The Summer House

Chapter 73

The deputy before York is about to speak when two men burst through the door at the far end, wearing ski masks over their heads and brandishing pistols. One yells out, “Nobody moves! This is a goddamn robbery!”

York instantly thinks, No, no, it isn’t — she doesn’t believe in coincidences — and lowers her right hand to her open bag to grab her SIG Sauer. She says, “Stay put, Dwight, stay put.”

But Dwight’s flipped his head around, spots the two men. “Shit,” he says.

The first gunman is pointing his pistol at the cashier, making her put cash into a small green plastic bag. The nearer gunman is slowly walking down the center aisle. He yells out, “Hands on the table! Now! Hands where I can see ’em!”

Some whispers and words from the customers as they all follow the shouted directions, and the gunman says, “Freeze! I want everybody to stay put. We’ll be outta here in a minute!”

York doesn’t believe him. She quickly grabs a napkin, covers her right hand with it, and in a moment has both hands on the table, the napkin concealing her pistol.

In a low voice she says, “Dwight. Slide under the table, now.”

With the man at the other end focusing on getting the money — a cover for what they’re actually here for, York has no doubt — the approaching gunman is looking at each customer as he comes down the aisle.

But the mask is screwing up his peripheral vision.

They have a few seconds of grace.

“Dwight,” she says again. “Slide under the table.”

But Dwight says, “Screw this.”

He jumps up from the booth, runs to the door marked EXIT, and York pulls her gun hand free as the nearest gunman says, “Gotcha, Dwight!”

He fires twice, and York fires just as quickly.

Screams, shouts.

Dwight collapses against the closed door, his white T-shirt torn and bloody, and York stands up, both hands on her pistol, and approaches the gunman sprawled out on the floor as his companion whirls and dives out the front door.

“Federal agent!” she yells. “Everybody, stay where you are!”

Screams, shouts, dishes falling to the floor and breaking. She gets closer to the gunman, looks down at him, then quickly glances around at the frightened customers, making sure there isn’t a third gunman hidden out there.

York points to a bearded man with a John Deere cap and yells. “You! Call 911!”

The gunman has three wounds right in the center of his chest, and his legs are crumpled underneath him, like all the muscles and ligaments have turned to jelly.

His pistol is on the floor.

A young boy in a nearby booth turns around and reaches to pick it up.

York yells, “Kid, no, don’t touch the gun!”

And the second gunman comes back in the front door.

York lifts up her pistol—

A gunshot and a hammering blow to her head.

Darkness.