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Before I can think, I’m speaking.
“Take him to the hospital,” I say. “If you don’t want Murder One, then get him to the hospital now. Otherwise, this is on you,” I say fiercely, turning to the gunman.
He squints at me from behind the black balaclava and lets out another whine.
“Aw, man!” he says. “Shit, this has all gone south so fast.”
But I’m serious.
“He’s bleeding out,” I say with urgency in my voice. “Use your eyes. You can see the blood pulsing from his vein or artery or whatever. He’s going to be dead in minutes if you don’t get him to a hospital. Pick him up and go now!”
Even I’m stunned by the confidence in my voice. Never have I heard myself be so pushy and convincing. Usually, it’s the other way around – I’m the one who’s begging for external affirmation, instead of believing in myself. But my words are true. As the gunman turn to look it’s obvious that Jimmy’s in big trouble. Dark red, almost purple blood is pulsing from his wound in time with his heartbeats. He’s ashen and limp as his life slips away, and even the whines and whimpers from his throat have stopped. Jimmy’s close to death and there’s no denying it.
“NOW!” I practically scream, and that does the trick. The masked men jump into action, and two of them lift Jimmy by the arms while the leader surveys the scene.
“Come on, go, go, go,” he says, pushing the glass door open. “We’ll dump this loser off at the nearest hospital and then get back to base. Come on!” he says.
I stand there as my manager’s hauled across the restaurant floor, streaming blood the entire way. Our customers are stock still and ashen, watching with wide eyes as this scene plays out before them.
“Shouldn’t we take the cash?” one guy whines, gesturing to the open cash register. “Since we’re here, we might as well.”
The boss merely shakes his gun in the air.
“Don’t be so fucking greedy,” he says. “Let’s go!” he yells before letting off a bullet that slams into the ceiling. The guests and staff alike jump, and we huddle again in place, praying for this nightmare to be over.
The glass front door bangs shut, and I hunch in place with my head down. Are they gone? Are we safe now? I can hear sirens in the distance. Oh good, Mamie must have called 9-1-1 as that business with Jimmy went down.
But to my horror, as I’m just about to sit up, a big hand grabs me by the shoulder roughly.
“Come on,” it hisses. “You’re coming too.”
With that, I’m dragged off and hurled into a van before the door slams ominously. We race off into the distance as I stare around in the dimly lit interior. Why have they kidnapped me? Where are we going? More importantly … will I live to tell the tale?
Chapter 3
Gemma
The van squeals as it takes a turn on two wheels.
“Oh my god!” I scream. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”
There are no seats in the back, and I’m forced to brace myself against the vehicle’s metal walls as we’re tossed around carelessly. The masked men laugh, and one of them pulls his balaclava off, revealing an ugly smile with two missing front teeth.
“To the hospital, girlie,” he sneers. “That’s where you wanted to go, right?”
I stare at him even as we go over a huge bump, making me hit my elbow painfully. Yes, I said we should go to the hospital, and it becomes even more clear as Jimmy lets out a grunt of pain from the hard jostle.
“Jimmy are you okay?” I say in a panicked tone, shaking him by the shoulder. “Wake up! Don’t pass out. You’re suffering from blood loss. Stay with me, stay with me!”
The other masked men pull off their balaclavas, revealing an ugly array of unwashed, dirty criminals. All of them have yellowing teeth, beady eyes, and evil smiles that promise of a nightmare come true.
“You said hospital,” one remarks as we go over another bump. My head almost hits the ceiling of the van this time. “This was all your idea.”
“My idea?” I shriek I protest. “It’s because you have a dying man on your hands! Do you want to go down for Murder One?”
One of the guys shrugs.
“Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck. Johnnie’s the one who shot him.”
The man who must have been the one who hurt Jimmy shrugs as well.
“I don’t care either,” he says. “I was using Tommy’s gun, so who says it was me? We all look the same on camera.”
That’s right! There are video cameras at the Silver Star that must have recorded everything, from when these criminals first stepped in through the door to every detail of the shooting. They’re going to jail, for sure. I press my lips together, determined to hang tight. The police will find me. Maisie called 9-1-1 and it’s only a matter of time before law enforcement’s on our tail.
