“Where’d he go?” Gabe whispered to the man in a hairnet that was huddled next to a supply shelf.
The guy gestured toward a door that led to a storage room. “B-back door.”
Gabe hurried to the storage room and the back door that led to the employee parking lot behind the diner. The second guy he’d seen enter the restaurant was nowhere to be found, but the shifty guy who’d been sitting at the counter was trying to haul ass, but he was limping.
“Stop!” Gabe roared. “Sheriff’s department!”
The guy stumbled a couple of steps forward, but then stopped, wisely raising his hands and dropping to his knees. Gabe rushed toward him, keeping an eye out for the other guy, relieved to hear approaching sirens. He quickly patted down and cuffed the son of a bitch as he read him his Miranda rights.
“My name’s Billy Monroe,” the guy said in a rush. “It’s not me you want. I didn’t shoot anyone!”
“Maybe you missed the ‘remain silent’ part,” Gabe spat as he hauled the guy to his feet.
“I swear!” Billy insisted, his words tumbling out. “I was supposed to do this mission with him, but I didn’t.”
Gabe frowned at his words. Mission? What the…?
“I’m not a killer, man,” Billy continued. “It was my cousin, Derrick Monroe. I’ll tell you what you need to know. You gotta believe me—I didn’t do this. But I need a doctor. I think I got hit by a ricochet or somethin’.”
Gabe didn’t respond. He was too busy running the name Derrick Monroe through his head. Why the hell was it so familiar?
He’d just led Billy around to the front of the building when the other cars arrived. His brother Tom was the first to come rushing forward. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Gabe assured him. “You see the other guy?”
Tom shook his head.
“How about Chris Andrews?” Gabe panted. “He come out yet?”
Tom frowned. “Chris? He’s here?”
Gabe’s stomach sank, and suddenly he remembered why the name Derrick Monroe had sounded so familiar. It was because Derrick was the son of Jeb Monroe, a local farmer whose antigovernment rants—which specifically included anticop tirades—had begun to gain an impressive following on social media. They’d received an alert on Derrick just a few days before based on some comments he’d made online, comments that had included a declaration that the only good cop was a dead cop.
He shoved his suspect into Tom’s hands and ran back into the diner. “Chris!”
“Deputy!” someone called out. “Over here!”
He rushed toward the sound of the voice. It was one of the other waitresses. She was on her knees next to Chris, where he lay on the ground among shattered glass and plates and other debris that littered the floor, pressing a bussing towel to his neck. Chris gurgled, gasping for air, choking on his own blood, his eyes silently pleading with Gabe.
“Ah, Jesus, Chris,” Gabe ground out, dropping down beside him and taking over for the waitress, glancing toward the door to see the paramedics hurrying inside. “Hold on, buddy. Help’s comin’. Just hold on…”
*
Gabe sat in the corner of Mulaney’s pub, his head in his hands. His broad shoulders, normally held erect and proud, were hunched, his dejection a palpable force in the room as Elle approached.
He reached out for his beer, but it evaded his grasp with a harsh scrape of glass on wood. “What the hell do you want?” he growled, slowly lifting his gaze to meet hers. It seemed to take him a moment to completely focus.
“I’m cutting you off,” she said, easing down into the chair next to him. “How many have you had anyway?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Lost track. Not enough, however many it is.” He pulled a hand down his face. “You know I can still hear the shots? I can still see Chris on the ground, bleeding out.”
She reached out and grasped his forearm, giving it a comforting squeeze, not sure what else to do to help him. “Gabe—”
“And I can still hear Jessica’s screams,” he interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to block the sound in his head. “When the doctor told her Chris hadn’t made it, she lost it. I just… Yeah.” He shook his head, banishing the words that had been on his lips. “So, if it’s all the same to you, honey, I’ll keep going until that particular memory is washed clean.”
Then he gave her his trademark grin and gently took the bottle from her, lifting it briefly in salute before chugging it down.
Elle glanced around, noticing some of the other patrons were staring, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with the drunk in the corner. She sent an angry glare their way, and they abruptly averted their gazes. When she turned her attention back to Gabe, she leaned in a little and smoothed her hand along his arm. “Gabe, it’s time to go.”
“You don’t work here,” he grumbled.