The clerk’s eyes widened at Scott’s approach, and Jock spun on his feet, aiming his gun at Scott’s head. “Stay the fuck back, Pipsqueak. You don’t want to mess with me.”
Scott raised his hands, palms up, as if he could calm the man through sheer will. “If you leave now, things don’t have to get messy.”
Jock laughed. “Oh yeah?” He stepped forward, holding the muzzle of the gun inches from Scott’s nose. “I’m so scared.”
Scott was going to get himself killed.
Valerie popped to her feet, gripping the beer display on the end-cap until she regained her balance. Her ears buzzed, but she scanned the shelves behind her for anything she could use as a weapon. Grabbing a tire iron off the rack, she sidestepped Mr. Grabby Hands on the floor and raced along the refrigerator doors at the rear of the store, close to the front entrance where she could sneak up on the gunman.
As soon as Scott noticed her, his jaw tightened. He sprang into action, knocking the gun aside as he stepped out of the line of fire. The big man roared and rushed him. Scott grabbed the guy’s neck and shoulder, and in some blur of a move, twisted him around and dropped him flat on his back. The gun clattered to the floor at his feet.
Jock groaned and started to rise.
Scott scooped the gun off the floor, checked the ammo, and pointed it at the man’s chest. “Don’t move.”
“I’ll bet you don’t even know how to use it,” the idiot said, his deep, jeering voice hollow and lacking the bravado of moments before. Anyone who’d been paying attention could see that Scott knew his way around a weapon.
“Try me.” Scott’s voice didn’t betray a hint of nerves, no shake, no strain, just his usual smooth, flat tone.
Jock paled and slowly sat.
“Call the police,” Scott said to the clerk.
The man nodded and lifted the receiver.
Shit. Couldn’t he wait until they left? “We need to get out of here,” Valerie said. “Let me tie him up.”
Scott gave a sharp negative jerk with his head without looking at her. “I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
A little thrill ran through her. But he wasn’t just protecting her. If the thug grabbed her, he’d have leverage over Scott. She’d make things worse. Her stomach bottomed out.
“Lock him in the bathroom,” she said. She’d noticed an external latch on the door earlier. The idea of being locked in the grimy little space had given her the creeps. It wouldn’t hold the beast of a man for long, but maybe long enough.
Scott didn’t move. Piped-in jazz crackled through an overhead speaker, and the clerk on the phone recited his version of events to a dispatcher, his strained words tumbling over themselves like people scrambling to escape a fire.
“Scott—”
“Okay.” He waved Jock toward the back corner of the room, and gestured to the cashier. “Get something to block the door.”
They walked past the big man’s partner, who had awakened. Mustache stopped struggling against his bonds when he saw them coming.
Jock kicked him in the side. “Worthless piece of—”
“Enough,” Scott said, his voice low, but all the more menacing for it.
His captive glared at him and Valerie in turn, but entered the small restroom and closed the door without a fight.
Sirens wailed outside, faint but growing closer.
She took a new padlock off the hardware shelf, unwrapped it, and unlocked it with fumbling fingers. Leaving the combination sticker on the back, she hooked it through the loop of the latch and closed it, pulling down to test.
They both turned at a loud clank behind them. The clerk pushed a hand-operated pallet truck carrying a six-foot high stack of Budweiser cases.
“Perfect,” Scott said, helping the man angle the pallet into position in front of the bathroom door. “That should hold him until the cops arrive.”
“Thank you,” the older man said.
Scott grabbed Valerie’s hand. “Sorry we can’t stick around.” He gave the gun to the cashier, butt first.
