“Shut up, Charlie!” Turning his back on Vincent, who still aimed the gun at Jim, Eric walked to Charlie’s side, picked up the discarded shotgun and cocked it. The brown-haired friend took one look at Eric’s face and hurried to move, slipping in blood. Then Eric aimed carefully, and shot Charlie in the head.
The discharge was deafening, echoing off the diner’s walls, and at that range, Charlie’s head was…gone. It was messy, covering Eric and the surrounding area with blood spatter and brain. Customers’ screams were deafening.
“Shut up!” Eric waved the shotgun, and everyone fell silent as if a switch had been flipped. Some people had their hands pressed to their mouths. Some averted their eyes. Most were slack-jawed, but all were silent. The diners. The robbers. Even Eric took a moment to recognize the brutality of his actions, but only Eric was smiling.
He turned to Vincent. “If I’m willing to kill my cousin, what makes you think I’m not willing to kill all of you?” He aimed the shotgun toward the customers, not deigning to look where he aimed. “Or I might let you all go free.” He allowed the muzzle to point at the floor, shrugging in a playful manner. “Let’s chock this up to a bad day, folks. What do you say?” He aimed the shotgun at Vincent, and between that, and him being covered with a fair amount of his cousin’s remains, nobody put much credence to Eric’s negotiations. “Put the gun down. No one wants more bloodshed. Right, Jim?”
Jim’s body shook with silent laughter, making the knife at Avery’s throat jiggle, scraping at her skin. She was no fool. She knew she’d be the first to die when things went south, and things were going south with the speed of a roller coaster on its first descent. Vincent needed to end this.
“Shoot him,” she croaked.
But Vincent didn’t shoot. He turned the gun so it’s flat side was parallel with the floor, doing as Eric asked. Then he bent his legs, lowering the Glock, his eyes now fixed on Eric and the shotgun.
Avery’s heart sank. Why didn’t the Fed understand? These were killers; they wouldn’t be satisfied with one or two kills. Her, the Fed, Nat, the rest of the customers, they were all going to die like Sam, and Charlie, but…
“Not today,” she said.
Avery slid her fingers from Jim’s wrist to his thumb pad and yanked on it with all her strength, weakening his grip on the knife as she stomped his foot. Then her back scoop-kick connected with his groin, forcing Jim to fold forward and faceplant her oncoming skull. She heard the bridge of his nose break with a snap as she upward palm heeled his elbow, loosening his choke. It allowed her to slip free, lunge forward, and with a vicious pivot toward him, wrist-lock him and strip the knife from his grip.
All in the space of two heartbeats.
Eric stared at her, stunned. Jim roared with rage and pain. Vincent opened fire.
It was confusing, and Avery lost track of who was winning, because Jim bent his elbow, breaking her hold. Avery lunged with the knife, aiming her slices at nonlethal targets, but the guy had no fear, and took all her damage without slowing his attack. He kept swinging, forcing her to parry, duck, back up and slice.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric hiding behind a table, aiming his shotgun at her and Jim, as Vincent lay down cover fire. But the Fed didn’t have a line of sight. Avery did, so with all her strength, she threw the knife at Eric. He flinched, and messed up both their aims. His shot went wild, and hit the mirror behind her as Avery’s knife pinned Eric’s hand to his shotgun’s stock.
Eric howled just as Jim punched Avery’s jaw, sending her crashing backward onto the counter. Cups, plates, food were pushed to the floor, as she gained a front row seat to Vincent’s fight with the greasy-haired robber. In three moves, Vincent broke the man’s elbow, knee, and then jaw.
Jim grabbed her hair and dragged her across the counter, clearing the surface, and sending everything to the floor. Scalp burning with pain, she whipped her fingers at his eyes, and connected with a slimy orb, buying her time to chamber a white “nurse” shoe, and kick his groin. The fight should have ended there. It usually ended there. But drugged up, Jim was still in it for the win. He rushed her. Avery hook punched his temple, stopping him cold. He dropped to the floor at her feet.
Avery backed up against the wall, out of breath, her heart beating a painful mile a minute. A gunshot had her ducking, and when she peeked over the counter again, she saw Eric writhing on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. Vincent caught her eye, his concern evident. Well, Avery was concerned, too. Jim still thrashed on the floor, clutching his watering eyes.
Vincent ran to her, peering over the counter at Jim on the floor. “Damn. You okay?”
“Do I look okay?” She couldn’t catch her breath. All the robbers seemed incapacitated or unconscious.
“You scared me.” He studied her face. “You sure you’re okay?” She nodded quickly, but wasn’t sure. “You scared me, dammit!”
“You already said that.” She swallowed hard, flinched with pain, and did her best to slow her breathing.
Vincent barked out a laugh, eyes wild, smiling. “We’re alive. Did not see that happening!”
He laughed again and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in for a hearty kiss. His lips were warm and tasted of coffee. It was nice and confusing. When he released her, she couldn’t help but want another one, and fade into the pleasure of not thinking. Then she saw Eric over Vincent’s shoulder. The killer was clawing his way to the store’s entrance. Vincent saw him, too.
“Dammit!” He released Avery and chased after him.
It was over. It was over. So why did she still feel the terror?
The customers were reviving, and their shock had found a voice. Shouts, phone calls. Avery flinched as no less than five iPhones aimed at her and flashed. Jim groaned at her feet, clearly reviving. She stomp-kicked his head without a second thought, assured herself he’d lost consciousness again, and then leaned against the wall. Her numbness was wearing off, and reaction was setting in. She wanted to faint, but there was no time.
Nate took off his belt, offering it to Vincent to help tie the robbers. Vincent glanced back at her, as if assessing her state of mind. She did her best to hide her emotions, but her panic was growing. People kept taking pictures, evidence that would end up in court. Prosecutors. Newspapers. Social media. Vincent was a Fed. All ingredients for disaster. Avery could be held for questioning, when she needed to run with her sister.
When Vincent turned back to Eric again, Avery grabbed her purse from under the counter and slipped into the kitchen…and immediately saw Sam. He’d been shot dead and now lay in a pool of blood by the phone, its receiver hanging—swinging—over his body. Married, three kids. It wasn’t fair.
Avery hurried past, forcing herself not to think, but to escape out the door to the alley beyond. She would not cry. She would not cry.
Chapter 3
Vincent was still riding an adrenaline high as he muscled Eric and his brown-haired psycho-playmate to a table. The restaurant looked as if a bomb had gone off, and it gave him pause. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. Vincent was supposed to chat with Avery Coppola, not tear the place up. Chairs were on their sides, tables knocked over. Everyone was sporting masks of horror. He kind of felt bad for them, remembering what it was like back in the day, when death and dying had the ability to shock him. After four years in Afghanistan and ten at the bureau, he’d come to process violence differently. Nuisance nightmares, insomnia, and a continually renewed appreciation for life. All life, whether it be innocents, or monsters like Eric and his crew.
He soon had Eric and the brown-haired guy trussed up tight with the borrowed belts, and as he stepped back to peruse his handiwork, he promptly slipped on blood. Either Charlie’s or Eric’s, but he found his equilibrium quick enough so as not to take a spill, but not before