Caught in the Act. Lori Foster
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second man hitched his gun at the saleswoman. “You, come open the register and make it quick.”
She balked, more out of surprise than rebellion. Mick had a similar sensation. They were surrounded by diamonds and gold of unbelievable value, yet this idiot wanted what little cash might be in the register? The robber had to realize that most sales would be handled with credit cards or checks; his demand didn’t make sense.
Mick’s hands twitched. He wanted to grab his gun; he wanted to be in control. Right now, control meant keeping everyone alive. It meant keeping her alive.
Without warning, the man who’d issued the order shouted, “Now, goddamn it!” and everyone jumped, the saleslady screeching and stumbling over her own feet as she rushed to obey.
A predictable panic reaction, Mick thought, to the threat of sudden violence, not something a robber intent on keeping things calm would have instigated. Mick’s suspicions rose.
The older woman quietly wept, one saleslady turned white, the other shook so badly she had a hard time working the register. Before she could get it open, distant sirens broke the quiet, making both men curse hotly. Mick tensed, waiting for another outburst, for them to turn and run, for them to retaliate by shooting the saleslady. He’d learned early on that criminals did the most absurd and unaccountable things, often causing death without reason. He prepared himself for any reaction.
But what they did took him totally by surprise.
They didn’t yell, didn’t run. They focused their blame on the young woman next to Mick.
“Bitch,” the guy in the ball cap snarled. “You set off an alarm.”
Startled, she blinked, looked around, backed up two paces. “No,” she breathed. It was the first time Mick had heard her voice, which quaked with fear, bewilderment. “I don’t even know where—”
The man took aim at her and, without thinking, Mick blocked his path. Both gunmen froze at his audacity. He felt the woman’s small hands against his back, clutching at his jacket. He felt her face press into his shoulder, was aware of her accelerated breathing, her trembling. She was deathly afraid, and anger surged in his blood.
His voice as low and calm as he could make it, Mick said, “She’s a customer. She doesn’t know where the alarm is.”
He was ignored.
“Everybody get down!” As the guy in the ball cap yelled his order, a car screeched up in front of the shop, motor idling. The customers all dropped to the floor, panicked, including the woman at Mick’s back. He felt her jerky movements, could hear her panting in terror.
Mick moved more slowly, his mind churning as he tried to buy himself some time. If he could get his gun… His elbow touched the woman’s wrist, he was so close to her. She, like the others, had stretched out flat, covering her head with her arms, shaking. Mick kept himself balanced on his elbows, ready to move, watching without appearing to watch.
The sudden shattering of glass—again and again as each case was destroyed—caused the older woman to wail, the saleslady to whimper. The woman next to Mick never made a sound. He wanted to look at her, to somehow reassure her, but he didn’t dare take his attention off those weapons. The two men grabbed a few large items of jewelry, but it was as if they destroyed the store just for the sake of destruction.
It was by far the most pathetic, disorganized and unproductive robbery Mick had ever witnessed—and that made him more suspicious than anything else might have. By rights, they should have known where the most valuable items would be, and should have concentrated their sticky fingers there. Instead, they seemed to take whatever was at hand without thought to its worth. No one robbed a jewelry store without casing it first, without knowing what would be found inside and where.
The two men finally headed for the door. The tension tightened, grew painful, static crowding the air until it seemed impossible to breathe—and the bastard in the ball cap turned to fire.
Mick moved so fast, he barely had the thought of moving before he was over her, his arms covering her head, his muscular body completely blanketing her delicate one. Though she was tall for a woman, about five-nine, she was small boned and felt fragile to his six-three frame. He was plenty big enough, and more than determined enough, to be her protection.
She gasped at the feel of him on top of her and immediately stiffened, forcing her head up, twisting. “No! What are you doing?”
He jammed her head back down, then cursed when her cheek hit the hard tile floor. Knowing what she likely thought and wishing he could spare her, Mick said into her ear, “Be still.”
She wiggled more furiously, trying to free herself, confused and frightened, unsure of his intent. “He’s going to—” Mick began to explain, and then it was unnecessary.
The crack sounded loud and startling; the sudden pain in his right shoulder was a lick of pure fire. For only a moment, his arms tightened around her and he ground his teeth together. “Oh God,” she whispered, trying to turn toward him.
Mick grunted, but didn’t move. No, he wasn’t about to move. For whatever reason, they wanted her dead, but they’d have to get through him first.
He felt the blood spreading on his back, sticky and warm; he was aware of the woman squirming beneath him, gasping, crying. But it wasn’t until he heard the door open that he rolled and drew his gun at the same time. He blocked the awful pain, any distractions, and got off a clean shot through the glass door, clipping the man who’d tried to shoot her. The hollow-point bullet hit him high in the left thigh before he could get into the car. The leg crumpled beneath him and he went down in an awkward heap, howling in pain, grabbing for the open car door in desperation.
The car lurched away, spewing gravel and squealing tires, tossing the man back. The side of his head cracked solidly against the curb. He lay there unconscious, sprawled out like a wounded starfish.
Surging to his feet, Mick ran out the door. He spotted the car, drew careful aim and fired again. The back window exploded, but the car didn’t slow. It careened around the corner on two wheels and disappeared.
Already the streets had filled with onlookers, people too damn stupid to stay inside and away from gunfire. Mick’s arm rapidly went hot, cold and then numb; his fingers throbbed. His hand shook as he tried to hang on to his gun, to steady himself.
Josh and Zack appeared, having witnessed the tail end of the robbery from the restaurant. Josh, smooth as silk, slipped the gun from Mick’s hand and dropped it into his trouser pocket. They’d arrived just seconds before the police cars. More people from all over the street converged, whispering, curious. Josh caught Mick’s upper arm and supported him. “Jesus, man. You’re shot.”
Zack came to his other side and yelled, “Someone call the paramedics. He needs an ambulance.” That made Mick laugh, since Zack was an EMT. Zack shook his head wryly and pulled out his radio, putting in the call himself.
“Here, sit down,” he said, and led Mick to the rain-wet curb.
“I don’t want to sit in a damn puddle,” Mick grumbled. “I’m fine.” Fine enough that he wanted to find the woman. He looked around, and when he didn’t immediately see her, terror started to take hold. He located the elderly couple leaning against the brick building. The old woman clung to her husband and cried, while he peered around in dismay and impotent anger. Mick saw the two salespeople, huddled together, dry eyed but white as snow, apparently in shock. Cops swarmed everywhere, separating the witnesses so they couldn’t share stories. Two police cars took off to give chase, while another radioed in the call. An officer headed Mick’s way.
Where the hell is she?
When the cop reached him, frowning, his hand resting on his holster, Mick said quietly, “I’m Mick Dawson, Vice.” He started to reach inside his jacket for his badge, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate and he cursed.
Josh said, “I’ll get it.” He retrieved the badge and flipped it toward the