“It’s going.” She sounded as disinterested in her job as she looked.
In the interest of saving time, he rattled off the brand name of Liam’s favorite beer. With her lips pressed shut, the girl pointed to the far-right corner of the store.
Bowl full of joy, that one.
On his way to the wall of floor-to-ceiling coolers, Jagger contemplated grabbing a bag of jerky to tide him over until dinner. Deciding against it, he continued toward the selection of beer. He spotted what he was looking for as the chime of the bell rang through the air once again.
Jagger reflexively turned as another man stepped through the door.
White. Average height. Thin build.
The twenty-something was dressed in faded black, baggy jeans, a black hoodie with an ugly as hell graphic on its front, and a pair of sneakers that were long past the point of redemption.
But it was the wide, desperate eyes and the almost rhythmic twitching that had the hairs on the back of Jagger’s neck standing on end. His gut tightened as the dumbass reached for something hidden beneath the back of his shirt.
He didn’t need this shit now. Not when he was already late for the partyhe’dbeen in charge of planning. And yet?—
“Give me all your money!” The idiot in question pointed a trembling knife at the terrified girl. A hunting blade that was big enough to do some serious damage.
Well, hell.
“O-okay!” The poor teen was already in tears as she frantically fumbled in her attempts to open the register.
“Hurry the hell up!”
“I-I’mt-trying!” She smacked the buttons on the register again. “Not exactly easy to concentrate with a giant knife pointed at my chest.”
“Just shut your mouth and open the fucking register!”
Jagger let his mouth lift into a grin.
The little tête-à-tête between the idiot and his hostage came at the perfect time. It also offered the distraction Jagger needed. With the girl’s attention on the register—and not being killed—and the asshole’s focus on her, he made his way closer to the front of the store without being seen.
The Sig Sauer M18 pistol in his hand didn’t tremble or shake. Not like Hoodie Guy’s knife, which was still quivering beneath the store’s bright, fluorescent lights.
Jagger’s gun didn’t quiver. It never tremored or shook. After years of training, serving his country, and now working for R.I.S.C., the pistol gripped in his steady fist felt like a natural extension of his hand.
“Y-you can put that thing away, you know?” The girl attempted to open the drawer for the umpteenth time. “I-I’ll still give you the c-cash, I promise.”
“Do I look that stupid to you?” the man shouted.
Stupid. Strung-out. Willing to commit felony robbery to cover the cost of the next hit.
Yep. Sounds about right to me.
“Let’s go!” Another impatient shout.
Hoodie Guy swung his wild gaze toward the store’s door and back to the tearful young lady in front of him. The blade slid higher in the air, its tip pointing directly toward her throat.
“You got two seconds to open it, and then I’m coming over this counter.”
“P-please.” She held her composure impressively well. “I swear, I-I’m trying.”
“Tryharder!” And then, “You know what? Fuck it.”
“What?” The girl’s blue eyes grew as big as saucers “Wait, no! I-I can get it. I can?—”
She screamed as the guy leaped over the counter. The high-pitched shriek sending him instantly on the defensive.
