Secret Stalker

by LENA DIAZ,

  Bam! Bam!

  That sounded like a pistol.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

  Automatic gunfire.

  She pressed a hand to her throat. Was that a gunfight? Whoever had the pistol was at a serious disadvantage.

  Another shout sounded. More footsteps.

  Bam!

  “Where is she?” a man yelled. “She wasn’t with the ones who locked themselves in the cooler.”

  “How the hell should I know? Reggie said she was ready to check out. She should have been up front when we got here.”

  “Find her. And find that stupid cop. He’s screwing everything up and I’m gonna blow his brains out.”

  Oh, no. Please, God, don’t be talking about Max.

  But in her gut, she knew they were. He was the only policeman she’d seen in the store just a few minutes before the gunmen came in. No one else could have gotten here this fast. He either hadn’t left when she’d thought he had, or he’d run back into the store when he saw the gunmen go inside.

  Footsteps sounded again, much closer this time. If they turned down the back aisle that ran the width of the store, they’d see her. She had to move, hide. Or better yet, find Max and get them both out of the store.

  Right, like she was GI Jane or something. The only danger she faced on a typical day was whether she might get a splinter in her finger from one of the pieces of furniture that she sold at her antique store.

  Move, Bex. Hurry!

  She sent up a quick, silent prayer then pulled herself forward in an army crawl.

  * * *

  MAX CROUCHED DOWN, his pistol out in front of him while he whispered into his cell phone and made his way down aisle five toward the front of the store again.

  “Searching for remaining three gunmen. What’s your ETA?” he asked his SWAT team lead, Dillon Gray.

  He reached the end of the aisle and looked left, then right, before crouching by the endcap. He paused, listening for sounds that might indicate where the gunmen were hiding.

  “Roger that,” he whispered in answer to the instructions over the phone. “I’ve got five customers and four employees locked in the cooler from the inside with good cover. There are coats in there, so they’re okay for now. Searching for additional customers. You guys need to get in here ASAP, full SWAT gear. These yahoos may be stupid and disorganized. But that makes them unpredictable and dangerous.”

  A noise sounded from the east end of the store. He looked down the next aisle. Clear. He jogged to another endcap, heading east.

  “Negative,” he whispered in response to Dillon’s next question. “No clue what they want. As soon as the cashier screamed, they started shooting. Erratic though, as if they don’t know how to handle those M16s they’re waving around. Thankfully no one’s been hit yet except the one gunman I took out.”

  With his fellow SWAT team members apprised of the situation, he put his cell phone away so he could focus on finding the one customer he knew was unaccounted for.

  Bex.

  * * *

  AS PLANS WENT, hiding behind a waist-high clothing rack of “I Dig the Pig” Piggly Wiggly T-shirts probably wasn’t the best one Bex could have made. But when she’d seen the end of a rifle emerging from one of the side aisles, she’d dived behind the closest cover she could find. Unfortunately, the T-shirts were apparently good sellers. There were barely enough left to conceal her.

  She held her breath as the gunman crept past her hiding space. He was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt and was wearing sunglasses. She supposed that was his idea of a disguise, but he clearly was young—probably barely out of high school. The other gunman she’d seen a few minutes ago had a black ski mask over his face and the build of someone older, maybe late twenties. Both of them were carrying wicked-looking rifles.

  The guy in sunglasses turned down the aisle she’d left just a minute earlier. She let out a shaky breath, then crept to the side of the display, ready to zip down another aisle to get to the front of the store. That’s where she’d last heard the sound of a pistol. And she was betting that pistol belonged to Max.

  She leaned forward, looked left, right, then—oomph! A hand clamped over her mouth and she was yanked backward behind the shirts.

  Chapter Three

  Bex struggled against her captor, twisting and writhing in his grasp.

  He pressed his cheek against hers and held her so tight she could barely move.

  “Be still, Bex. It’s me, Max.”

  She froze, then went limp with relief.

  He slowly lifted his hand from her mouth, as if he didn’t quite trust her not to cry out. She half turned to look at him, nodding to let him know she wasn’t going to sob hysterically and give away their position. Or at least she didn’t think she was. Cowering from gunmen was an entirely new experience for her. She could very well start screaming like a madwoman any second.

  Apparently Max had more faith in her than she did. He loosened his arm around her waist and let her go. She was about to ask him what she should do when he edged to the right of the display. His whole body was tense, alert, as he ducked lower and slid his pistol into the holster at his waist. What was he doing?

  A gunman, the one in the ski mask, stepped out from behind a stack of bagels and English muffins, his gaze zeroing in on Bex through a gap in the clothing rack. She ducked behind another shirt, expecting to feel a bullet slam into her any second. The gunman rushed forward, his sneakers visible beneath the clothes.

  Bex jerked her head toward Max. But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was poised like a runner, one leg down, one up, balancing on his fingertips like he was about to take off in a sprint. Ski mask guy stopped directly in front of the rack, looking down at Bex. He started to raise his gun.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. The air rushed beside her. The squeak of a shoe sounded on the floor. She heard a grunt, then...nothing. She was still alive. No bullets had ripped into her body and thrown her to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

  “Bex,” a harsh whisper sounded. “Move. Now.”

  Her eyes flew open. Impossibly, Max stood towering over her, ski mask guy hanging limply over his shoulder, his arms dangling toward the ground. Max jerked his head, motioning for her to run to the aisle directly across from them.

  Stunned that she was still alive and could run, she darted forward, stopping a few feet down the aisle and looking back.

  Max was lowering the unconscious—dead?—gunman to the floor under the rack. Bex swallowed, hard. Moments later, Max stopped beside her with a confiscated rifle in his hand.

  He frowned. “Are you all right?”

  She looked past him at the body visible beneath the obscenely cheery pink and green shirts. A shiver ran up her spine over their close call but she forced a nod.

  After a quick look to the far end of their row, Max checked the rifle’s loading, then yanked out his pistol and shoved it toward her.

  “Remember how to use one of these?” he whispered.

  She swallowed. “Sure. But I haven’t fired one in years.”

  Something dark passed in his eyes, and she knew he was remembering one of the many times long ago when he’d taken her to target practice. When other boys waffled between wanting to be a pilot or a fireman or maybe a professional football player, Max had never wavered in his desire to be a detective and SWAT officer like cool Chief Thornton, who’d visited Destiny High every year on career day.

  Max had loved the idea of piecing clues together and solving crimes as his main gig. And then, when the situation called for it, putting on full SWAT gear and storming some criminal’s compound to rescue hostages. It had been his dream. And seeing him now, so calm and focused, she knew that if anyone could save her and the other customers, it was Max. But only if she followed his instructions and
let him do his job.

  She took the pistol, careful to point it away from him and keep her finger on the frame, not the trigger, as he’d drilled into her so many times.

  He gave her a nod of approval and pivoted toward the back of the store again, then the front, as if scoping out their situation. Then he dropped to his knees and peered in between the bottom shelf and the one above it on both sides of the aisle they were on. He hesitated, as if thinking something through. Then he was pushing boxes of noodles and pasta behind the jars of spaghetti sauce. When he’d cleared a spot a couple of feet wide, he grabbed her arms and shoved her toward the opening.

  She wanted to protest that she wasn’t nearly as small as he apparently thought she was. But the sound of footsteps, and Max’s head jerking toward the front of the store, had her squeezing into the impossibly small hole and pulling her legs in after her as tightly as she could. The sharp scrape of the metal shelf against her arm had her clenching her teeth. But she didn’t make a sound.

  He leaned down, held a finger to his lips motioning for her to be quiet, and then he was gone.

  She clutched the pistol in both hands, her pulse pounding so hard she felt light-headed. A tiny tapping sound started above her head. She twisted to see what was causing it and realized she was shaking so hard her shoulders were making the shelving above her rattle against its brackets. She drew several deep, slow breaths and concentrated on trying to calm down. The tapping stopped. Then she heard it, another sound—footsteps.

  Coming toward her.

  Her finger shook as she moved it to the trigger. Wait. It could be Max. She moved her finger back to the gun’s frame.

  Oh, God. Please let it be Max coming back for her.

  The tapping started again. She clamped her jaw and forced herself to hold still. The footsteps stopped. Was it one of the gunmen? Had he heard her?

  Ever so carefully, she peeked through the gap above the boxes of pasta to her left but couldn’t see more than a few feet. Looking the other way yielded more of the same—boxes and jars blocking her view.

  A squeak. Someone’s shoe against the floor?

  Her hand started shaking violently, the pistol bobbing in her grip. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of her face.

  Another sound. Oh, God. Someone was behind her. She was surrounded. The person in her aisle shuffled forward, his shoes squeaking again.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Gunfire sounded from the front of the store. She sucked in a breath.

  Bang!

  Another shot rang out.

  A new sound—scuffling feet not far from her hiding place. A muffled curse. A dull crack. More footsteps, hurrying toward her now.

  This was it. He was coming for her.

  She steadied the pistol, blew her breath out, tried to remember everything Max had taught her all those years ago. Exhale slowly, move your finger to the trigger, squeeze—

  “Bex, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  She blinked. Max? Wait, he wasn’t whispering.

  She moved her finger away from the trigger just as he crouched down in front of her and peered into her hiding place.

  “Max?” All of her questions and fears were in that one hoarsely uttered word.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s over.”

  He gently took the pistol from her violently shaking hands, shoved it into his holster. And then he was scooping his arms beneath her, pulling her out of the maze of pasta and sauces and lifting her up against his chest.

  The sight of a dark heap on the floor had her throwing her arms around Max’s neck and squeezing her eyes tightly shut.

  “Is he...is he—”

  “He’s alive. Don’t worry about him. I’ve got you, Bex. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  She should have told him to put her down, that she was perfectly capable of walking on her own. But she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Her whole body seemed to have turned into a mass of shaking nerves. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and selfishly buried her face against Max’s chest while he carried her to the front of the store.

  She sensed others around them now, heard someone ask Max something but didn’t catch his murmured reply. More sounds—voices, boots scuffling across the floor. Her traumatized mind grasped what was happening, that help had finally arrived, that the SWAT team must be clearing the store and securing the scene. But she couldn’t seem to force her eyes open or loosen her grip around Max’s neck as he carried her outside.

  Chapter Four

  Max leaned against a Destiny PD patrol car in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, in a circle with the five other officers who made up the SWAT team, all in full tactical gear except him. Since the danger was over, they were talking in detective mode, trying to figure out what had just happened.

  There’d been no fatalities. The only people to get shot were two of the gunmen, courtesy of Max, and they were on their way to the hospital. The three other bad guys were on their way to the county lockup. But the grocery store and surrounding area were still bustling with firefighters and police officers and would be for quite a while as they sorted through the mess.

  Chief Thornton, who’d been talking to the fire chief, shoved his way between team lead Dillon Gray and his best friend, second in command Chris Downing. The others—Donna Waters, Colby Vale and Randy Carter—widened the circle to make room.

  Thornton looked at each of them, a ferocious frown on his brow. “Where’s the new guy?”

  Max’s lips twitched at the shrugs and carefully blank looks on Dillon’s and Chris’s faces. The chief was having a heck of a time trying to force everyone to accept a new member onto their SWAT team and detective squad. Blake Sullivan was still learning the ropes of Destiny PD and no one was exactly rolling out a welcome mat for him.

  The guy was former military and had been a detective in Knoxville before relocating here. He’d made it clear on his first day that he expected to step right into the action. It had been a bitter pill for him to realize he had to spend several months as a uniformed beat cop first—as they all had—to learn the station’s routine and his way around the county before becoming an active member of the team.

  Thornton turned around, looking for his beleaguered new hire, then put his hands on his hips. He’d obviously spotted Blake, fifty yards away, looking bored as he leaned against the ambulance where Bex was being examined by an EMT.

  “Why isn’t he wearing tactical gear like the rest of you?” Thornton demanded, directing his question at Dillon.

  “When Max’s call came in, we had to hustle,” Dillon said. “Didn’t have time to coddle a newbie and bring him in on the assault.”

  The chief narrowed his eyes. “This would have been a perfect opportunity to show him the ropes. Next time the team is activated, you had better include him. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. I hear you.”

  Max grinned. He wouldn’t bet a plug nickel that Blake would be included on their next callout. At this point, it was a matter of principle. Blake would have to show some humility before Dillon would back down. And judging by how distant and arrogant the new guy seemed most of the time, that moment of acceptance wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  “Colby, go get Blake.” The chief jerked his head toward the ambulance.

  Colby sighed and jogged across the parking lot.

  “And you, Max, stop grinning like the village idiot and tell me if you recognize any of the gunmen. Chris snapped their pictures as they were brought out, minus the ski masks and sunglasses some of them were wearing.” The chief motioned for Chris to pass his phone to Max.

  Max flipped through the images on the screen, then shook his head and returned the phone to Chris.

  “None of them look familiar. I don’t think they’re local.”

 
“He’s right,” Dillon said, not even glancing Blake’s way as Colby ushered him into their circle. “We all grew up here. I may not know everyone in town by name, but I know most of them by sight. I’ve never seen any of those men before.”

  “Let me have a look.” Blake held out his hand.

  Chris arched a brow.

  Max shoved him. “Give him a break. What could it hurt?”

  Chris shoved him back but handed his phone over.

  Blake’s jaw tightened. One of these days the guy would probably explode like a spring that had been wound too tight. Max wasn’t sure he wanted to be there when that happened.

  “Well?” the chief asked, impatience heavy in his tone as Blake carefully examined each picture.

  He handed the phone to Chris. “The second one and the last one are gangbangers from my hometown. I don’t know their names. But they have the same tattoos on their forearms as other gangbangers I’ve arrested.”

  “They’re gang members from Knoxville?” the chief asked.

  Blake nodded. “Those two for sure. Can’t speak for the other three. I can call my old squad, send them the photos to help us get IDs. Maybe the other ones just don’t have their tats yet. They have to earn them. But we can assume they’re all in the same gang.”

  “We don’t assume anything around here,” Dillon said. “We deal in facts.”

  Blake’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

  Colby asked, “Why would street thugs drive forty-five minutes to storm a small, rural grocery store with assault rifles? They could have made a much bigger haul in Knoxville.”

  “They didn’t get a haul at all. Didn’t even try,” Max said. “As soon as they came in, they started firing wildly into the air—except the one who shot at me. They split up as if looking for something, leaving only two guys to control the customers up front. But they didn’t seem to have a clue what they were doing. I was able to signal the manager to hustle the employees and customers into the cooler while I drew the gunmen’s fire. If they were there for money, they’d have all stayed up front and forced the manager to open the safe.”