Bill’s internal alarm bells were jangling now, his sense of vague unease morphing quickly into full-blown dread. What happened next caused all the other people milling about to melt away from his consciousness until only the blonde girl and the strange, wiry man existed. The man continued to raise his arm, hooking it over her shoulder as if preparing to settle her neck into the crook of his elbow. With his right hand, he pulled a handgun out from under the back of his shirt and pressed it discreetly against her ribs while bending down and whispering in her ear, clearly warning her not to scream. Then, the man lead her rapidly toward the double doors and the intense heat of the parking lot. And a certain escape.
Bill did a double take, not sure his brain was correctly processing the information his eyes were sending it. He glanced quickly around the plaza. Everyone was still milling about, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their midst. He shifted his attention back toward the man and the girl. The man was hustling the girl out. They had nearly reached the exterior doors.
In a precious, few seconds they would be out of the building and crossing the parking lot to some waiting vehicle where he would spirit the young girl away. Bill made a snap decision, one which he would later question, and, in some ways, come to regret.
Bill Ferguson sprinted forward, dodging passers-by, closing the distance on the still-unsuspecting man and the teenage girl, unsnapping his Browning from its holster as he moved. He held it like a football, cradled in his arms against his chest, hopefully out of sight, but readily accessible. He would approach the kidnapper from behind, use the butt of the pistol to club him in the head, and pull the girl to safety. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it would work, because the man still didn’t see him, and—
—A kid holding a gigantic iced coffee in his hands backed directly into him. The kid was having an animated conversation with his buddies in a booth, backing away from them, his attention diverted. The drink flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor, and a tidal wave of iced coffee splashed around his feet. The kidnapper turned for a split-second to see what was causing the commotion, and just like that, the advantage of surprise was lost.
Bill changed the plan on the fly, dropping into a shooter’s crouch and taking dead aim at the center of the man’s back. The guy’s head was turned but his body continued to face the door. Bill still had a clear, unobstructed shot.
He held the Browning in two hands, making a conscious effort to keep his grip loose and relaxed, and screamed, “Freeze!” at the top of his lungs. The man stopped instantly and stood stock-still. His gun remained firmly planted into the girl’s side, but at least he hadn’t pulled the trigger. Yet.
One full second of utter, monastic silence fell over the inside of the rest stop. No one spoke. No one moved. The clatter of plates and silverware stopped. Cash registers fell silent.
Then, all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 6
MARTIN FROZE, INSTANTLY AWARE the shouted warning was meant for him. For perhaps two seconds, nothing happened—the silence was all-encompassing and unnerving—and then, like a dam bursting, chaos erupted in the plaza. A shrill, high-pitched scream echoed off the ceramic tiles in the big, open room. Trays filled with dishes fell to the floor, glasses shattering and dishes breaking as their owners spotted the guns and dove for cover. Tables crashed onto their sides, and the more physically gifted among the travelers vaulted the counters, thudding to the floor on the other side. Those lucky few near the plaza entrance simply ran out the door.
And still Martin did not move. He hugged the girl tightly, frantically calculating the possibilities. It could not have been a cop who shouted the warning—they were required to identify themselves. So it had to have been a citizen; an ordinary Joe who had seen the kidnapping go down and decided to play hero. That was good; he might still be able to get out of this.
Martin turned slowly and carefully, avoiding any sudden or unusual movements that his attacker might interpret as threatening. He kept his handgun firmly planted in the girl’s side, shoving it hard against her ribs in an unspoken warning not to do anything stupid, like running toward her misguided—and soon-to-be dead—savior.
In front of Martin, the girl whimpered softly, breathing hard, clearly terrified, her weight heavy on his arms as he pulled her tight against his body, using her as a human shield. He completed the turn, dragging her around with him, and found himself face-to-face with the same man who had bumped him just seconds ago. The man was crouched, his weapon held in a two-handed shooter’s grip, the barrel trained steadily on the center of Martin’s body, which meant it was now also trained on the girl.
Martin smiled, knowing that, no matter how powerful the man’s handgun was, it was useless unless he could shoot like Annie Oakley. The odds were that he would hit the innocent victim if he attempted to fire now, and, unless the guy was totally off his rocker, he would not do something so rash. The man had had his chance to take down Martin when his back was turned, and he had blown it.
If the busybody had just fired his weapon, then this would all be over, with Martin lying face down on the cold, plaza floor, blood and life soaking out of him. Instead, the fool had offered a ridiculous fair-play warning, like he thought he was Marshal Dillon patrolling Dodge City, and just like that, his only chance at taking the advantage away from Martin had evaporated. Now Martin was back in control.
His smile widened into a cocky grin. The buttinsky was dressed in a blue windbreaker with “Ferguson Hardware” stitched on the breast pocket. It should have been a dead giveaway to Martin that the dude was carrying. It had to be ninety-five degrees outside; there was no possible explanation why someone would don a jacket in this heat unless it was to cover a concealed weapon.