“Jon Merritt! Put your hands out the window. If you do not show your hands you will be fired upon!”
This line came not from training but a thriller novel he’d been listening to on speed-trap duty on Old Davie Road. Sounded good, though, and it was probably what real cops said because the author had been with the NYPD.
No response.
“Merritt! Let me see your hands!”
Moving close, Glock up, he slipped his finger from outside the trigger guard to in. Still no clear view of Merritt, but he saw his own reflection in the window. With his left hand he gripped the door handle. If it was locked, he’d just retreat and wait. He’d done his duty.
Please let it be locked.
It wasn’t.
Nagle yanked the door open all the way and dropped immediately to his knees like doing squats at the gym, praying that when Merritt shot, he would hit the armored plate and not flesh.
The young officer blinked and lowered the gun.
He couldn’t imagine how the teenager, a gangly boy in an AC/DC sweatshirt and with a panicked expression on his pimply face, had managed to curl up into such a tiny ball that his entire body fit perfectly on the passenger-side floor.
50
They finally would sit down to a meal.
Though it would have to be a brief one.
Sonja Nilsson had motored east along Route 92 to this diner, a mile from the Sunny Acres motel.
Shaw wanted a briefing as to how her canvass among employees of HEP was going; he would give her details of the assault at the motel.
Could this be done over the phone?
Of course.
But... why not meet in person, as long as he had time to kill while the Winnebago was being repaired?
They climbed from the Range Rover, Shaw noting that she had changed. She now wore a black pleated-skirt business suit and a black silk blouse. The jacket fit closely and had been tailored to add a bulge on her right hip, slightly back, the exact place where Shaw wore his Glock. Her blond tresses were down and shimmered in the muted sunlight as they danced in the hay-scented breeze.
She radared the surrounding. Shaw did too. He saw neither lead nor threat.
The diner was the only living structure in the immediate vicinity.The other buildings were long abandoned, some in a partial or full state of collapse. A rusted sign with the silhouette of a green dinosaur swung back and forth before a long-closed gas station. What was the brand? Shaw couldn’t recall. From ages ago.
Shaped like an Airstream trailer, gleaming even in the shade, the diner was an architect’s fantasy. Inside, all the seating surfaces were covered with red Naugahyde. The floor was gray linoleum, the counters abundantly armed with chrome condiment racks: you would never want for salt or pepper or ketchup or mustard in the Route 66 Diner, the name apparently deriving from an old TV show; black-and-white production stills and headshots were mounted everywhere.
At the register, Nilsson pointed to a booth in the back and a waitress said, “Sure thing,” and led them to it.
Shaw usually sat facing the front.
Never present your back to the enemy...
But Nilsson took that spot. He didn’t mind; she seemed just as watchful as he was.
A cheerful, pink-uniformed waitress, inked on the forearm with a bared-tooth tiger, took their order—BLTs for both, coffee for Shaw, tea for Nilsson.
“The attack?” she asked.
“Two of them, armed. Wore ski masks. I don’t think Merritt was one of them. On the video at the lawyer’s car he was wearing a dark windbreaker. These two were in a black suit and tie, and a tan jacket. Looks like he’s hired a pair of triggermen.”
“Pros?” She frowned.