Safe from Harm (Protect & Serve #2)(4)

Gabe’s internal shit-storm alarm went into overdrive—a persistent gnawing at his gut that was enough to make him glance over his shoulder to track the movement of the guy as he came into the restaurant and took a seat at the counter.

“How ya doing?” Gabe said with a jerk of his chin.

The guy’s eyes darted toward him, then away again, but he didn’t say anything, just clasped his hands in front of him and tried to a little too hard to stare straight ahead.

“You been in here before?” Gabe asked, keeping his tone conversational. “Their BLTs are awesome, in case you’re wondering what to order.”

The guy sent another glance Gabe’s way, looking oddly uncomfortable to be receiving any attention. His voice cracked a little when he muttered, “Thanks.”

Yep, something was up. That was for damned sure.

Gabe regarded him for a minute longer, giving him the once-over, looking for any bulges that might indicate a weapon. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just frisk a guy without any cause. He didn’t look high or drunk. He wasn’t being belligerent. He just looked nervous as hell. No crime in that.

Still, there was something about him that Gabe didn’t like one damned bit. When the guy pulled out his phone and started texting, Gabe received the message loud and clear. Obviously, he wasn’t interested in a conversation.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Gabe said, abandoning his own lunch order. He headed back to the table where Chris sat, already enjoying his chicken salad.

“What’s up with that guy?” Chris asked, jerking his head almost imperceptibly toward the man at the counter.

He shook his head. “Dunno, but something’s making him jumpy.” A beep suddenly sounded in his earpiece, sounding a low-battery warning. “Shit, my radio’s going dead. I’m gonna run out and grab another battery from the car.”

Gabe headed to his car, casually strolling past the guy’s red pickup truck, glancing into the cab and the bed as he went. Nothing unusual or suspicious in plain sight, damn it all to hell. He had half a mind to run the guy’s plates, see if there was an outstanding warrant or suspended license or something that would be making the guy so jumpy.

But he tamped down his paranoia as he got into his SUV to switch out his radio battery. The guy could be jumpy for any number of reasons. Maybe cops just made him nervous. It happened. It was probably fine. That’s what he kept telling himself, in spite of the nagging suspicion eating away at him.

He was sitting in the front seat of his Tahoe, testing the new battery in his radio, when a beat-up blue Ford pickup pulled in. The driver parked a few spots down and had barely put the POS truck into park before he jumped out and went charging into the diner.

What the fuck?

Gabe launched from his Tahoe, speaking urgently into the radio mic at his shoulder as he rushed toward the door. “Dispatch, car three.”

The radio crackled as dispatch responded. “Car three, go ’head.”

“I have a 10-37 at Moe’s Diner on—” A sudden rapid popping sound and terrified screams made Gabe’s gut clench. Shit. “Shots fired! Going in!”

Gabe didn’t wait for a response before drawing his weapon and rushing forward. He threw open the door, assessing the situation at a glance. The restaurant patrons were on the floor, huddled under tables. What he didn’t see was the shooter. Or Chris.

Deirdre was crouched nearby, hugging an elderly woman who was sobbing hysterically, and pointed toward the kitchen. Gabe gave her a terse nod and hurried that way, taking a quick peek through the round window in the door before easing it open.

“Where’d he go?” Gabe whispered to the man in a hairnet that was huddled next to a supply shelf.

The guy gestured toward a door that led to a storage room. “B-back door.”

Gabe hurried to the storage room and the back door that led to the employee parking lot behind the diner. The second guy he’d seen enter the restaurant was nowhere to be found, but the shifty guy who’d been sitting at the counter was trying to haul ass, but he was limping.

“Stop!” Gabe roared. “Sheriff’s department!”

The guy stumbled a couple of steps forward, but then stopped, wisely raising his hands and dropping to his knees. Gabe rushed toward him, keeping an eye out for the other guy, relieved to hear approaching sirens. He quickly patted down and cuffed the son of a bitch as he read him his Miranda rights.

“My name’s Billy Monroe,” the guy said in a rush. “It’s not me you want. I didn’t shoot anyone!”

“Maybe you missed the ‘remain silent’ part,” Gabe spat as he hauled the guy to his feet.

“I swear!” Billy insisted, his words tumbling out. “I was supposed to do this mission with him, but I didn’t.”

Gabe frowned at his words. Mission? What the…?

“I’m not a killer, man,” Billy continued. “It was my cousin, Derrick Monroe. I’ll tell you what you need to know. You gotta believe me—I didn’t do this. But I need a doctor. I think I got hit by a ricochet or somethin’.”

Gabe didn’t respond. He was too busy running the name Derrick Monroe through his head. Why the hell was it so familiar?

He’d just led Billy around to the front of the building when the other cars arrived. His brother Tom was the first to come rushing forward. “You okay?”