Chapter 8 - Crossfire and Blood
The snub-nosed revolver cleared the leather holster inside Marcus’s coat.
It was small, ugly, and deadly at five feet.
Marcus didn't care about aim; he was going to empty all five rounds blindly into the booths.
Into the young couple.
Into Derek and his boy.
Into the space beneath booth number four where Lily Bennett lay curled in the dark.
Noah didn't use the crowbar.
He dropped it.
He closed the distance in two lunging strides, his steel-toed work boot kicking forward like a piston.
The toe of his boot connected with Marcus’s right wrist just as the hammer pulled back.
The gun was torn from the man’s grip, skittering across the floor and sliding beneath the pie carousel.
Marcus screamed in pure frustration, lashing out with his left arm, his heavy fingers clawing at Noah’s throat.
Noah ducked underneath the wild swing, stepping behind Marcus’s kneeling frame.
He wrapped his left arm around Marcus’s neck, locking his bicep tight against the carotid artery in a classic rear-naked choke.
“End of the line, Marcus,” Noah whispered into the robber's ear.
Marcus thrashed wildly, his heavy boots kicking against the laminate counter, knocking over salt shakers and napkin holders.
He clawed at Noah’s forearms, trying to peel the iron band of muscle from his windpipe.
Noah didn't squeeze to kill.
If he wanted Marcus dead, the man’s neck would have been broken in the first two seconds of the grapple.
Noah squeezed with surgical calibration, cutting off the blood flow to the brain without crushing the trachea.
Ten seconds.
Marcus’s thrashing began to slow.
Twelve seconds.
Marcus’s hands dropped to his sides, his fingers twitching weakly.
Fourteen seconds.
The leader’s eyes rolled back, and his entire two-hundred-and-thirty-pound frame went completely limp in Noah’s grip.
Noah lowered the unconscious man gently to the floor, rolling him onto his stomach and pulling Marcus’s heavy leather belt from his trousers.
With swift, practiced motions, Noah bound Marcus’s wrists tightly behind his back, securing the buckle with a reverse hitch.
He stood up and wiped a streak of drywall dust from his brow.
Behind the counter, the second gunman was beginning to stir, groaning beneath the pile of fallen pots and pans.
Noah walked around the counter, picked up the dropped semi-automatic pistol, cleared the chamber with a single flick of his wrist, and dropped the magazine into his coat pocket.
He looked down at the concussed gunman.
“Stay down,” Noah said softly.
The man looked up at Noah’s blood-spattered boots, saw the empty gun in his hand, and immediately closed his eyes, pretending to be unconscious again.
Noah turned back to the room.
The diner was a wreck.
Broken glass glittered on every surface.
Coffee steam mixed with the sharp, acidic tang of cordite and burned gun oil.
The hostages were slowly beginning to realize that the nightmare was over.
The elderly cook crawled out from beneath the prep table, weeping and wiping blood from his nose with a rag.
The young couple near the jukebox clung to each other, sobbing in hysterical relief.
And then there was Derek Caldwell.
Derek was on his knees, his hands on his thighs, staring at Noah as if the quiet carpenter were an alien being dropped from the sky.
Derek’s son Mason peeked out from behind his father’s elbow, his eyes wide and clear.
Noah walked past them without saying a word.
He walked straight to booth number four.
He dropped to one knee on the broken linoleum, his rough canvas jacket creaking in the stillness.
He leaned down and looked into the shadowy space beneath the red vinyl seat.
Lily was still there.
Her knees were pulled tight to her chest, her small sneakers tucked beneath her skirt.
She held the two broken halves of her red crayon tightly in her fists.
She looked at her father’s face.
She saw the small drop of blood on his cheek—not his blood, but Marcus’s.
She saw his gray eyes, which had softened instantly back into the only eyes she had ever known.
“Dad?” she whispered.
May you like
“The storm is over, bug,” Noah said gently, offering his hand.
“You can come out now.”
