Chương 11
Pike heard her.
“Bring them out.”
She tucked the packet beneath her apron and stepped into the dining room.
Pike stood near the register with a shotgun aimed at her chest.
He had removed his snow-covered jacket. His uniform shirt was dark with sweat beneath the arms. One sleeve was torn. A cut crossed his forehead. The calm mustache and measured voice had disappeared. He looked less like law enforcement than a tired man furious that the world had stopped obeying him.
The armed civilian stood near the door, watching the road.
The third SUV burned beside the diner, flames creeping along the chassis. The propane tank remained intact.
Pike nodded toward Delaney’s apron.
“Set it on the counter.”
She did.
He opened the plastic bag with one hand and examined the pages.
His eyes moved rapidly over names and numbers.
“These are copies.”
“They are what my mother had.”
“Where are the books?”
“She burned them years ago.”
He looked at her.
She let resentment enter her face. That part required no acting.
“She invited Sartori because he claimed he had originals,” Delaney said. “He lied. He bought our tax lien, used my mother, and brought gunmen to my door. You want him, take him.”
The civilian glanced toward Pike.
Pike’s suspicion wrestled with the version of events he preferred.
“Why protect him this long?”
“I was trying to keep him alive until police arrived.”
“I am the police.”
“You shot through my windows.”
“His men fired first.”
“That is not what happened.”
“Who will they believe?”
The question came softly.
For years, that might have been enough. His uniform, her debt, Ruth’s hidden history, the armed criminals in the basement—everything could be arranged into a story that left Pike standing and Delaney ruined.
But Pike’s hands were shaking.
Delaney looked toward the front windows.
Beyond the burning SUV, faint orange lights moved on the north hill.
Not twelve minutes.
Closer.
Pike saw her look.
He stepped forward and pressed the shotgun barrel beneath her ribs.
“Where are the originals?”
“I told you.”
He struck her across the face with the stock.
The room tilted. Delaney caught the counter before she fell. Her mouth filled with blood.
The civilian near the door flinched.
Pike grabbed her hair and pulled her upright.
“I have spent thirty years cleaning up for men who never learned my first name,” he said. “I am not going to prison because a waitress found an old notebook.”
The words came too fast. Not a confession intended for evidence, only anger leaking through fear.
Delaney’s gaze moved to the ceiling above the register.
A small black dome was mounted beside the clock.
The diner’s security camera.
The power was out, but the system had a battery backup in the office.
Pike followed her eyes.
His face changed.
He swung the shotgun toward the camera and fired.
The dome exploded.
“You think that saved you?” Delaney asked.
He turned back.
“It records to the office drive.”
Pike shoved her toward the hallway.
The civilian said, “Allen, we need to go.”
“Get the car.”
“State units are coming.”
“Get the car.”
The man hesitated.
Pike raised the shotgun toward him.
“Now.”
The civilian fled through the front door.
Pike dragged Delaney toward the office.
Her practical shoes slipped in coffee and melted snow. She caught the edge of a booth, slowing him.
He struck the back of her shoulder.
“Move.”
Behind the basement door, someone shifted.
Pike heard it.
He aimed at the kitchen.
“Tell them if that door opens, you die.”
Delaney tasted blood.
“Curtis,” she called, “do not open the door.”
Silence answered.
Pike pushed her into the office. Ruth’s bed stood beneath the broken camera monitor. The backup drive sat inside a locked metal cabinet under the desk.
“Open it.”
“I don’t have the key.”
He pointed the shotgun at her knee.
Delaney opened the desk drawer and took out the key.
The cabinet contained the recording unit, a router, and an old stack of tax receipts. A green light blinked on the drive.
Pike tore cables loose.
“That doesn’t erase it,” Delaney said.
He ripped the unit from the shelf.
“What’s the password?”
“I don’t know.”
“You own the system.”
“My nephew installed it.”
She did not have a nephew.
Pike studied her face.
From beneath the floor came a metallic grinding sound.
The coal-chute bolts.
Pike heard it too.
He grabbed Delaney by the apron and pulled her toward the kitchen.
The basement door opened.
Curtis stood halfway up the stairs with his pistol lowered.
Pike pressed the shotgun against Delaney’s neck.
“Drop it.”
Curtis set the pistol on the step.
“Kick it away.”
He did.
“Where’s Sartori?”
“Dying.”
“Bring him up.”
“No.”
Pike tightened his grip on Delaney.
Curtis looked at her.
His face had returned to stillness, but she saw the calculation beneath it: distance, angle, Pike’s finger on the trigger, Delaney between them.
“He cannot walk,” Curtis said.
“Then carry him.”
“You want the books, not him.”
“I want both.”
“You already have copies.”
Pike glanced toward the office.
That was enough.
Curtis’s eyes flicked to Delaney, and she understood he had noticed the same thing: Pike had turned his attention away for less than a second.
Delaney drove her heel down on Pike’s instep and dropped her weight.
The shotgun fired above her head.
Curtis lunged up the stairs.
Pike swung the barrel toward him. Delaney caught the pump with both hands. Pike struck her in the face with his elbow. Light burst across her vision.
Curtis hit him from the side.
All three crashed into the pantry shelves.
Cans fell. A jar of pickles shattered. Pike lost the shotgun but drew a handgun from his belt.
Delaney saw it before Curtis did.
She grabbed the nearest object—a cast-iron skillet—and swung.
The skillet struck Pike’s wrist.
May you like
The handgun fired into the ceiling and fell.
Curtis drove Pike to the floor and pinned him with one knee between the shoulder blades.
