RETRIBUTION: A Romantic Suspense by Karen Cogan
CHAPTER ONE
Steve squinted into sunlight glaring off the polished hood of his Camero as he drove down the manicured boulevard. Bright blooms of begonias and petunias peeked abouve the carpet of cropped grass. Early spring brought the foothills town of Parkerville from winter snow to verdant green. Devoid of tourists and jetsetters, it offered a family atmosphere quieter than nearby Aspen and Vail in the higher elevations.
The peaceful town soothed Steve's frazzled nerves. Air combat missions in the Middle East had been his life for the last three years. Now that he was home, he could finally relax and let down his. Here, in the hamlet of his birth, danger wasn't lurking in every corner.
He parked in the lot of a corner convenience store to assuage his addiction to Oreos. A two pack a week man, he'd depleted his supply. His tour of duty had left him lean, and after being deprived for four years, a few binges didn't seem unreasonable.
An ancient Olds idled in front of the glass doors. Steve stepped past it and entered the store. The scent of coffee and pine-scented cleaner greeted him. At no time had he ever seen the floors muddy of the merchandise dusty. Whoever owned this place was lucky enough to have an employee who possessed a work ethic.
His quest for the cookie aisle turned him towards the check-out counter. His heart caught in his throat when he locked eyes with a tall youth holding a gun on the Vietnamese clerk who'd probably come over for a better life. Behind the Formica counter, the clerk stood white-faced and taut, eyes wide with fear. The Caucasian gunman with spiked, bleached hair towered over him.
Keeping the pistol on the clerk, he spoke to Steve. "Stay back or I'll waste this guy."
The warning wasn't necessary. Steve had stopped moving as soon as he'd spotted the pistol. He's seen guys like this, their mental unbalance obvious in the crazed look of a druggie needing cash.
Steve glanced around. The store was deserted. No one would either help them, or become a third hostage. He was glad of the latter.
The gunman shoved his pistol to the clerk's temple. They looked odd together, a tall white boy and a middle-aged Vietnamese. All they had in common were the beads of sweat that bubbled on their foreheads.
"The money. Now. You understand." The robber pressed the gun into the man's skin.
A rivulet of perspiration trickled down Steve's temples. He possessed a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. He'd been in plenty of competitions. Yet kicks and punches, even well-placed,
were no match for a gun.
The clerk's hands shook as he shoved the money from the register into the paper bag. When he finished, the gunman scowled, obviously disappointed with the take.
"That all you got? What kind of a place is this? Where's the rest?"
The clerk shook his head. He was panting too hard to speak. Finally, he managed. "No more."
"You have more. You have a safe. And you're going to open it and hand over the cash."
When the smaller man swayed, Steve feared he would pass out. Instead, he managed to say, "I don't know how to open it."
The gunman narrowed his cold blue eyes. "You better learn fast because we're going to that safe and if you can't unlock it, you and your customer are going to die."
He waved the weapon at Steve. "Follow him. And don't try to be a hero 'cause I'd just as soon shoot you as not."
Steve followed the clerk to the back of the store. The crazed druggie with a gun at his back made his flesh crawl. It would be ironic if he escaped being killed in battle only to come home and have this maniac blow him away.
The clerk led them to a cubicle that served as an office. It housed an old-fashioned floor safe, gray, with chipped paint and a rotary dial.
"Nothing inside," the clerk insisted. "Emptied yesterday afternoon. Owner hasn't come today."
"I'd like to see for myself," the druggie replied.
The clerk held out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Please, I already tell you. I don't know the combination."
"Then I guess this is an unlucky day for you and this clown."
He aimed the pistol at Steve's chest. Steve's heart thumped as though it would break his ribs. He had no doubt the crazy meant what he said. Consequently, he had to act. What was the worst that could happen? He swallowed hard, knowing he could die.
He moved fast, sidestepping to grasp the man's gun arm, wrenching it upwards and then back as a shot squeezed off and lodged harmlessly in the wall. Steve twisted the gun away as he'd practiced a thousand times with fake weapons. Apparently, it worked equally well with the real thing.
He retreated, pointing the gun at the assailant. The man's expression changed from surprise to fury. He poised as though he might spring for the gun.
"Don't do it man," Steve warned. "Stay where you are. I'm no more afraid to shoot you than you were to shoot me."
Steve's pulse raced in time with his pounding heart. Though he didn't relish it, he would kill the guy if he had no choice.
The young man sank to his knees, shaking so violently Steve wondered if he might be having a seizure. Nonetheless, he didn't take any chances by intervening. He stayed back and handed his cell phone to the clerk. "Do up front and call the cops."
The clerk bolted from the room while Steve focused on the robber who had stopped shaking and was banging his head against the vinyl floor, shouting obscenities so loudly Steve doubted they'd hear the sirens when the police arrived.
Nerves on edge, Steve cringed each time the robber's head went down. He tensed, wondering if the gunman would try and bolt when shouts from the police announced they'd entered the store. The clerk spoke to them rapidly as they neared the back room.
Two uniformed men rounded the corner with weapons drawn. Steve placed the pistol on the floor and kicked it out the door. "Keep your hands where we can see them," one of them instructed.
Relieved to be out of a confined space with a crazed druggie, Steve obeyed. When the assailant was cuffed, the older policeman said, "I'm Officer Davis. Come with me, we'll get this sorted out."
As Steve followed the officer to the front counter, he saw a ring of police cars outside with flashing lights keeping curious onlookers at bay.
After giving his account of what happened, Davis thanked Steve, adding, " You and the attendant will have to come in for statements. And your testimony will be needed when this goes to trial."
Two policemen led the robber through the store. Though the fight seemed to have left him, his eyes narrowed when he spotted Steve. The silent hatred chilled Steve more than if he had unleashed a barrage of threats. He watched the man's retreating back as they steered him through the door and loaded him into a patrol car.
"He'll have a history of prior arrests," Officer Davis told Steve and the clerk. "His type always does."
On the way to the patrol car for the ride downtown, the press tossed questions. Steve ignored them. He hoped to keep his name out of the paper and avoid being hounded.
No one spoke on the way downtown. Steve stared out the window, fixated by pink blooms on ornamental plums, crimson tulips, and buttery daffodils that seemed surreal after what had just happened. The peaceful aura of spring, with lazy clouds in a baby-blue sky, didn't belong in a morning filled with filled with violence. Hadn't he left that behind him when he left the military to come home? This town was filled with family folks like his sister, Megan, her husband and two kids. Crazy gunmen had no place here.
They reached the red brick building that housed the police station. Steve's palms grew damp as they parked in the lot. Though he'd never been arrested, he had an irrational fear of finding his picture on a wanted poster. His look alike, or a twin he'd never known, would be his undoing. And if he took a lie detector test, he felt sure he'd fail, not because he was guilty, but because he would feel guilty.
They walked up the sidewalk into a hive of activity. Inside, suspects were trotted from a waiting room through a swinging half-door. Steve's escort stopped to speak to an officer to an officer whose desk was nearly hidden under paperwork. The phone rang incessantly.
A secretary bestowed a smile at Officer Davis. "You guys took down a robber, I hear."
Davis nodded. "He's already in custody."
He gestured toward Steve. "This guy got him."
She shifted her attention to Steve with a look of admiration that made him feel ill at ease.
"Wow, a hero."
"Not really," Steve said. "Just lucky." He hadn't sought an opportunity to prove himself. Battle experience had convinced him that heroes were buried with pomp and ceremony, but buried just the same.
He was relieved of her doe-eyed stare we when they continued to the back room where he gave his statement to a man seated behind a cluttered table. Steve repeated exactly what had happened while the officer typed up the report. When he finished, the typist swiveled to call into the hallway behind him.
"Hey, Dana. We thing we have the guy who's committed those robberies."
"Really?" a woman called back.
A moment later, she appeared in the doorway. "Why do you think so?" She cast a curious glance at Steve.
"This guy took down a druggie who was trying to rob a convenience store. He fits the profile."
She studied Steve. "That's impressive. Our guy was always armed."
"He had a gun and he was ready to use it," Steve admitted. "I had to take a chance or die."
She pursed her lips, looking doubtful. Though she wore no hint of lipstick, her lips possessed an attractive curve.
The officer introduced them. "This is Dana Morales. She works in the violent crimes unit. And this is Steve Yarrow, our apprehender. He has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do."
"Ahh," she said. "A black belt. That explains how he got the gun."
She didn't look overly impressed, just satisfied with the explanation.
Steve studied her. She could hardly have been more than five foot two, was trim, yet too curvy to look boyish in her gray uniform. Her figure, combined with her heart-shaped face, delicate nose, and large dark eyes, made her distinctly feminine. Her dark auburn hair was plaited in short French braids that left her forehead bare, revealing a widow's peak at her hairline.
He watched her elegant brows rise with interest as she read the report. Handing it back, she said, "If you weren't trained in self-defense, he probably would have killed you. Someone shot and killed a clerk a couple of days ago. I hope this is our guy."
He hoped to have solved the crime. Listening to her made him feel as though it was his responsibility.
"They're booking him right now," the officer said.
"I'll grab Louis. We'll go over and talk to him," she said.
She dismissed Steve without a backward glance that left him strangely disappointed even though she was understandably engrossed by the robber's apprehension.
The officer filled Steve in. "Louis is our boss. He's the chief detective."
He glanced over the report, seemed satisfied, and printed it out. "We're all done here," he told Steve.
As they rode to the convenience store, Steve called the community airport where he had an interview to become a mechanic. He was appreciably late, but considering the circumstances, he hoped to be forgiven.