CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
JACK STEERED THE squad car into the convenience store parking lot. “Okay, probie, fess up. How long without sleep now? A week?”
“More like three days.” Hunter frowned, wishing he hadn’t taken that extra shift so his buddy could be with his wife in the delivery room. “And I slept. Some.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack shifted into Park. “If you say so.” He turned off the motor. “I have a hankering for one of those any-way-you-want-it sandwiches.”
Hunter groaned. “You stood in line fifteen minutes last time you ordered one of those artery cloggers.”
Jack sang a verse of “If You’ve Got the Money I’ve Got the Time” as he got out of the cruiser, then leaned back in long enough to say, “You coming?”
“Better not. I have some stuff to enter into the computer.” They sure loaded down the new guys on the force with the grunt work. He only hoped he could find enough hours in the day to do everything he had to, plus sleep and survive probation.
“Coffee?”
“Nah. I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay, later,” the older man said as he ambled away.
The store’s ceiling-to-floor windows allowed Hunter to track Jack up and down the aisles, stacking junk food and Mountain Dew in his arms. If his partner wasn’t more health conscious, he’d die of a heart attack long before he reached retirement. When Jack stood under the Order Here sign, Hunter swiveled the keyboard closer and fired up the reports software. How much junk had his own grandfather and father—not to mention his uncles and brothers—choked down during their years in uniform, he wondered.
Yawning, he made note of the time...two minutes after three...then leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes. Jack didn’t know it yet, he thought, grinning, but when he returned, he’d be on the receiving end of some ribbing for a change.
Frantic shouting and gunfire startled Hunter awake. The dashboard clock was the last thing he saw as he bolted out of the car: four minutes after three. He’d fallen dead asleep in just two minutes?
He grabbed his shoulder radio, talking as he crouch-walked toward the store’s entrance. “C-four-two-one. We have a 10-10 at the farm store, 9164 Baltimore National Pike. Shots fired. Robbery in progress.” Then he drew his weapon, took a deep breath and abruptly shouldered his way inside.
Big convex mirrors, hung in all four corners of the store, helped him take quick inventory: a male clerk cowering at the register, two women—a bleach-blonde in her early sixties and a brunette of forty or so—huddled beside the ice-cream freezer, an overweight guy hunkered down near the coffeepots.
What was so important that they couldn’t wait for the safety of daylight to shop?
A skinny wild-eyed male in a baggy ski mask leaped onto the counter, shouting and waving a 9 mm Glock. Hunter, who had managed to get inside and behind an endcap display of candy bars without being seen by the guy, recognized the weapon instantly because he was holding one just like it. Unless he’d miscounted, the guy had already fired four rounds....
“Empty the cash drawer!” the masked man snarled. “Do it now.”
The terrified clerk didn’t move fast enough, and the robber shot him. Hunter had to resist the urge to charge directly into the action. Just stick to the rule book, he told himself as the clerk collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain. The robber jumped down on the other side of the counter. While he was busy stuffing money, cigarettes and methamphetamine-based cold remedies into a ratty backpack, Hunter ducked behind a rotating rack of batteries. By the book, he reminded himself. Do it by the book...
“Jack,” he whispered, creeping down the bread aisle. “Psst...Jack...”
The dark-haired woman caught his eye, gave a barely discernible nod toward the dairy case. He could see a man’s leg on the floor protruding out from behind it. Instantly, he recognized Jack’s spit-shined department-issue black shoes, unmoving and pointing at the glaring overhead lights. Hunter’s brain had barely had time to register he’s dead when the brunette made a run for the door...and another eardrum-splitting shot spun her around. Her gaze locked with Hunter’s as she crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her lips parted, formed the word help, but even before she hit the gray tiles, the vacant stare in her big unblinking eyes told him she was dead.
Hunter, who’d turned twenty-three on his last birthday, had just completed the sixth month of his eighteen-month probation. Did he have the experience—was he man enough—to take out the gunman before he killed again? He saw Jack’s motionless foot poking into the main aisle.
“This is
