Chapter 2 #3
Daphne’s tactical assessment ran in three seconds. Two threats, both armed, both unstable. Gun was primary—distance weapon, already aimed in Millie’s general direction, finger on trigger. Knife was secondary but mobile, dangerously near the elderly couple.
Five civilians plus staff. Limited space. Counter provided some cover. Kitchen exit behind Millie. Her position was third stool from the end, maybe ten feet from the gun, fifteen from the knife.
She was still calculating when Morrison launched off his stool.
Fast. Controlled.
He closed the distance to Gun Kid in less than two seconds, his hand shooting out to grab the weapon and redirect the barrel toward the ceiling. His other hand struck—controlled and precise—at the kid’s throat.
He disarmed the attacker in a second, and then just like that, tucked away the gun and took him down.
Bam.
Ten seconds, maybe less. His knee found the small of the kid’s back, and his hand wrenched the arm behind. Professional restraint hold.
Knife Girl screamed. She swung wildly at Asher, and the knife found purchase, a slice across his forearm. He didn’t even flinch.
Daphne moved. Three long strides and she’d grabbed Knife Girl’s wrist mid-swing, her fingers finding the pressure point and squeezing. The girl tried to hold on, but her fingers spasmed open, the knife dropping to clatter on the floor.
Daphne swept the girl’s leg out from under her and rode her down. The girl’s face hit tile with a crack that would leave bruises. Daphne’s knee found her back, pinning her in place. Her weapon was in her hand—when had she drawn it?—the Glock steady as she covered both threats.
Time elapsed: twenty-eight seconds.
Her eyes met Morrison’s across the diner floor.
He knelt on Gun Kid with his phone already out, calling 911.
Their eyes locked.
No, his eyes drilled into her. A sort of look that had her turning hot even as he spoke into the phone. “Off-duty officer. Two suspects disarmed and detained at 1234 Main Street, Millie’s Diner. Scene secure. Send units and EMS.”
Then he hung up. Blood dripped down his arm. “Nice moves.”
Oh, he was talking to her.
“You too.” Her voice came out flat despite the adrenaline singing through her veins.
“Law enforcement?”
“Something like that. You?”
His mouth closed, and he gave a nod.
Knife Girl bucked underneath her, screaming and fighting. Her nails scraped against tile.
Daphne applied more pressure, her knee grinding into the girl’s spine. “Stop moving. You’re making it worse.”
Gun Kid, under Morrison, started crying, the drugs wearing off. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—we just needed—I’m so sorry—”
Morrison’s voice calmed, almost kind. “Stay still. Help’s coming. Just stay still and this will be over soon.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Millie stood behind the counter with both hands pressed to her mouth, shaking. “Thank you. Oh my stars. Thank you both.”
The truck driver was helping the elderly couple get out of the booth.
Daphne caught the driver’s eye and nodded toward the kitchen. “Get them out. Back door.”
He nodded.
The sirens got louder.
Daphne’s mind raced ahead. When police arrived, they’d want statements. Names. Identification. She needed to stay anonymous until the nine a.m. meeting—needed Morrison to not know who she was until she was ready.
The door burst open, and Renegade PD rushed in—two officers, one young and eager with his hand still on his weapon, the other older and seasoned with a calm that said he’d seen it all before.
Behind them, an ambulance arrived, a paramedic jumping out before the vehicle had fully stopped. Tall with dark hair and a strong build. He moved with purpose toward Morrison.
“Asher! Man, what happened?”
“Hey, Jackson. Robbery. We handled it.” Morrison stood as the younger officer took custody of Gun Kid. The kid was still sobbing.
The paramedic—his name tag said J. Stewart—moved straight to Morrison and grabbed his arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me see that.”
“It’s superficial.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Stewart pulled supplies from his kit—gauze, antiseptic—and started cleaning the wound. Blood turned the white gauze red. “You always gotta play hero?”
Morrison’s voice went quiet. “Seems to be a theme lately.”
The older officer approached Daphne while she maintained her position on Knife Girl. “Ma’am. You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
She gave her statement in short, factual sentences. She’d been having breakfast. The two subjects entered armed. She responded to the threat. Both subjects neutralized.
The officer wrote notes in a battered notebook. “You’re trained.”
“Yes. Self-defense classes.”
Not a lie.
“Name?”
“Daphne.”
He looked up from his notebook. “Last name?”
And she just…well, she reached into her past. “Eliason.”
He wrote it down.
She’d correct it later. Besides, it wasn’t totally inaccurate.
He nodded. “Can you come by the station later? We’ll need a full statement.”
“I have a meeting at nine.”
“After that, then. Just don’t leave town without checking in.”
“Understood.”
He moved to Morrison, and the other officer returned to take custody of Knife Girl. Daphne stood, holstering her weapon and rolling her shoulders.
She turned back to the counter. Her eggs had gone cold, the yolks congealed. Bacon grease had solidified. Coffee was lukewarm at best.
Stewart finished with Morrison’s arm, the bandage white and neat against his skin. He clapped Morrison on the shoulder. “Seriously, man. Try not to get stabbed for at least a week.”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
Stewart left, the ambulance pulling away with the two kids and a police escort. The sirens faded.
Morrison stood there for a moment, looking at his bandaged arm. Then he walked over to where Daphne had reclaimed her stool.
He extended his hand. “Thanks for the assist back there.”
Daphne looked at his hand, then his face. Scar through left eyebrow. Strong jaw with stubble he’d probably forgotten to shave. Blood on his sleeve. The face from the file photo, but animated now. Real.
“No problem.”
“You move pretty fast.”
“You looked like you needed help.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She smiled.
He studied her with those sharp eyes. “You local?”
“Just passing through.”
“Right.” His tone said he didn’t believe her. “Well. Thanks again. That could have gone a lot worse.”
He grabbed his jacket from the stool, leaving cash on the counter—enough to cover his meal and a generous tip. Nodded to Millie.
Then he walked out, the door closing behind him with a soft whoosh of cold air.
Silence settled over the diner except for the hum of fluorescent lights, the sizzle of the flattop, and Millie’s shaky breathing.
Daphne sat back on her stool and stared at her cold eggs.
Millie appeared with the coffeepot, her hands still trembling. “On the house, honey. You and Agent Morrison saved my life.” She refilled Daphne’s coffee, then peered at her, eyes narrowing. “You okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Daphne forced a smile. “Long drive yesterday. Just tired.”
“Well, you eat up. Food’ll help.”
Daphne pushed her eggs around her plate.
Two hours until she walked into the FBI office.
Two hours to decide whether Morrison was the hero he appeared to be.
Or the mole who’d gotten Martha Lintz killed.
And, heaven help her, she was sort of rooting for the first.