She tilted her head to one side, giving him a dirty look. “Like you care.” She then turned to Chris and offered him a bright smile. “What can I get you, Officer?”
Chris gave his order, all the while smothering a smile—the bastard—but when Gabe started to give his, Deirdre turned away in a huff, blond ponytail swinging, and marched angrily back to the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Gabe muttered, lifting his arms to his sides.
“Well, you’re just making friends everywhere,” Chris taunted. “Probably just as well. I don’t know that I’d eat anything she serves you if I were you. She looks like she’d like to see you gargling broken glass. Dare I ask what you did to piss her off? Or are you clueless on this one, too?”
Oh, no, that one Gabe knew.
“Let’s just say I was more of a gentleman than she expected and leave it at that,” Gabe grumbled, pushing back from the table. “I’m going to go see if I can just put in an order at the counter. Back in a sec.”
Gabe strode toward the counter, glancing out the expanse of windows that lined the front of the diner as he went, his pulse kicking up when he saw a man making his way in from the parking lot. The guy had his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched over, and his baseball cap pulled down over sandy-brown hair, his eyes cast down at the pavement. Not exactly anything out of the ordinary, but something about the guy seemed off.
Gabe’s internal shit-storm alarm went into overdrive—a persistent gnawing at his gut that was enough to make him glance over his shoulder to track the movement of the guy as he came into the restaurant and took a seat at the counter.
“How ya doing?” Gabe said with a jerk of his chin.
The guy’s eyes darted toward him, then away again, but he didn’t say anything, just clasped his hands in front of him and tried to a little too hard to stare straight ahead.
“You been in here before?” Gabe asked, keeping his tone conversational. “Their BLTs are awesome, in case you’re wondering what to order.”
The guy sent another glance Gabe’s way, looking oddly uncomfortable to be receiving any attention. His voice cracked a little when he muttered, “Thanks.”
Yep, something was up. That was for damned sure.
Gabe regarded him for a minute longer, giving him the once-over, looking for any bulges that might indicate a weapon. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just frisk a guy without any cause. He didn’t look high or drunk. He wasn’t being belligerent. He just looked nervous as hell. No crime in that.
Still, there was something about him that Gabe didn’t like one damned bit. When the guy pulled out his phone and started texting, Gabe received the message loud and clear. Obviously, he wasn’t interested in a conversation.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Gabe said, abandoning his own lunch order. He headed back to the table where Chris sat, already enjoying his chicken salad.
“What’s up with that guy?” Chris asked, jerking his head almost imperceptibly toward the man at the counter.
He shook his head. “Dunno, but something’s making him jumpy.” A beep suddenly sounded in his earpiece, sounding a low-battery warning. “Shit, my radio’s going dead. I’m gonna run out and grab another battery from the car.”
Gabe headed to his car, casually strolling past the guy’s red pickup truck, glancing into the cab and the bed as he went. Nothing unusual or suspicious in plain sight, damn it all to hell. He had half a mind to run the guy’s plates, see if there was an outstanding warrant or suspended license or something that would be making the guy so jumpy.
But he tamped down his paranoia as he got into his SUV to switch out his radio battery. The guy could be jumpy for any number of reasons. Maybe cops just made him nervous. It happened. It was probably fine. That’s what he kept telling himself, in spite of the nagging suspicion eating away at him.
He was sitting in the front seat of his Tahoe, testing the new battery in his radio, when a beat-up blue Ford pickup pulled in. The driver parked a few spots down and had barely put the POS truck into park before he jumped out and went charging into the diner.
What the fuck?
Gabe launched from his Tahoe, speaking urgently into the radio mic at his shoulder as he rushed toward the door. “Dispatch, car three.”
The radio crackled as dispatch responded. “Car three, go ’head.”
“I have a 10-37 at Moe’s Diner on—” A sudden rapid popping sound and terrified screams made Gabe’s gut clench. Shit. “Shots fired! Going in!”
Gabe didn’t wait for a response before drawing his weapon and rushing forward. He threw open the door, assessing the situation at a glance. The restaurant patrons were on the floor, huddled under tables. What he didn’t see was the shooter. Or Chris.
Deirdre was crouched nearby, hugging an elderly woman who was sobbing hysterically, and pointed toward the kitchen. Gabe gave her a terse nod and hurried that way, taking a quick peek through the round window in the door before easing it open.