Amber Morn

by Brandilyn Collins

  Keep moving, shouted a voice in his brain. He couldn’t stand the sight of Frank’s unprotected head dragging along the cement, but what could he do?

  He checked back over his shoulder, gauging the distance to his car, his cell phone. The Subaru looked a million miles away.

  John’s head swam. Dizziness brushed his limbs. He wasn’t going to make it. If he collapsed on the sidewalk and one of those gunmen stepped out Java Joint’s door…

  Somehow he kept on his feet.

  Halfway down the long block he passed the bait and tackle shop — with a deeply recessed entry. John swiveled into its safety and yanked Frank all the way in.

  Gulping air, John collapsed beside the still form. He leaned back against the hard brick, hardly daring to believe he’d made it this far.

  His vision dimmed.

  He’d just stay here a minute until the dizziness passed. He had to get Frank to his car. Call 911. Drive off this street…

  All energy drained away.

  No, no. Bailey… I have to help Bailey…

  John’s world faded to black.

  FIFTEEN

  Bev Trexel saw John disappear past the windows.

  She closed her eyes in fleeting relief. When she’d caught sight of John trying to drag away Frank’s body — the epitome of heroism — Bev’s terror had risen to the point of nausea. She could not imagine Bailey without John. That moment of eye contact between John and the despicable man named Brad still hovered in Bev’s head. She’d been so sure Brad was going to shoot.

  Bev stood toward the front end of the counter next to Angie, who gasped each breath in a sob. Bev’s eyes remained dry — she couldn’t muster the ability to cry. But her legs shook. Her whole body shook as she tried to hold up both hands. She felt the blood rushing down her arms, into her shoulders, until both limbs wobbled as if made of straw. Her rational mind knew this nightmare was real, screamed that she’d witnessed Frank West being shot to death. But her heart couldn’t yet comprehend it.

  Bev wanted to look over her shoulder and check on Bailey, standing by herself behind the counter. Had she seen John? But no. It might only draw attention to her, and the mere act of turning her head might upset the little balance to which she clung.

  Her eyes fixed on Brad.

  From the duffel bag he yanked out a long black sheet. Masking tape ran along its top, half of the tape’s width on the fabric. Sections of the tape above the sheet had stuck together, and Brad ripped them apart. He threw a dark glance at their huddled group. “That one?” He jerked his head toward S-Man.

  The thug who had shot Frank turned to S-Man. “Help him hang the sheets. And move fast.” His words came clipped and hard. “You.” He sneered at Pastor Hank. “Get chairs for them to stand on.”

  S-Man glared at him, then strode to the duffel bag and took one end of the sheet. Hank hustled toward the nearest table and chairs. Picked up a chair in each hand. Brad pointed to the window closest to the counter. “Put ’em on either side.”

  Hank obeyed.

  “Hurry up!” Frank’s killer spat. Tension pulsed from him, beating into Bev’s chest.

  Alexander. Abigail. Angela. Her three grandchildren, ages fourteen to eight. From nowhere, their faces burned into her mind. Harlon. Her husband of over forty years.

  Harlon, don’t despair. I’ll get through this.

  She had to — what would the man do without her? He couldn’t even wash his own laundry.

  “Everybody else line up with her.” Frank’s shooter pointed toward Bailey. His animal-like gaze swung to Bev and hung there. She cringed. “Move it, move it!”

  Line up. So they all could be shot?

  Bev’s legs moved. Her raised arms collapsed, and she grabbed on to Angie’s shoulders. They clung to each other as everyone scuffled around the counter like a flock of frightened birds. Bev registered jumbled flashes of sight and sound as the group fell into a ragged line. Carla’s arms around Brittany and Ali. The girls’ white faces, Ali’s chin trembling. Wilbur, tight-jawed and indignant. Leslie and Jared holding on to Paige, who barely managed to keep on her feet.

  Angie scuttled next to Bailey and stopped. Bev pressed in behind her. Backs against the wall, they turned to face their executioners. Carla and the girls crowded next to Bev.

  Ted and Brad hung the first sheet, and the café dimmed. Pastor Hank stood watching.

  “The next one, go, go, go!” Frank’s killer flicked his gaze from the street to his hostages. “You!” He pointed to Pastor Hank. “Get the next sheet.”

  The gaunt-cheeked man holding a gun on them jittered, eyes cutting right and left. High on something, Bev thought. She watched his finger on the trigger, knowing he could pull it any second.

  Pastor Hank hurried to grab a second sheet from the duffel bag. Ted and Brad shoved their chairs to the next window.

  “Bailey” — Frank’s killer gestured — “grab the phone cord out of the wall.”

  Bev sensed her stiffening. Bailey. He knew her name.

  The man leaned forward menacingly. “Pull out the phone cord.”

  Bailey jumped, pivoted toward the phone. It sat on the counter near the back wall. Bev watched her trembling fingers shove up the little lever on the cord and slide it out of the phone. She dropped the dangling end on the counter.

  “Now turn out the lights back there.”

  Two large overhead lights stretched above the counter area. “Th-the…” Bailey could only stutter. “S-switch is at the other end.”

  Someone down that way hit the control, and the room dimmed more.

  Gaunt Cheeks swung about, looking for more lighting controls. He spotted them near the front door and hurried over to flick them off. All lights cut except those over the back hallway.

  The second window was covered. Brad, Ted, and Hank moved to the first window on the other side of the door. They covered it, then started in on the last one.

  Within minutes all glass was blocked. The café fell into a deep, unnatural dusk.

  Frank’s killer turned a piercing look on Ted. “You S-Man?”

  S-Man nodded. His lips were pressed, eyes narrowed. If he was surprised at being known, he didn’t show it.

  “Get behind the counter with everybody else.” The man looked to Hank. “You the preacher or Jared?”

  “I’m Pastor Hank.” An unblinking calm spread across his face.

  The man sneered. “Get back there too. And don’t bother prayin’, ‘cause God done heard our prayers first.”

  With a defiant expression, S-Man squeezed between Jared and Leslie. Pastor Hank stopped at the end of the lineup, next to Jared.

  Brad jumped down from his chair and made for the second duffel bag. Unzipped it. Pulled out a gun that snatched Bev’s breath away. She didn’t know much about firearms. Only that she’d seen something like this in the ridiculous Rambo-type movies Harlon liked to watch. Some kind of automatic that could kill a lot of people in seconds.

  “Let me do it.” Brad clutched the weapon, lip curled and fire in his eyes.

  Angie moaned. Bev’s ankles turned to putty. Oh, Harlon, I’m going to die.

  Frank’s killer evaluated Brad, his jaw working. He turned to the drugged, skinny man. “You wanted him to come.”

  Skinny hitched his shoulders. “Let him do it — I don’t care.”

  The thug in charge gave Brad a hard look. “Make it good.”

  SIXTEEN

  For heaven’s sake, I can be such a scatterbrain.

  Fifty-six-year-old Sarah Wray muttered to herself as she crossed to the storage closet in her office at the back of Simple Pleasures. Directly across the street at Java Joint, all her friends were celebrating, and here she was, late to the party. Not until she’d parked her car in a lot off the back alley did she remember Ted’s present, sitting on her desk in the shop. Now that she’d come to fetch it, she saw it wasn’t even wrapped. Doggone it all. She’d hurried out of the store last night, forgetting to get the gift ready.

  Now
look at the time. She’d probably miss seeing Ted sign his contract.

  Sighing, she opened the closet door and pulled out the roll of solid navy paper — the “manly” version of gift wrap she used. Female gifts were done in shiny silver. She walked over to her rectangular table and pushed boxes aside. Cut a small piece of the paper and laid Ted’s gift in the center. It was a brown leather business card case, with Ted Dawson, Writer engraved upon it in regal-looking letters. Quite the needed item for S-Man when his fame as a novelist soared. And no doubt it —

  Faint sounds hit Sarah’s ears. Crack, crack, crack. Her chin came up. What was that?

  Other sounds — more raucous. Drawn out.

  Screams?

  Sarah froze, listening.

  Nothing more.

  Her eyes roved to the corner shelf, full with boxes of new products. She cocked her head to the right, toward the office door.

  All was quiet.

  She let out a sigh. Wonderful. Now she was late and imagining things.

  Her pudgy fingers scrambled back to work, wrapping the package. When it was taped, she finished it off with some ribbon. There. She bustled back to the closet to put the paper roll away.

  Sarah stepped out of the office and hurried through her long shop, past all of the glitzy, colorful items she loved to sell. She focused through the front windows directly across the street at Java Joint — and pulled to a halt.

  What had happened to the glass over there? One of the windows was all black.

  She took a few steps forward, moving her head to view the café from different angles. Maybe it was just some trick of the morning sun…

  But no. The window was solid black.

  An odd feeling crept over Sarah. First those sounds she’d decided she hadn’t really heard; now this. Either S-Man’s gathering was one wild party, or something else was going on.

  She surveyed the café, wondering what to do.

  In the next moment, a second window blackened.

  Sarah leaned forward, squinting. Trying to make out the movements she saw on the other side of the windows. Impossible, with the way the sun’s rays hit the glass.

  A third window went dark and then — as she watched — the fourth.

  Sarah ran a hand through her gray curls. It would be so simple to just cross the street and walk into the café, see what was going on. But something deep inside just wouldn’t —

  The Simple Pleasures windows exploded.

  The world erupted with sound. Glass shattered, a radt-adadtadadt — guns? Walls were punched behind her; displays crashed to the floor. Then more breaking glass out on the street — the building next door? Farther away, radt-adadt-adadt-adadt, then coming back, closer and closer —

  A force hit her left upper arm. Sarah jerked backward. Pain pierced the spot like a burning ice pick. Sarah screamed, lurched sideways, and fell to her knees.

  Her wild eyes looked to her shoulder. Blood! Oh, dear Lord in heaven, blood, her blood, lots of it.

  Radt-adadt-adadt. Up the street glass clattered, thick smacks against building walls.

  Sarah’s right hand flew to her wound. She drew it back, sticky and red.

  The world fell silent.

  She screamed again, long and loud until the sound sizzled her ears.

  Energy drained from her body. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her arm throbbed and flamed. She couldn’t stand the pain — it would eat her alive.

  Nausea swept through Sarah’s stomach.

  What had hap —? Where was…? How…?

  Shock uncoiled through Sarah’s limbs and dragged her into unconsciousness.

  SEVENTEEN

  The gunfire and crashing glass stopped.

  Pastor Hank found himself clutching Jared’s arm hard enough to cut off circulation. He loosened his grip. Jared looked over at him, the man’s mouth hanging open. All down the line of his friends, Hank heard sobs and moans. He glanced farther to his right, checking on Brittany and Ali. Carla stood between them, the trio huddled and shaking.

  Lord, couldn’t You at least have kept those two young girls away from this?

  Brad strode back into the café, the gun he’d just fired up and down Main Street grasped in one hand. He locked and bolted the door. Victorious revenge blackened his face, turning it hard, almost inhuman.

  Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed.

  Brad gave the man in charge a stiff, smug nod. “Glad I came now?”

  The man’s expression remained like stone. “Finish the windows.”

  Brad laid his weapon down on a table across the room. Walked to the first duffel bag and snatched up a roll of clear packaging tape. He jumped on the chair he’d left by the far window, tore off sections of the tape, and reinforced the entire top of the black sheet. Then ran tape along both sides and the bottom. He repeated the procedure on all four windows, working as if racing a time clock.

  The crying and groans among the hostage lineup died to shocked silence. Hank slipped a look at Paige. Her face was drained of color. Hank pictured John, somewhere off Main Street, watching a coroner’s wagon loading Frank’s body.

  Bile rose in Hank’s throat. He swallowed it down. How could this have happened?

  Janet. Thank God his wife hadn’t come today. She’d gone to help their oldest daughter in Boise, who was fighting mono. Amy had four kids and just couldn’t keep up.

  “Done.” Brad pitched the tape back in the duffel bag.

  “Check the other door.” Man-in-Charge kept his eyes on the lineup. “Get the hall lights. And phone cord.”

  Brad threw him a hard look, as if he resented being told what he already knew. He strode down the hall, flicking off the light without slowing. Hurried in and out of the office, then disappeared on his way to the back door. Hank listened to his footsteps take him down the hall and back. He reappeared.

  “Locked, like we knew it would be.” His shoulders were straight, face defiant. “I say we upend the desk against the door.”

  Man-in-Charge surveyed him, then nodded. “Mitch, go. I got this covered.”

  Mitch. The shaky one.

  Mitch stuck his weapon into his jacket pocket and ran to help. In seconds papers swished and items clattered in the office. Hyena-like laughter floated from the room. Mitch. Hank pictured his arms sweeping Bailey’s possessions off her desk onto the floor. In two minutes the men had moved the desk down the hall and out of sight. Wood creaked, and items tumbled in drawers as they turned the desk on its side.

  Brad and Mitch returned. Mitch’s face flushed red, his lips twitching with excitement. Brad headed for the near-empty duffel bag and picked it up. Mitch planted himself next to Manin-Charge, pulled his gun out to aim at the group.

  “Listen up.” Man-in-Charge stepped sideways as Brad approached the counter and laid down the bag. “We want everybody’s cell phone. One by one turn off your phones, step forward, and put it in the bag. You first.” He gestured to Bailey.

  Hank threw her a glance. Lord, keep her strong.

  Her throat convulsed in a swallow. “I… my husband… I don’t have it with me.”

  The man glared at her. “Get over here, right in front of this gun barrel. Now.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The shriek of gunfire and breaking glass roused John. He opened bleary eyes. Saw gray cement. Fear gripped him, but for a split second he couldn’t remember where he was.

  The gunfire stopped, followed by more bursts. Glass crackled and splintered.

  The world fell deathly silent.

  A woman screamed.

  John blinked, and his vision cleared. Frank West lay on the cement at his feet.

  He shuffled to his knees and leaned over Frank, gazing at the young man’s pale skin. Instant tears stung John’s eyes. Frank was only in his midtwenties. So strong and healthy, so much to live for. He loved being a cop. Last Christmas he and Paige had started dating. John had heard all the details from Bailey, who knew everything about everybody. Frank and Paige seem
ed so happy.

  The area around the bullet hole in Frank’s stomach was seeping blood. The other two holes in the chest hadn’t bled much. John felt for a pulse in Frank’s wrist.

  Nothing.

  John raised his eyes toward heaven — and his gaze caught on the damage across the street. It looked like a war zone. Windows broken everywhere, chunks of brick and wood knocked from building walls.

  The gunfire. It had come from Java Joint.

  Bailey. A shuddering gasp wrenched from John’s throat. He crawled forward, stopped at the end of the entryway, and stuck his head out. Squinted up the street. No one in sight.

  Was anybody in Java Joint still alive?

  Brain numb, John crawled out to the middle of the sidewalk and peered at the café, expecting to see shattered windows.

  They were intact. Which meant the gun had been fired from outside the café.

  But they were dark. As if they’d been blacked out?

  John swiveled his head up and down his side of Main, checking all other businesses.

  No damage.

  He reversed back into the entryway and collapsed against the brick wall, trying to reason. The men had come out of Java Joint and shot across the street — just to show their firepower? The gun — it couldn’t have been the one used to shoot Frank. He’d be cut to pieces.

  Bailey and the others. Please, God, let them still be alive.

  John’s chest constricted. He forced his chin up, took three deep, long breaths. Longing, needing to see life, he pushed to his knees and leaned over Frank again. He tried a second time for a wrist pulse to no avail. He groaned and in desperation pressed the palm of his hand against the policeman’s chest.

  He felt a faint stir.

  A heartbeat? He pressed harder, holding his breath.

  Yes! It was there. Frank was alive. Barely. But he was alive.

  John had to get him to a hospital — now.

  Cell phone. In the Subaru —

  The sound of a car engine, coming from the bottom of the street. John staggered to his feet and edged toward the right front of the recessed entry, angling a look left and down. A black pickup truck was turning onto Main from Hanley.