"What the hell is going on?" Shotgun shouted.
He aimed the barrel of the shotgun toward the elderly couple.
By that time, the chef had stepped out of the kitchen. He hurled a knife at Mr. Shotgun. The blade tumbled over and over, hurtling through the air with speed and precision.
It was like a scene from an action movie.
The knife stabbed Mr. Shotgun in the throat. He dropped the Mossberg, and it clattered against the ground. The scumbag clutched at his throat as blood spewed. He pulled the knife out, which was a bad idea. Blood spurted, and he coughed and gasped, fluid dripping down his trachea.
The chef was spot on. He could have been a circus performer with that kind of accuracy. Maybe he was in a past life.
I took the opportunity to pounce on Mr. Pepper Spray. I brought him down to the ground, disarmed him, and slapped the cuffs around his wrists.
Other patrons had subdued Mr. Shotgun. They had him pinned to the ground. The dipshit was done. By the time I cuffed his accomplice and got to him, Mr. Shotgun had bled out. The blade must have nicked the carotid.
Tires squealed outside as their getaway driver bailed. Things had certainly gone south for them. I made a note of the maroon Camaro.
It wasn't long after that when patrol units screeched into the parking lot. Deputies hopped out and stormed into the restaurant, weapons drawn.
I held my badge high in the air, identifying myself as they advanced—just in case these guys didn't recognize me.
Patrons looked on with wide eyes and mortified faces.
The deputies secured the area, and I filled them in on the situation. EMTs and paramedics were on the scene shortly thereafter. They attended to both of the thugs, but Mr. Shotgun wasn't coming back from this one.
I peeled off the dead guy’s balaclava and snapped a few photos. Isabella would have no problem identifying him, and I’m sure his prints were on record with the department. No way this guy was a first-time offender. I clicked a photo of Mr. Pepper as well. His eyes were practically swollen shut. Just puffy slits. I texted both images to Isabella.
EMTs triaged Mr. Pepper, then deputies stuffed him into the back of a patrol car. The smell of capsaicin still lingered.
Brenda and her crew arrived, along with the forensic team. Dietrich snapped photos, and Brenda examined the body.
Deputies took a full statement from the chef and the patrons. No charges would be brought against the chef. He had some skill with a blade—there was no doubt about it. He wasn't going to put up with any nonsense. Something told me the Five Fathoms wouldn’t be robbed again anytime soon.
The parking lot filled with news crews. It would be the talk of the town for a day.
Once everything was sorted, I made my way back to the booth and took a seat across from Kendra. "Are you okay?”
She nodded, still looking frazzled. “I think I’m ready for a drink.”
I laughed. “Understandable. Want to go somewhere else? They’re going to have to shut down.”
Kendra nodded.
The manager went from table to table, apologizing for the incident and offering complimentary meals in the future.
He gave a signed card to both of us.
“I guess this means we’ll have to see each other again,” Kendra said.
“I guess,” I replied with a smile.
The cameras closed in when we stepped outside.
Paris asked, “Deputy Wild, what can you tell us?”
I gave a brief recap of the incident, described the getaway vehicle, and made a call for witnesses to come forward if they knew the car.
The valet guys said the getaway driver wore a mask, and the car had no plates. I figured the perps had a criminal record, and the getaway driver might be among their known accomplices. It shouldn't be too hard to track down.
