Chapter 7 - THE SHOTGUN
Dominic froze. The man who had guarded his back for a decade was standing over him with a loaded weapon.
“Mateo,” Dominic said, his voice low, betraying no fear. “You led us into the ambush.”
“I gave Emily the route,” Mateo confessed, his eyes wide, sweat pouring down his face. “The Costas promised me a territory in Chicago. You’re done, Dominic. You’re bleeding out in a diner in the middle of nowhere.”
Mateo put his finger on the trigger.
He never pulled it.
I didn’t think. I moved with the instinct of a mother whose sanctuary had been violated.
I reached blindly under the register. My hand found the cold steel of the twelve-gauge shotgun.
I pulled it out, racked the pump with a deafening clack, and aimed it squarely at Mateo’s chest.
“Get out of my kitchen,” I roared.
Mateo looked at me, a massive woman in an apron holding a shotgun steady as a rock. For a split second, he hesitated.
I pulled the trigger.
The blast caught him in the right shoulder. Mateo screamed, spinning backward and crashing into the coffee machine. Sparks flew as the machine short-circuited.
Dominic immediately snatched Mateo’s dropped weapon and turned to the front window, firing two precise shots into the darkness outside.
“Reload!” Dominic shouted to his remaining men.
My ears were ringing. I pumped the shotgun again, ejecting the spent shell. One shot left.
“Mommy,” Toby whimpered, clutching my leg.
“I’ve got you, bug,” I promised. “I’ve got you.”
Suddenly, the gunfire from outside completely stopped.
An eerie silence fell over the diner, broken only by the sound of rain and Mateo groaning on the floor.
“Did they retreat?” one of Dominic’s men asked.
“No,” Dominic said, his eyes narrowing. “Look at the lights.”
The Costa SUVs were still out there, but their high beams were illuminating a new arrival.
Sheriff Mercer’s county cruiser had driven straight through the Costa barricade. Mercer wasn’t running.
The back door of the diner’s kitchen burst open.
I spun around, aiming the shotgun.
Sheriff Mercer stood in the doorway. He was bleeding from a graze on his cheek, his uniform torn. In one hand, he held his service pistol.
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In the other, he held a lighter, held directly over a puddle of cooking oil that had spilled from the deep fryers.
“Put the shotgun down, Kaylee,” Mercer panted, his eyes wild. “Or I burn this place to the ground with all of you inside.”
