His heart threatening to escape his chest, Reese leaned around the boxes of diapers and counted. Four flashlights. That wasn’t so bad…unless they were armed. He swallowed and adjusted his slick grip on the knife. The lights had grouped together somewhere near the middle of the store. One or two aimed off in the distance, as if they were searching for something—or someone—while the other two pointed down at the ground. The group discussed something in soft murmurs, planning.
“They’re organized, too…” Reese breathed. “Great.” He had seen enough. He needed to warn Chief Foster. He was about to move when he heard another sound, much closer. Someone stumbled into a display and cursed loudly, as a thousand little individually wrapped somethings hit the floor and made an awful racket. The four flashlights swung as one in his direction.
“Check it out,” a rough voice commanded. One of the flashlights peeled away from the others and bobbed its way toward Reese.
Reese swallowed again. Don’t come over here—that wasn’t me!
Panic rising, Reese looked around for a way to hide, a distraction, something—he spotted a small package on the floor—a toddler’s sippy-cup—and put the knife down to grab the little plastic container with a built-in straw. He threw the cup as far as he could with his off hand, perpendicular to the nearest flashlight. It crashed against something in the darkness, creating an awful racket in the silent store. The light paused, then swung away.
“What was that?” someone hissed.
“Over there,” someone close whispered.
“Then check it out,” the first voice commanded, irritated.
“Stark,” a third voice whispered from Reese’s left.
Reese turned to peer into the darkness on his other side, trapped like a rabbit. How many people are in here? Dadgum it, Jo, where are you?
“That wasn’t us! There’s someone else in here, Gage, I swear.”
“Find ‘em, then!” the first voice—the leader—demanded. “Spread out. You two, grab what you can, and remember Curry’s stupid list. The cops probably know we’re here by now, so move it.”
A light worked around the end of the aisle where Reese was hiding and a second flashed over, illuminating a large man near Reese. He recognized the shape silhouetted in the man’s hand: a handgun.
“What the—” the intruder said, bringing his light to bear on Reese and blinding him.
Reese leapt at the man, knife flashing. He had no other option. There was nowhere to run but into the arms of the others—who knew how many—prowling the store. He closed his eyes against the light and prepared himself for the hammer blow that would indicate he’d been shot, but when the gun went off with a thunderous crash, he felt nothing.
Reese took his opportunity to close with the enemy and dove forward, slashing up. The knife met flesh and by the jarring resistance that reverberated up Reese’s forearm, he’d hit bone as well. The howl of pain from the gunman confirmed it.
Reese didn’t have time to think of a second move before his body—and his injured shoulder—slammed into the attacker, bowling them both over. He fell on the floor, breathless from the searing pain in his shoulder, mouth open, unable to breathe. Next to him, the bigger man writhed on the floor, screaming like a stuck pig. Shouts erupted from all over the store, and flashlights swung overhead, converging on his position.
Reese scrambled to his feet through the blinding pain, and his left hand bumped something solid and cold. In the fracas, he’d dropped the knife, or had it slipped out of his hand when they’d collided? He couldn’t recall, but he knew he was defenseless, so Reese grabbed the item he’d brushed against and found it to be the bigger man’s firearm. A large, heavy revolver.
Feeling somewhat like Dirty Harry, Reese hefted the hand cannon and staggered to his feet, ignoring the flashing lights and shouts from the man on the ground and his compatriots.
Reese turned and fled down the aisle, heading toward the back of the store, hoping the intruders were homing in on their downed comrade. The man was certainly making enough noise for them to track. The incident had happened so fast, it was over in a blink of the eye. He didn’t think he’d gotten the guy all that bad with the knife.
“They cut his hand off!” someone shouted in the darkness behind him over the injured man’s wailing.
Reese cocked an eyebrow as he shuffled down the aisle. That explained a lot. He was almost to the end of the aisle and kept his head down, scuttling forward on the outside edge of his shoes to keep them from squeaking on the linoleum floor. A light swung over his head, then jerked back and illuminated him from behind, casting his long shadow forward onto a display of toys.
“There!”
Reese opened his mouth to curse when the Lego box next to his head exploded in bits of cardboard and plastic. He ducked, dropping almost to the floor, and stumbled forward, just missing a bullet that sparked off a metal shelf, whining as it whistled away into the darkened store. Sporadic gunfire erupted near him, sounding like a small army at target practice.
Reese yelled as he dove behind the Lego display. Boxes exploded and showered him in tiny plastic blocks. He had to find cover—the toys were no match for incoming rounds. To buy himself time, he held the captured revolver over the display and fired blindly with his off hand at his attackers. One squeeze of the trigger and a thunderclap exploded from his hand. The gun jerked back as if it had been pulled by a rope, and Reese nearly dropped it.
“Hand
