot. Shot.
Those three men. Their duffel bags. Guns.
Bailey. All of our friends.
Was he dreaming this?
John’s stomach lurched. He had to do… something. Get Frank. Get help.
He ran toward the fallen officer.
At the edge of the café, he pulled up. Its windows were almost floor to ceiling, starting too low to crawl beneath them. Go any farther, and he’d be a sitting duck.
Frank. John had to get him out of there.
Dear Lord, give me strength.
No more time for thinking; he had to act.
John took a deep breath, stooped down, and started a crab-walk toward Frank.
THIRTEEN
Bailey clutched the counter, her knuckles white. She watched the attackers around the backs of her friends, who were all clustered on the other side. As if frozen from some other world, Ted’s contract and pen lay near the other end of the counter. Had he only been signing it minutes ago?
The two older men pointed guns at them all. Shock razored through Bailey’s body, shredding her thoughts. She could hardly feel, barely think. Couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears, the skid-pound of her heart.
Frank. Paige.
God, help us.
Brad reached into the open duffel bag on the floor.
Bailey tore her eyes away. She couldn’t bear to see what was in there. Numbly she stared at the other two men with guns. Remember their faces. The thought pulsed like a dim light through the fog in her brain. Yes — remember. Victims of a crime were supposed to do that.
She tried to focus.
The man in charge was about six feet and beefy. Barrel-chested. Wide nose, close-set brown eyes. Heavy overhanging brow. He had an intense, almost predatory look. Thinning dark hair. Over fifty. His face was flushed. Angst and energy rose like steam off his big shoulders. Any minute now his impatient finger could jerk the trigger.
Second man. Much Younger. Same height but skinny. Gaunt cheeks. Large ears, a mole on his left jaw. His pupils didn’t look right — way too large. His eyes darted this way and that. His tongue ran back and forth under his top lip, his torso rocking.
She cut her gaze back to Brad. He looked like a young version of the first man. But the way he moved, the looks he threw at the man in charge… Brad was steely. Full of anger. Bristling with arrogance.
Movement outside the front window caught Bailey’s attention. She flicked her eyes without moving her head.
John.
He was trying to reach Frank. But a bullet could pierce that glass so easily.
Oh, dear Lord, no. She couldn’t lose John.
She glanced at the two men with guns. Both were in profile to the front of the cafe, focused on their hostages. Brad’s attention was riveted to the duffel bag.
Bailey’s eyes cut again to the window.
Her husband crept forward.
FOURTEEN
John’s leg muscles shook. He focused on Frank’s still body, screaming at himself not to look inside Java Joint. The terror of what he saw might freeze him.
His head turned.
The sight stabbed him. Three men, two with guns trained on everyone in the café. The Scenes and Beans crew huddled near the counter. Bailey stood alone on the serving side. Looking at him.
John’s knees nearly gave way.
Everything within him pulled toward Bailey. Right there — she was right there. His arm twitched to punch through t
he glass, rescue his wife —
Some unseen hand shoved him forward.
He reached Frank. John squeezed between the young officer and the wooden door, breathing hard. He was now out of sight through the windows. His wavering gaze fell on the white thing stuck in Frank’s waistband. Looked like an envelope. With the visible letters “ce Edwards.”
Vince Edwards? Kanner Lake’s chief of police.
With trembling hands John grabbed the envelope and stuffed it in his pants pocket.
He had to get Frank out of there.
Which way? Up the street and around the corner?
No, down to his car.
John grasped Frank’s shoulder and turned him onto his back. Three red stains glared from his chest and stomach. Dear God. He was already dead.
Rage shot through John. He couldn’t save Frank. It was too late.
His eyes stung. He would still get Frank out of here. He was not leaving the young man’s body to lie in the sun.
John leaned forward, peered over his left shoulder through the window. The two men with guns hadn’t moved. He couldn’t see the youngest one.
Now or never. Ten seconds, that was all he needed. Ten seconds to drag Frank past those windows…
Energy burned his veins like a fast-catching fire. One, two, three — go!
John scuffled below Frank, grabbed his feet, and tugged with all his might.
Movement through the window. John’s head swiveled. The youngest man was pulling something out of a duffel bag. His head jerked up.
Their eyes met. The man’s motion stopped.
I’m dead.
The split second stretched out. John didn’t slow.
One of the gunmen spotted John and yelled something. The younger man’s eyes held John’s for a split second. Then he twisted back to the duffel bag.
Air gushed from John’s throat. He cleared the last window and jumped out of view.
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