Well… that was less than ideal, Bob thought as he jogged across the road. In the moment, it was necessary, he told himself. But he didn’t feel good about it.
The steakhouse was an upscale chain. Bob threw open the main doors. A couple were waiting at its reception for a table. He walked past them, ignoring the tall, thin greeter looking for their reservation.
The restaurant proper was decorated in dark wood and equally dark paints, offset by small globe lights above each booth and tall table. It was busy, families in for an early dinner, waitresses carrying trays of drinks and platters of T-bones, onion blossoms and baked potatoes.
Bob scanned the room. It took a moment to spot Sharmila, stuffed into a back-corner booth. Her purse was on the table, clutched between both hands. She looked frightened.
He looked over at the row of booths by the windows, across the aisle. They were all empty save one, two booths up. The smoked glass wasn’t giving away much but it looked like the back of a man’s head.
He kept his pistol in his belt. There were too many civilians in the line of fire to be comfortable.
If I move quickly and quietly, I have the drop on him. Bob strode casually up the aisle. Five feet ahead of the man’s table, Sharmila looked up and saw him approaching, her expression shifting from bleak to hopeful in the blink of an eye.
Her pursuer rose and turned to lean around the booth divider, the pistol leveled at Bob from less than ten feet away.
Bob dove sideways as the gunshot shattered the eatery’s peaceful blather, patrons in an instant panic, diners ducking, sprinting for the door. He reached out in midair, grabbing the oversized pepper shaker from the nearby tabletop, tossing it hard, from the shoulder, the half-foot-tall wooden implement striking the gunman between the eyes. The gunman staggered a foot back, his legs colliding with the edge of the table, the pistol flying from his hand.
Bob pushed off hard, rising to his feet, then turning and running at the man, leaping into an elbow drop. His target rolled away from the table top, scrambling to regain his balance.
“SHARMILA, GO!” Bob screamed. “Get out!”
The two men squared off.
Greg Thomas.
Bob reached for his back waistband, but his hand came away empty. He glanced sideways quickly.
The pistol was under the opposite table.
Before he could move for it, he saw the glint of the blade in his periphery, Thomas aiming a slashing backhand at him, the switchblade glinting under the dome light. Bob ducked away from it, anticipating the return swipe and stepping around it. He locked the man’s passing arm up at the wrist and elbow, the force jarring the knife loose.
Thomas was already turning, as Bob caught the switchblade handle first and drove it down, hard, through the man’s free hand and into the tabletop. Instead of panicking, his opponent screamed and pivoted the other way, throwing a hard elbow backwards, catching Bob square in the solar plexus, his wind driven out in an instant.
Bob fell to one knee. Thomas pulled the knife out of his hand. Both men glanced towards the gun. Before either could react, a police siren blared from somewhere near the front of the restaurant.
Bob dove for the gun and reached it before his opposite number could react. He turned and rose, levelling it. Thomas had a gushing wound, the switchblade in his free hand, the blade slick, his expression rage-filled.
There was something hard and L-shaped in his front pocket.
“Don’t even—” Bob began to say, another gunshot interrupting his thought, a glass booth partition to his left shattering.
From behind both men, an older man’s voice called out. “I am affecting a citizen’s arrest!”
Oh, for crying out loud…
“Put the gun down, or I will shoot,” the man said. “Do it! Now!”
Thomas grinned toothily. He had wild blue eyes, the smile almost a sneer. He turned and sprinted towards the kitchen doors.
Bob looked over his shoulder. “I can’t let him get away, sir.”
“You can just stay put!” It was an older customer, well into his late sixties or seventies. “And don’t think I don’t know how to—” The customer’s attention was drawn by the clanging of the main doors being booted open.
Bob took the opportunity, sprinting towards the kitchen door and barreling through it, the galley-style entry swinging free behind him, the customer’s gunshot wild.
The back door was open and ajar, the kitchen staff having cleared out after the first shot, he supposed. Bob ran through it and turned left. He looked cautiously around the corner in time to see a blue Nissan pickup screech out of the bays and towards an exit, smoke spewing off burnt rubber.
A split-second later, Sharmila’s BMW screeched to a halt in front of him. “GET IN!” she screamed.
Bob did as instructed.
“DUCK!” she bellowed.
He pushed his torso as low as he could go, practically kneeling under the dash, just as the column of three police cars sped past, lights flashing, klaxons blaring.
Bob felt the car turn right onto Village Lane, then left onto Stockdale and into traffic.
He lifted his head. “Are you okay?”
She nodded twice.
“That was Greg Thomas, Baird’s assistant,” Bob said.
“I know. Once he walked into the restaurant and I got a look at him—”
“Let me guess, you went to high school together.”
Sharmila glared at him. “He was at Marcus’s arraignment. He’s at least forty. How old do you think I am, exactly?”
