Amber Morn by Brandilyn Collins Page B

skin.
    Leslie looked at Ted. If only she could lean against him, feel him hold her. But they were not to move their arms from the tables, were not to talk.
    Mitch scratched his cheek and went back to pacing.
    Minutes dragged by. The clock ticked. In the hundreds of times Leslie had been in Java Joint, she’d never noticed the faint sound of its second hand. Java Joint usually bustled with talk and laughter, the stutter of chair legs against the floor, the gurgle of the espresso machine. The café’s smell was an inviting blend of coffee and pastries and milk. Now the place stank with sweat, some of it her own.
    Brad stared at her. The clock ticked. Mitch clomped.
    Kent clicked the mouse and cursed.
    Clicked and cursed.
    Mitch paced.
    Brad fingered his weapon.
    One of them was going to blow here. Soon.
    Mitch jerked to a halt. His dark eyes burned. “It’s taking too long.”
    “Yeah,” Brad spat. “I say we shoot another one.”

TWENTY-THREE
     
    Vince reverse-rounded the corner from Hanley onto Main and backed straight up the first block. The seconds played out, sights and sounds bombarding his senses. Shops whizzing by, glass shot out of almost every one on his right. His back tires eating up asphalt, the roar of his engine. The distant sound of a siren.
    Ambulance.
    Any minute the door to Java Joint could burst open, bullets flying down the street. His weapons were ready for a shoot-out, but he didn’t want that — not here, not now. Any gunman who survived would only be harder to reach in negotiations, his adrenaline and anger pumping, likely spilling out to his hostages…
    Vince’s vehicle hit the intersection of Main and First.
    Now.
    He cranked the wheel hard, veering backward onto First, passing Stan’s truck at an angle, then straightened even with the sidewalk. Stepped on the gas to jump the curb.
    His rear tires hit, and the car jounced. Vince’s right hand hung tightly to the back of his seat. He shot backward, gripping the wheel, no room for error. His car barely squeezed between buildings and cars parked at the curb. He passed the bait shop, hoping Stan and John were ready with Frank. No time to look. After speeding by he hit his brakes, head whipping front to back to gauge his stop.
    He slid to a halt one car length above the bait shop. If the gunmen burst out of Java Joint, they’d have to shoot right through his vehicle to get to the rescue team.
    Jim braked in front of Vince’s vehicle, his back door lined up with the recessed entry.
    Perfect.
    Vince’s hand wouldn’t loose from the steering wheel. He checked over his shoulder. All clear.
    Jim leapt from his car, flung open its back door. The edge of the door’s frame disappeared into the recessed entry.
    Come on, come on!
    Stan and John ran forward with Frank, one holding his legs, the other carrying his torso. Jim helped support Frank while Stan dove onto the backseat.
    Vince cast another look toward Java Joint. Still clear.
    His eyes caught a flash of dark at the café. He jerked. A man?
    No. The windows. They were covered in black.
    These men had come prepared.
    Vince twisted back toward Jim’s vehicle.
    Stan gripped Frank’s shoulders and slid across the seat, pulling the officer with him. John and Stan loaded Frank’s legs onto the seat. John jumped in last, crouching on the backseat floor. Jim slammed their door and threw himself behind the wheel. His car surged down the sidewalk and onto the street at First. Vince followed.
    They swerved left around the corner onto Hanley and to a stop one block down at Lakeshore. An ambulance stood ready, EMTs pulling out a gurney. Jim waved them over to his car and leapt out, opening the back door for them.
    Vince checked his watch. They’d done the sneak and snatch in two minutes.
    He sucked in a long breath. Only then did he feel the heavy
pump-pump
of his heart. He lifted his hands from the wheel, fingers stiff from their hard clutch.
Thank You, God.
    He slid out of his car, gave a quick