Caught by You. Kris Rafferty

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      She laughed hard enough to throw her head back. “You’re incorrigible.” Then she stepped back and clipped his order slip onto the order carousel. “If I insist, huh?” Hot and bothered, Avery knew if she continued their flirting, there was no way she’d retain even a sliver of what pride she had left. “I have a feeling women insist a lot with you.”

      “If I was a good boy, you wouldn’t want me.” He winked.

      Ugh. Truer words were never spoke. How else to explain her ex-husband? Still. This guy didn’t know her, and Avery didn’t like that she’d become so transparent that even a stranger could read her.

      After a polite but dismissive nod, she grabbed the coffeepots and walked away, moving from table to table, refilling cups. The whole time, she had to force herself not to look at him, because she knew he was looking at her. She could see his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the counter. Vincent. He’d suddenly become the embodiment of all things she’d given up three years ago. Her penance. Her punishment. And not for the first time, she resented the restrictions of her fate. Resented the hell out of it.

      The bell above the entrance chimed, distracting her. A woman gasped and caught Avery’s attention. A chair fell to the floor, but Avery’s gaze remained locked on the woman’s expression of horror. She couldn’t force herself to follow the woman’s gaze to the diner’s entrance, because the chatting stopped, the utensils stilled their scraping on plates, and silence hung in the air, as if even sound feared what was to come.

      Avery forced herself to move, to walk behind the counter, eyes front, seeking to make it to the kitchen before the unseen danger got her.

      A shotgun cocked, and the familiar sound had her stopping in her tracts. “You!”

      She didn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of her ex-husband’s contract killers. It had been three years since she’d left Dante. Odds were he’d found her, and that shotgun was how she’d die.

      Avery turned to face her fate. Her killer. He was around her age, early twenties, wearing flannels and jeans. Greasy, blond hair, high as a kite. The man couldn’t control his twitching and suffered from facial tics. So, strung out on meth, probably. His hands shook, and his head bobbed uncontrollably as he aimed the shotgun at her. It told her that he wasn’t here because of her ex-husband. Coppola contract killers weren’t meth heads. They were all too sober. Yet, he still looked as if he wanted to kill her.

      “You,” he said again, looking at her. “Stay put.” He scanned the room. “The rest of you, against the wall.”

      Avery stayed put and the customers moved against the wall.

      The diners were freaking out, looking between the man and shotgun, and his companion, a tall, brown-haired man who hid his gaze behind lanky, unwashed hair. The companion seemed confused by the commotion.

      Vincent hadn’t moved. Clutching his coffee, he watched everything play out via reflections in the mirror lining the counter’s wall. She supposed his Army experience gave him nerves of steel, but that didn’t make her feel better. If he played hero, it was her belly that would bear the brunt of the shotgun blast. It was her guts that would splatter the wall.

      The bell over the entrance door chimed again. Avery feared another unsuspecting customer had fallen into this trap. Instead, two more robbers shuffled in, guns in hand. Four total now, all in their twenties, eyes-dilated, hopped up on drugs. These two wore long, black overcoats.

      Avery forced her breathing to regulate to the beat of her thumbs twirling her rings, like a worry stone. She looked at nobody and nothing, just stood near the register, rejecting the option of running to the kitchen, because it might precipitate an attack, and those deaths would be on her, so she stayed put, working her rings.

      “What is going on?” The new guy was a ginger, short and stocky, laughing at the frightened customers. “I said let’s get lunch, Charlie. Not rob the place.” The ginger waved his pal deeper into the diner. “Jim, lock the door.”

      “Sure, Eric.” Jim was tall, had a receding hairline, and pinched lips. He hustled to do as Eric told. Once locked, he leaned his back against the door and then unsheathed a long knife. The room gave a collective gasp. Jim ate up the reaction with a spoon.

      Avery kept her gaze on Vincent, and his hands reflexively clutching his coffee mug. He seemed to be biding his time, watching the gunmen in the mirror, his expression revealing purpose, not fear. Avery had enough fear for both of them, and feared that the robbers would notice his lack of fear, and soon. They were already scanning the room for hints of push back, and had found none so far. Though Vincent kept his back to them, she suspected that wouldn’t last long.

      Eric was touching Brooke Fawley’s hair. He twirled a blond lock around his sausage finger, tugging her head closer to his. Brooke sobbed, but didn’t resist. Small town girl done good, she’d been accepted to UNH Durham, and everyone was excited for her. High school valedictorian, she’d earned a full ride scholarship, the only way someone from her part of town could afford the pricy school. Smart and pretty, she was too pretty to go unnoticed by the gunmen. Brooke seemed repelled by Eric’s touch, but that only seemed to amuse him more. He leaned in for a kiss.

      Vincent stood, poised to act.

      Avery slammed her hand on the cash register’s keys. It opened with a bang, displacing change onto the floor. Now all eyes were on Avery, most especially Eric’s, who wandered away from Brooke, thank heaven. His interest and malice radiated from him, and with every step he took closer to her, Avery found it harder to breathe. Seeking his attention wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she was more suited to handle a guy like Eric than Brooke.

      They wanted money. Avery had access to the money. Maybe she’d luck out and the gunmen would leave once they’d taken it. She grabbed a takeout bag and filled it with cash.

      Jim pushed off from the door, still wielding his knife, and jumped over the counter to land next to her. He grabbed the bag of money before she could finish filling it. Then he noticed Vincent’s cheeseburger plate under the heating lamp on the order up shelf. Jim poked his head through the hole separating the kitchen from the counter area.

      Jim glared, getting in her face. “Where’s the cook?” His breath reeked and his eyes were freaky bloodshot. Heart in her throat, Avery struggled to speak.

      “I don’t know. He ran, probably. There’s a back door into the alley.” It’s what she would have done if she were Sam.

      Eric walked around the counter and took the money bag from Jim. After stuffing it into his jacket, Eric waved his hand, indicating the kitchen. “See if the cook is still back there.” Jim took off; then Eric grabbed the burger off the order up shelf and took a bite. “Charlie?” He spoke around his food, glancing at his cohort, the first robber to enter the diner. “Make sure you’re pointing that shotgun away from me, buddy. Okay?”

      Charlie squinted, blinked a few times, and re-aimed the shotgun. His pal, the quiet, brown-haired robber with greasy hair, took that moment to sit at an empty table near the door. He seemed tired, and bored.

      A crash sounded from the kitchen area. Vincent leaned on the counter as if prepared to jump over, but then two shots rang out and he ducked, a mere instant before Avery did.

      “I got the cook good, Eric!” From inside the kitchen, Jim shouted through the order-up hole. Hunched on the greasy floor behind the counter, Avery shuddered. Sam was shot. Sam.

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