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mooks kept him calm as he whipped the
Browning around the pole in a two-handed grip, targeting the
passenger. "Don't move!"
Pasty face ugly with frustration, the passenger twisted in
his seat, ducked low and aimed at Mitch.
Despite the bad angle, Mitch risked a shot and nailed the
gunman's upper arm. The pistol disappeared back inside on a
stream of liquid curses. More shouts came from inside the
vehicle.
Want more? Come and get it.
The driver jammed the car into drive and tried to plow his
way out of the Chevrolet. Smoke poured from the remaining
back tire, hazing the air with the acrid odor of scorched rubber.
Using the foul cloud as cover, Mitch started toward the
sedan, eager to drag them out by their necks and wring answers
from them. Footsteps on broken glass crunched behind him,
audible as the driver switched gears again. He swung around,
prepared to fire.
Jess stood on the sidewalk, her face white, her eyes wide.
Mitch dove forward, forcing her down beside the door of her
Mustang. He lifted the latch, and cursed when it wouldn't
open.
"Unlock the door." He kept his tone calm, but acid
washed his innards. Why the hell is she out here?
A bullet zinged past his ear, punching the door beside his
head. "Get in the damned car, now!"
He stood, blocking Jess with his body, and opened fire on
the driver. Behind him, the door opened and Jess leapt inside.
He kicked the door shut without turning.
The sedan's driver started to get out. Mitch fired three
quick shots, coaxing the fool back into his mangled vehicle.
Desperate to get Jess to safety, Mitch hollered over his
shoulder, "Drive away."
She didn't answer and he couldn't risk a look. Pasty-face
crawled into the back seat, staying low enough Mitch couldn't
get a good shot. He crouched forward and pressed his back to
the telephone pole, fishing out the spare Glock from his ankle
holster as he stood.
In the quiet after the volley of bullets, Mitch heard both
the driver and Pasty open their doors, then the snick of both
doors closing. The silence didn't last long. They shouted
threats and curses–a typical intimidation tactic. Mitch wasn't
impressed.
His back to the telephone pole, he could see Jess moving
inside the Mustang. For chrissake, why doesn't she go?
"We're comin' for you!" Pasty yelled.
Mitch turned back. He'd have to whip around and shoot
fast with both of them in the open. Guns ready, prepared for
the double targets, he shifted his weight for the pounce, but
stopped. In the glass window of the shop beside the diner,
Pasty's reflection was perfect in the dazzling sunlight. Using
the mirror image to gauge his aim, he fired.
The goon dropped to his knees, as if praying for his very
bad day to end. Request granted, bastard . He fell face
forward, nose hitting the sidewalk with a solid thwack.
Mitch sidestepped, keeping the pole between him and the
remaining gunman. The driver wasn't aiming at him, wasn't
even looking at him. He was after Jess. Mitch raised the
muzzle of the Glock, but before he could shoot, a gun fired,
loud, definitely not silenced.
He flinched back behind the pole. Confused, he watched
the driver's image in the window fall out of sight behind the
sedan. Mitch twisted back.
Jess stood on the curb, a Magnum in her shaking hand, her
face tinted green with fear. "Oh, God."
Where the hell did she get that hand-cannon? Mitch
jerked away from the pole, shoved her back to the Mustang and
into the passenger seat. Get her out of here, away from the
threat. Get her the hell out of Dodge .
Hand open, he shouted, "Keys!"
She flung the keys into his hand. Mitch gunned the engine
and released the clutch, scorching the blacktop with a stripe of
burnt rubber as the Mustang leapt onto the road. A car swerved
around them, horn honking. The putrid, burnt smell of rubber,
recently ignited gun powder, and the breakfast smeared on his
T-shirt was cloying in the small car.
"Oh my god, I shot that man." Jess, her unbound hair
hiding her