Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The one thing Sterling hated more than anything was being paranoid. Having a healthy dose of it, if there was such a thing, came with the job. But currently, his persecution complex involving the woman next to him was overreaching.
He was going to need a delusion check on that one.
"I'm stuffed," Juniper said. "I couldn't eat another bite if I tried."
"No ice cream?"
"You might be able to twist my arm. But only if we walk."
He opened the door from the deck that led inside the restaurant. "That sounds like a lovely plan." He held up his arm and as she placed her hand in his elbow, he noticed Doyle had moved from his table.
He'd observed a lot of things about Doyle during dinner. They'd gotten their food at about the same time. Paid their checks one right after the other. And now Doyle was leaving, too. That made Sterling uncomfortable on a night that was supposed to be about him and Juniper.
The bell over the main door rang two flat notes, and Sterling looked up from Juniper's hand on his arm.
A man stepped into the lobby. That shouldn't bother Sterling. People came and went from the Crab Shack from open ‘til close every day. Locals and tourists.
But something about this guy had Sterling on edge. Maybe it was the way he wore his ball cap over his eyes. Or that his windbreaker was zipped to the chin on a night where the rain had stopped hours ago, and the breeze was barely a ripple across the water.
Sterling slowed his pace, noting the man had his right hand buried in his jacket pocket.
Sterling shifted so he could see the man's eyes, which were twitchy, at best. The man eased closer to the hostess station, his gaze fixated on the register.
Juniper's fingers pressed into Sterling's forearm. "I don't think that man's here to eat," she whispered.
"You might be right about that."
The man's right arm twitched.
"Gun," Juniper said with a low and steady voice.
Less than a second after she said it, Sterling saw it.
Gasps echoed in the lobby. Lucia screamed as the gunman yanked her by the hair and pulled her tight to his chest.
Juniper had stepped slowly away from Sterling's side, guiding a mother and her child to safety.
Sterling raised both hands, slow, palms out. "Hey. We're all right in here. Nobody's a problem to you." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched in horror, shock, and awe, as Juniper helped a few more patrons hide.
He wanted to yell at her to just take cover, but getting everyone else out of the way was good, too.
The gunman held his weapon under Lucia's chin. Lucia stared at Sterling like he was a rope thrown into water to save her.
"Nobody move." The man's voice broke on the word. "I swear to God, I'll shoot her."
Doyle came in at Sterling's shoulder, hands high. "Whatever it is you want, just take it, and let her go. No one here wants to see anyone get hurt. We'll give you whatever you want. I've got a few hundred in my wallet. It's yours."
"Put it on the counter," the gunman said.
"I'm just gonna reach in my pocket real slow like." Doyle moved his hand.
"You pull a gun, she still dies," the gunman said.
"I don't want that." Doyle reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and set it on the counter.
"You're in charge here," Sterling told the gunman. "What do you need?"
"I want all the money in the register and the safe."
"Okay." Sterling nodded. "But you're gonna have to let her go to make that happen."
"No way." The man shuffled back a step and dragged Lucia with him.
Sterling drifted a half step in—not at him, just off his line, just enough to make the man turn his head to keep Sterling in front of him.
The man turned. And turning, his back came around toward the front window, toward the glass and the dark lot beyond it.
Doyle slid wide on the other side and stole a glance at Sterling. His right brow lifted, his lips parted, and he blinked, twice.
An old signal. Fuck yeah. Nothing better than knowing what someone was thinking.
First part of that was telling Sterling to look past the gunman and through the glass.
Slow moving vehicle, no lights, coming down the street. Dawson. Or Chloe. Or one of his men. Didn't matter who. They were here.
The rest of it was when the time was right, and they had successfully closed on this asshole, they were disarming him—just like old times.
"What's your name?" Sterling asked.
"What? Why do you care?" The gunman's hand twitched and the weapon shifted, slightly. Not enough. But this was something they could work with.
"Your name. I'd rather call you something than 'hey, man.'" Sterling and Doyle had disarmed a few idiots over the years. It wasn't always through a talk down, but every once in a while, they got an easy one. The key was to keep them talking and keep them confused.
"Anthony," he said.
"I'm Sterling."
The gunman narrowed his stare. His weapon hand relaxed and lowered an inch.
"Now," Doyle said as he jumped behind the gunman.
The burglar twisted, the muzzle of the handgun now pointed at Sterling and not Lucia. Not great, but better him than her.
Sterling lunged, shoving her aside.
Pop!
Fire raked across his biceps. He groaned, clenching his teeth. Twisting his body toward the right, he caught the gun arm at the wrist and the elbow. He shoved it toward the ceiling. The second shot went up into the rafters. White dust rained down over both of them.
Anthony snarled. He yanked, and his arm barely moved in Sterling's grip.
Anthony threw his shoulder into Sterling's chest and rammed him backward.
Sterling's spine hit the host stand. The edge of it bit into his kidney, and the breath went out of him in a grunt. His left hand slipped off Anthony's elbow. Now Sterling had the wrist and nothing else. The muzzle dropped level and Anthony swung it toward the room.
"Fuck." Sterling wrenched it back toward the wall. "Get his arm."
Doyle clamped both hands around Anthony's free arm and drove it down between them.
"You fucking asshole." Anthony jerked and kicked, tearing his arm loose. He smashed his fist back into Doyle's cheek. His head snapped sideways, and he came right back and hooked the arm again, this time twisting it up behind the man's spine.
Anthony bellowed louder than an alligator during mating season. His finger was still inside the trigger guard.
That wasn't good. Sterling stepped forward, pinned the wrist with both hands, and pressed his thumb hard into the tendons, causing Anthony's fingers to spread, but they wouldn't open.
Anthony drove his heel down onto Sterling's foot.
"Fuck you," Sterling mumbled as the two of them stumbled into a table. A chair tipped and clattered against the boards. A water pitcher rolled off the edge and broke. Sterling's boot came down in the puddle and slid, and he dropped to one knee, dragging the gun arm down with him.
The muzzle now pointed at his shin. He twisted it outward, away from his leg, away from Doyle, away from the benches where a woman had her arms over a child's head.
"Let go, or I'll break your hand," Sterling said.
"No you won't." Anthony continued to fight against Sterling's weight.
"Have it your way." Sterling shifted both fists to the wrist and rolled it, hard, the way the joint didn't bend. Bone ground under his palms.
Anthony screamed, and his knees folded. "You mother fucker."
Doyle let go of the twisted arm and drove a short punch into the man's kidney. Anthony arched. Doyle hit him again, same spot, and the man's whole left side went loose.
But the gun hand stayed closed. Anthony didn't seem to want to give up this damn weapon. He surged up off his buckled knees, swinging Sterling around by the trapped arm.
Caught off balance, Sterling stumbled backward, twisting his body, as Anthony swept the gun, chest height.
Sterling stopped fighting the man's strength and went with the turn.
He stepped through it, ducked under the gun arm, and came up on the other side with the wrist cranked behind Anthony's back and the muzzle pointing at the floor.
He pitched Anthony face-first into the host stand, and the corner caught him across the brow.
The man sagged.
His hand finally opened, and the pistol dropped, hit the boards, and skidded under the bench where Lucia had been standing.
"Down. Stay down." Doyle's forearm was a bar across the man's throat.
Dawson and Jasper barreled through the door, weapons drawn.
"Police—down, down, hands where I can see them," Dawson said. He paused, lowering his weapon. "I'll take it from here."
Dawson holstered his piece while he placed a knee in the perp's back, snagged his arms, and cuffed him. "Jasper, read this guy his rights, put him in the back of my patrol car."
"You got it, boss."
Sterling rolled his shoulders and winced. He glanced down. His favorite shirt now had a hole that couldn't be repaired and a stain he wouldn’t get out. "I hate getting shot," he mumbled.
"That's a fucking graze, you drama queen." Doyle stood two feet away with his hands on his hips and a shiner on his cheek.
Sterling had no idea how that had happened but was glad he wasn’t the only one with a battle wound. He took in a deep cleansing breath as he glanced around the lobby. His ears were still ringing from that shot going off too close to his face.
"Have to say, I'm glad you remembered our signals," Doyle said.
"Me too." He laughed. "Otherwise… well it could've been worse."
Doyle ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm just glad no one was hurt. But some of these people are going to have a hard time sleeping tonight."
Sterling nodded as he watched people hug, cry, and console one another. This town had seen more than their fair share of trauma. But not everyone experienced it up close and personal. "The people of Calusa Cove are tough. They'll pull together and help each other."
"Looks like they already are," Doyle said.
Sterling's gaze had already landed on Juniper, who stood with the young mother and child she'd helped when the situation first escalated. But before Sterling could excuse himself, Hayes was in his face.