Amber Morn by Brandilyn Collins

the ambulance.
    Vince half turned, laid his right arm across the seat. In his peripheral vision he saw Jim doing the same. The sequence that would follow strung out in his mind. In a few minutes he could have John, Stan, and Frank to safety. Or he could get them all killed.
    Vince took a deep breath. Into his radio he said, “Ready to reverse?”
    “Ready.”
    Vince’s fingers dug into the back of the seat. “On the count of three.” His left hand curled around the steering wheel. “One. Two. Three.
Go!
“
    He hit the accelerator.

TWENTY-ONE
     
    Sarah Wray awoke to the sound of her own groaning.
    Her weighted eyes fought to open, her gaze landing on the lighting tracks along the Simple Pleasures ceiling. Some of the bulbs were gone.
Shattered. Like the windows
.
    The nerves in Sarah’s left arm writhed with pain. She rolled to her right side and pushed halfway to a sitting position. Her stomach roiled and her head pounded. Broken glass surrounded her. Blood stained the carpet where she had lain.
    Telephone
.
    She had to make it back to her office, call 911. Something terrible had happened at Java Joint. And she’d been
shot
. The
whole town
had been shot.
    Could she stand? Her legs felt weak, her gut churning.
    She
had
to get on her feet. Couldn’t crawl. Too much glass.
    “Jesus, help me get up.”
    Sarah could use only her right arm. The left hung useless, screaming at its wound.
    She pulled in two deep breaths. Managed to get on her knees. Then pushed to a tentative, swaying hunch. Dizziness clawed at her. She forced it back, lifted one foot in front of the other. Step by slow step, moaning and praying aloud, she picked her way through the battered store. Soft blankets, glittery bracelets and purses, sets of wine glasses, flower arrangements, and knickknacks — so many on the floor, broken to bits. Her beloved store, tattered and ruined. Sobs rose within her — for her store, for the pain, for whatever was happening in the now ghost-silent town.
    She veered into the back wall and bounced off. Shook her head. Closed her eyes against the light and felt the familiar way with her good hand. Into the short hall, right into her office. Across the floor to her desk and phone.
    Sarah sank into her chair, fumbled the receiver off its base. Laid it down, forefinger extended, searching for the right buttons. For a moment her mind froze, unable to recall the three digits.
    Her finger moved of its own accord. She raised the phone to her right ear.
    “911. What is your emergency?”
    Words meshed on her tongue. How to describe it?
    “This is 911. Caller, are you there?”
    “Yes. I… somebody’s shooting up Kanner Lake. And I think they got me.”

TWENTY-TWO
     
    In Java Joint, Leslie sat at a table with Ted and Paige, their arms visible on the tabletop as all the hostages had been commanded. Leslie’s insides boiled and seethed, and that’s just the way she wanted it. Cut through the outrage and she’d reach her terror. And
that
ran so deep and strong she didn’t dare face it.
    Wicksell
. All too well she knew that name. Had covered the trial not long ago for the
Kanner Lake Times
. She’d recognized the three faces the minute they stormed through the door.
    Wound around her anger — prayers. First for Frank, then for herself and the other hostages.
Frank
. Leslie had once been crazy about him, until she started dating Ted. Now Frank and Paige were so much in love. Leslie sneaked a sideways glance at her roommate. Paige pressed back in her chair, eyes downcast, her beautiful features carved from ice. Leslie’s heart clutched. She knew her friend all too well. Paige had retreated deep within herself — her ancient method of survival. Nearly two years of slow healing in Kanner Lake, and in two minutes and three gunshots, it had all been torn away.
    Dear God, I can’t believe Frank is dead.
    The attackers had herded everyone out from behind the counter and told them to drag enough of the small, round tables