Coffee Time was the second-to-last unit in a row of tourist-focused shops on Main Street. Logan headed around the last of the units, then toward the back. Just as he reached the end of the building, he heard a raised voice. He paused, worried he’d almost walked into something that was none of his business, then took a peek around the corner to gauge the situation.
Tooney had parked his old Ford Bronco directly behind the cafe like he always did, but this morning there was an unfamiliar Lexus sedan sitting beside it. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. People had been known to leave their cars back there on occasion.
The door to the cafe was open, spilling light onto the cracked asphalt. But whatever voice Logan had heard was silent now. It dawned on him that it could very possibly have been a radio with its volume set too loud when it had been turned on.
He rounded the corner, thinking that must have been it, but he only made it a couple of steps before he heard a heavy thud and a short, muffled yell.
Not a radio.
Tooney. There was no mistaking the voice.
Keeping as tight to the wall as possible, Logan moved to within ten feet of the open door.
The voice from moments earlier spoke out again, a man’s voice. Logan was close enough now to make out what he was saying. “Nod your head and tell me you understand,” the voice ordered. Logan had never heard it before. “Good. Now sit up.”
It was clear whatever was going on inside was not just a friendly visit. Logan’s first thought was that Tooney was being robbed.
He glanced at the Lexus, automatically memorizing its license number. He knew the car could hold several people, which meant it was very possible the speaker wasn’t alone.
Crime in Cambria was rare even at the worst times. For law enforcement, the town relied on the Sherriff’s Department stationed out of Morro Bay nearly twenty minutes away. Logan pulled out his phone and started to dial 911, knowing they would never make it in time, but the sooner they were en route, the better.
He’d barely punched in the first number when Tooney’s voice drifted out from inside. “Please. Just don’t hurt —”
There was a hard slap.
Logan shoved his phone back in his pocket, knowing he couldn’t waste time making the call, then glanced around, looking for something he could use as a weapon.
“You open your mouth again, and it’ll be the last time. Understand?”
Silence.
“Good,” the voice said.
Logan spotted two three-foot long metal rods, in a small pile of wood along the back of the building. Both had double lines of slots running down one side. Screw them to a wall, then insert hangers in the slots, and, bingo, instant shelving unit. Or grab one in each hand, swing them around, instant clubs.
He chose option two.
As he moved toward the door, he heard the sound of something moving, or sliding inside.
“…too much, and apparently doesn’t…” the man with Tooney said, the first part covered up by the noise, while the last seemed to just fade out. This was followed by a solid, metallic click and everything went silent.
Logan stepped into the doorway, and looked quickly around the room, ready to help his friend. Prep table, food storage racks, sink, dishwasher, stove, walk-in refrigerator, a stack of empty milk crates, Tooney’s small desk.
But no Tooney, and no man. No anyone.
As silently as possible, he walked to the doorless opening that separated the kitchen from the front of the cafe. But there was no one there either.
He heard a voice, muffled and indistinct, to his left. He whirled around, his arms cocked, ready to strike. But there was no one there.
As the voice spoke again, Logan realized it was coming from
He raced over and yanked the door open. A flood of chilled air poured over him, but he barely noticed it. Three feet inside, Tooney was kneeling on the floor, facing him. Between them was a man in a dark suit, pointing a gun at Tooney’s head.
Before the man could turn all the way around, Logan wacked him hard in the arm with one of his improvised clubs. The man let out a groan of pain as he sidestepped past Tooney, and moved further into the refrigerator, away from Logan.
Logan slashed at him again, hitting the man’s shoulder, and scraping the end of the metal rod across the man’s neck.
“Son of a bitch!” the guy yelled. He twisted to the right so he could bring the hand holding the gun around toward Logan.
In a quick, double motion, Logan swung the rod in his left hand at the man’s head, then struck downward with the one in his right at the gun. The man leaned quickly back to avoid being gashed across his cheek, but doing so caused his gun hand to drift upward a few inches, right into the area Logan had aimed at.
Just as the rod hit the gun, the man pulled the trigger. A bullet raced by Logan’s hip, then slapped into the wall of the refrigerator. Logan struck at the man’s hand again until the pistol, a Glock, tumbled to the floor.
