Hunter was at their truck, rooting through the bags in the bed, his back to them.
The waitress looked sincerely mortified. She said to Ethan, “Whatever y’all want, it’s on the house. It’ll be the last meals he makes here. I don’t—Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Outside, Hunter found what he was looking for. He turned around. He returned to the restaurant.
He was holding Ethan’s old 12-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun.
Movement snapped Ethan to his senses. The old waitress hustled past him, making for the open end of the bar. Ethan understood what Hunter had murmured in his ear on the way outside.
Watch her—she probably has a piece.
Ethan didn’t think. When the waitress started running, Ethan hiked his boot onto a stool and heaved himself across the bar. Hescanned the shelves beneath the cash register—trash can, a box of pens, a pocketbook.
There, glinting atop a small safe, was a Colt .357 Python.
Ethan grabbed the gun and raised it as the waitress reached the open end of the bar.
She froze, mouth wide, hands up.
Hunter strode inside, the shotgun braced in both hands. He walked behind the waitress, kicked open the door of the kitchen, raised the shotgun to his shoulder as Cleveland spun on his heel.
The shotgun was in the fry cook’s face. Hunter said, “Turn around. Now.”
A long moment of horror for all involved. A frozen gasp in time. Ethan’s stomach lurched. A cold sweat, a TNT heart.
He felt a terrible pressure in his jeans, shameful and wild.
In the kitchen, the fry cook turned around as Hunter instructed. The cook stared at Ethan through the window. No more spite. No more snickers. Every strand of hair trembling with fear. “I’m sorry, man, I just say shit sometimes, I—”
“Did I ask you totalk?” Hunter said. He never raised his voice. He never had to.
The fry cook went silent.
“Go back to what you were doing. Go on.”
“I—I was just heating the grease, man, I wasn’t—”
“Did I ask you to talk?” Hunter said again. He came up behind the cook and pressed the mouth of the shotgun against the back of the man’s skull. “Take a step forward.”
“There ain’t nowhere to go.”
“Do it.”
Terrified, bewildered, the cook took a step closer to the kitchen’s window. The Python still raised at the waitress, Ethan risked a glance down through the window. But at what? There was nothing in front of the cook except the long range of sizzling deep fryers.
Oh God.
“Tell me something, Cleveland.” Hunter’s voice still level. The eyes still burning with ruthless black fire. They landed on his name tag. “What hand do you use?”
“What?”
“What hand do you touch yourself with?”
The fry cook started to turn around, shocked, but Hunter pressed the shotgun into his scalp.
“I asked you a question, Cleveland.”
“You’re fucking sick. Who asks—”
