Chapter 9 Asher #2
Every storefront is a story: Murphy’s Hardware with the bell that rings twice when you open it; Ridge Books with the free little library out front painted by elementary kids; Scotty’s Diner dead center, neon still asleep, but the blinds throw striped sunlight across the booths like a set designer’s dream.
It’s impossible not to think of Jasmine when I see that awning.
Of her face the day in the grocery aisle—tired and furious and bright in a way that made me feel fifteen and dumb again.
She thinks I’m a rulebook with feet. I think she’s a fire alarm that goes off even when the kitchen’s cold.
We’re both right, probably. And both wrong.
Then I see the motorcycle.
Same one. Same glossy black. But now it’s empty, kickstand down and leaned casual against brick like a cat sunning itself. No riders. No helmets. That’s worse.
If you’re parking in a hurry, you leave the helmets on. If you’re making a plan, you don’t.
I circle the block and park a half-street away, angled so my dash cam gets a clean long view. The morning feels suddenly louder with the burr of a distant mower, a gull that thinks it’s a comedian, the hum in your bones when your body recognizes a shape it’s been trained to fear.
I kill the engine and sit a second, letting my senses rise one notch at a time.
Sight: windows reflecting light instead of showing interiors; the door of Scotty’s pulled to, not propped; a CLOSED sign turned to OPEN but tilted, like someone did it fast. Sound: no clatter of pans, no soft diner murmur, just…
quiet. Smell: hot oil, sugar, and something else—metallic? No, that’s adrenaline.
I key my shoulder mic low. “Dispatch, Sheriff Vaughn, ten-eight on Brime. I’ll be on foot at Scotty’s for a minute, copy?”
Carla’s voice comes back, cheerful static. “Copy, Sheriff. Want me to ping Quick and Joel to swing through?”
“Negative for now. I’ll advise.”
I step out, shut the door softly, and cross the sidewalk like a man walking into a church where he hasn’t been invited.
The bell over the door announces me with its bright, innocent ding. The smell hits first—coffee and fryer oil and cinnamon. And under it, the stale tang of fear.
Two men stand at the counter. Big. Broad through the chest in leather jackets that look too hot in this weather. One is bearded with a scar that hooks his jaw like punctuation; the other’s clean-shaven with the sort of gym arms that like to prove a point. Their heads snap as the bell dings.
Jasmine is behind the counter, hands flat on the laminate, face pale and furious in equal measure. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest flicker—hope, warning, a hundred things I don’t have time to read.
The guns are out. Semi-auto .9s from the shape, aftermarket shine. “Police!” I bark, drawing a sight picture in one motion. “Drop your weapons! On the ground, now!”
There’s a second, the kind where time stretches in a bubble where maybe they listen. Maybe we all go home, maybe I tell this story later like a warning about compliance.
The bubble pops. They don’t listen.
“Dispatch,” I say, low and fast. “Unit one at Scotty’s.10-95 in progress, two armed suspects inside, send code three.” I don’t say hurry. Carla hears it anyway.
Beard squares his shoulders. “Or what, Sheriff?” His voice is gravel in a bucket.
Clean-shaven takes a step forward, gun angled low in that cocky way people hold them when they’ve watched too many movies. “How about you turn around, walk out, and we call today a good day?”
Every tactical calculation I have lights up and runs:
Backstop: if I shoot, where does the round go? Behind Beard is the bakery case and a wall; behind Clean-shaven, the plate glass window and then open sidewalk. Beard’s the safer shot.
Angles: if I move two steps right, the pillar between booths gives me partial cover and reduces their line of fire to a narrow lane. I can protect Jasmine’s position behind the counter better from there.
Hands: Beard’s grip is relaxed—cocky—but his finger is on the trigger, not indexed. Clean-shaven’s stance is sloppy, knees locked, but he’ll jitter-shoot if he spooks. Jitter-shooters are the ones who hit civilians.
Time: Backup is three to five minutes if they are close, more if they’re wrangling Mr. Pritchard’s goat. I can’t give these two that much time.
I shift right, deliberate, no hurry. “Guns down,” I repeat, calmer now. “Nobody wants to die by a lemon bar.”
Jasmine’s mouth twitches, like a laugh got lost on the way out.
Beard grins. It isn’t pleasant. “How about you put yours down first, Sheriff? Show of good faith.”
“Last time I checked,” I say, “robbery doesn’t come with trust exercises.”
Clean-shaven’s eyes flick to Jasmine—just for a heartbeat. I file it. That’s the one who’s going to try to control the room with threats. Beard’s the one who’s here for the thrill.
“Down,” I say. “Both of you. Now.”
They keep coming. Two slow steps. Three. Their boots are surprisingly quiet on tile.
“Give me a reason,” I warn, and I’m not bluffing. I don’t want to fire in here. I will if I must.
A shadow moves in my left periphery—a figure behind the kitchen pass, crouched. Sarah, probably. God, stay down. My chest is a live wire. The AC kicks on with a soft click; the bell over the door sways once, a tiny, stupid pendulum.
I take another controlled half-step back, aligning myself with the pillar. My left hand feels for the edge of the booth seat—anchor point. My right eye stays on Beard’s front sight, the bead clear, the world blurred around it like the camera chose the right thing to love.
“Copper,” Beard says, voice almost amused. “You know how this goes. You walk out. We walk out. Everybody gets pancakes later.”
“Pancakes are a reward for not pulling guns on women,” I say. “Last chance.”
He lifts his pistol one inch.
I tighten, ready to fire first.
The world narrows to a breath and a heartbeat and a bead of light at the end of a barrel.
I hear the sirens then, distant, but on the way, bouncing off storefront glass like hopeful echoes. Beard hears them too; something mean flickers through his eyes. Clean-shaven flinches, shifts his weight, and I choose.
“Drop it!” I bark, and my voice ricochets off chrome and tile. “Do not make me shoot you.”
For the first time, Beard’s mask slips. He hesitates. Not much. Enough to know he’s not a true believer—he’s a bully who likes the walk-up, not the consequence.
“Hands where I can see them!” I shout. “Now!”
Jasmine moves then, the tiniest movement. She slides a hand toward the floor, likely pressing a panic pedal I didn’t know she had. Good. Smart. Her eyes find mine and hold. I nod once, small. We’re in a rope bridge together over something high and ugly. We’re not falling if I can help it.
Sirens swell. The bell over the door trembles again like it knows something the rest of us don’t. Heat gathers at my collar, sweat trickling down the path the Kevlar leaves for it. My pulse pounds so hard I can taste copper.
Three minutes can be forever. Or it can be a blade.
I set my feet. I don’t blink.
“On your knees,” I say, voice low and even, the way you talk to a skittish horse or a man who thinks he’s immortal. “Guns on the tile. Fingers on your head.”
For a heartbeat, the world considers my offer.
Then it decides.