“You,” he said again, looking at her. “Stay put.” He scanned the room. “The rest of you, against the wall.”
Avery stayed put and the customers moved against the wall.
The diners were freaking out, looking between the man and shotgun, and his companion, a tall, brown-haired man who hid his gaze behind lanky, unwashed hair. The companion seemed confused by the commotion.
Vincent hadn’t moved. Clutching his coffee, he watched everything play out via reflections in the mirror lining the counter’s wall. She supposed his Army experience gave him nerves of steel, but that didn’t make her feel better. If he played hero, it was her belly that would bear the brunt of the shotgun blast. It was her guts that would splatter the wall.
The bell over the entrance door chimed again. Avery feared another unsuspecting customer had fallen into this trap. Instead, two more robbers shuffled in, guns in hand. Four total now, all in their twenties, eyes-dilated, hopped up on drugs. These two wore long, black overcoats.
Avery forced her breathing to regulate to the beat of her thumbs twirling her rings, like a worry stone. She looked at nobody and nothing, just stood near the register, rejecting the option of running to the kitchen, because it might precipitate an attack, and those deaths would be on her, so she stayed put, working her rings.
“What is going on?” The new guy was a ginger, short and stocky, laughing at the frightened customers. “I said let’s get lunch, Charlie. Not rob the place.” The ginger waved his pal deeper into the diner. “Jim, lock the door.”
“Sure, Eric.” Jim was tall, had a receding hairline, and pinched lips. He hustled to do as Eric told. Once locked, he leaned his back against the door and then unsheathed a long knife. The room gave a collective gasp. Jim ate up the reaction with a spoon.
Avery kept her gaze on Vincent, and his hands reflexively clutching his coffee mug. He seemed to be biding his time, watching the gunmen in the mirror, his expression revealing purpose, not fear. Avery had enough fear for both of them, and feared that the robbers would notice his lack of fear, and soon. They were already scanning the room for hints of push back, and had found none so far. Though Vincent kept his back to them, she suspected that wouldn’t last long.
Eric was touching Brooke Fawley’s hair. He twirled a blond lock around his sausage finger, tugging her head closer to his. Brooke sobbed, but didn’t resist. Small town girl done good, she’d been accepted to UNH Durham, and everyone was excited for her. High school valedictorian, she’d earned a full ride scholarship, the only way someone from her part of town could afford the pricy school. Smart and pretty, she was too pretty to go unnoticed by the gunmen. Brooke seemed repelled by Eric’s touch, but that only seemed to amuse him more. He leaned in for a kiss.
Vincent stood, poised to act.
Avery slammed her hand on the cash register’s keys. It opened with a bang, displacing change onto the floor. Now all eyes were on Avery, most especially Eric’s, who wandered away from Brooke, thank heaven. His interest and malice radiated from him, and with every step he took closer to her, Avery found it harder to breathe. Seeking his attention wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she was more suited to handle a guy like Eric than Brooke.
They wanted money. Avery had access to the money. Maybe she’d luck out and the gunmen would leave once they’d taken it. She grabbed a takeout bag and filled it with cash.
Jim pushed off from the door, still wielding his knife, and jumped over the counter to land next to her. He grabbed the bag of money before she could finish filling it. Then he noticed Vincent’s cheeseburger plate under the heating lamp on the order up shelf. Jim poked his head through the hole separating the kitchen from the counter area.
Jim glared, getting in her face. “Where’s the cook?” His breath reeked and his eyes were freaky bloodshot. Heart in her throat, Avery struggled to speak.
“I don’t know. He ran, probably. There’s a back door into the alley.” It’s what she would have done if she were Sam.
Eric walked around the counter and took the money bag from Jim. After stuffing it into his jacket, Eric waved his hand, indicating the kitchen. “See if the cook is still back there.” Jim took off; then Eric grabbed the burger off the order up shelf and took a bite. “Charlie?” He spoke around his food, glancing at his cohort, the first robber to enter the diner. “Make sure you’re pointing that shotgun away from me, buddy. Okay?”
Charlie squinted, blinked a few times, and re-aimed the shotgun. His pal, the quiet, brown-haired robber with greasy hair, took that moment to sit at an empty table near the door. He seemed tired, and bored.
A crash sounded from the kitchen area. Vincent leaned on the counter as if prepared to jump over, but then two shots rang out and he ducked, a mere instant before Avery did.
“I got the cook good, Eric!” From inside the kitchen, Jim shouted through the order-up hole. Hunched on the greasy floor behind the counter, Avery shuddered. Sam was shot. Sam.
Eric threw the rest of the burger onto the counter in disgust. “Well, hell, why’d you do that?” He waved his revolver at Avery. “Get up, girlie.” Shaking, feeling weak with fear, she stood straight, only to discover Charlie was aiming his shotgun at Nat, the retired barber.
“Now we got to do them all. Right?” Charlie said. “I’m not leaving witnesses.”
Vincent moved so quickly Avery only saw a blur as he put his back against the nearest wall, then her heart sank when she saw him hold his FBI wallet credentials out to Charlie…and a Glock. Damn, handsome guy was a Fed. She should have known he was too good to be true.
“Everyone needs to calm down.” Vincent kept all the men in sight, but his gun didn’t waver in its aim. It was leveled at Charlie. “Put the shotgun on the floor, Charlie. And you, Eric, right? Put that gun down. Gentle like…on the floor.”
Charlie swung the shotgun toward Vincent, prompting Avery to bolt for the kitchen, just as Jim came back out, causing her to collide with him. He wrestled her into a bear hug from behind, aided by the sting of his blade at her throat.
The shotgun discharged. She flinched, and saw Vincent tuck and roll, shooting his Glock.
Charlie’d missed. Vincent hadn’t.
Customers screamed, ducking, overturning tables and chairs. Charlie screamed, too, rolling on the floor—shoulder wound. Vincent must have hit an artery because Charlie was bleeding like a fountain. His brown-haired buddy, at his side, was pressing on his wound.
Vincent’s Glock was aimed at Jim and Avery, and she appreciated the attention, because Jim was strong, high as a kite, and enjoying himself. The blade at her throat burned as it scraped skin.
“Put the gun down, Mr. FBI man,” Eric said, “or Jim here is going to need a new shirt.”
Vincent didn’t blink. Eyes on Avery, he looked as if he were struggling to read her mind, though Avery couldn’t have been more of an open book. She was scared, clutching Jim’s wrist, trying to keep the knife’s edge from biting deeper. Yet, all she saw was Vincent’s hesitation.
“Shoot him,” she croaked.
Jim head-butted her, but was kind enough to drop the knife an inch or two before doing it, so she saw stars instead of her maker. The stars didn’t last long, because he pressed the knife back to her neck, which served to clear her head quickly.
“Blood thirsty, isn’t she?” Eric laughed. He peered at her uniform’s name tag. “Patty? Such a lovely name.” He indicated Vincent with a tilt of his head. “Patty, Mr. FBI