I dialed 911 before I could process what had happened.
Those gray eyes that I’d seen in the coffee shop stared at me with hope and fear.
Then the person in the front seat started to move, and gray eyes jolted and latched onto the seat belt.
She moved with impressive speed, wrapping the seat belt around the man’s throat so fast that I barely even spotted the move.
But then the man that’d fallen out of the car was on me.
I cursed myself for thinking the man was down.
I knew better.
I also knew that I couldn’t be two places at once, and the most immediate threat was currently playing whack-a-mole with my right kidney.
I moved in a swift counteraction, took the guy’s feet out from under him, and kicked him backward once he went to sit up.
As I did, his head hit the side of the car, and he was once again out.
I looked toward the car again and saw the woman staring blankly at the man slumped over the steering wheel.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency!”
I placed the phone to my ear and told them everything that had just happened.
“Are you armed?”
“No.”
“You and the girl get away from the car in case they wake back up.”
Gray eyes and I moved toward the large concrete retaining wall and sat on it.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded, swallowing thickly.
“Who’s your favorite baseball player?” I asked, hoping to take her mind off of what had just happened.
Hopefully reminding her that she was okay.
Hell, I could use the reminder myself.
“Nolan Ryan,” she rasped. “You?”
“Gary Gentry,” I answered. “He was a pitcher for the Mets in 1969.”
“A little out of your age bracket, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “Baseball is my thing. His stats were amazing.”
“I like Nolan Ryan because he decked Rob Ventura in the face.”
I laughed, but sobered as I watched the cops round the curve of the road.
“Whatever happens next,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
