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Brenda watched Mack raise three fingers and point toward the street. “I'll cover the kitchen,” she whispered in a tough voice. Mack pulled his attention back to the front, leaving Brenda to handle the kitchen alone. Brenda was a strong fighter and Mack had no doubt the woman could handle a few trigger-happy farm boys.
Alright, let's get this show on the road. Brenda aimed the Glock 17 she was holding firmly in her hands at the back door and waited.
Outside in the heat, a man with a flabby belly pushed a black hood off his face and wiped a little sweat away. “Can barely see with this hood on,” Bob complained in a fussy whisper. “Ready, Burt?”
Burt removed his own hood, revealing a thin, bitter face with grasshopper eyes. “Anytime you are,” he told Bob, stationing himself in front of the back door just enough to give Bob room to kick the door open. Bob felt empowered—overheated, ill, and deflated
from living a hard life—but empowered. According to Prophet Frinton, he was chosen, and in time, all of his enemies, including his ex-wife who took his two sons away, would bow down to him. No one was going to stand in his way, not two stupid cops.
“Get ready!” Bob thrust a large farm boot into the flimsy door.
As soon as the door burst open, Burt laid on the trigger and began spraying the kitchen with vicious bullets. Pots and pans began exploding and flying into the air. Old, rusted, appliances began eating bullets. A box of rotted lettuce on a wobbly cutting table exploded, throwing pieces of lettuce into the air like foul shrapnel. “Die!” Burt screamed like a mad man.
Brenda remained hunkered down behind the walk-in cooler door. She could tell from the spray pattern of the bullets that Burt was shooting from outside the door. Brenda figured the fist shooter would empty out a full clip and then the second shooter would charge into the kitchen and start shooting. The initial assault was designed to push back any resistance.
Brenda understood how untrained attackers thought. She had watched countless videos of real-life shooters, acting in pairs, carrying out flimsy attacks using flawed tactics.
Okay, the first shooter just emptied out his clip… now… here we go.
Brenda counted to three in her mind. Right on cue, Bob burst into the kitchen preparing to fire his M-16. Brenda caught a clear shot and put two bullets through the man's face. Bob's head snapped back on his shoulders like a rag doll falling off a chair.
“Bob!” Burt yelled, watching his friend drop dead. Burt panicked and dived behind a flimsy metal trash can sitting in the alley. “Mr, Frinton… come in! This is Burt… Bob is dead… do you hear me? Bob is dead!” Burt screamed into a black walkie-talkie in a tormented voice.
Brenda eased away from the walk-in cooler, slid across the kitchen floor, positioned herself next to the back door, and listened. “Stay where you are!” a voice hollered at Burt over the walkie-talkie. “Keep the back alley secure! I'm almost to town! Brian and Wilson are on their way! Cody, Ken and George are in the general store! Hold your position!”
Brenda knew she had to act. “I have to keep the back open,” she whispered, bravely easing out of the back door just enough to spot Burt hunkered down behind a trash can staring out at the corn instead of guarding the back door.
Clear, easy shot.
Brenda eased out of the back door a little further and lined up a clear shot at Burt. Just then, two men wearing black robes burst around a wooden building and ran into the front of the alley.
“Burt!” Brian hollered, spotting Brenda. “Get down! Behind you! Get down!” Burt hit the ground without asking any questions. Brian and Wilson opened fire at Brenda, forcing the woman back into the kitchen.
Brenda kicked the back door closed and ran back to the walk-in cooler, grabbing Bob's M-16 along the way. “Took one shooter down, three active shooters in the alley!” she yelled at Mack. “I have a live M-16.”
Mack kept his eyes on the street. A large black truck sped by and vanished. “Three shooters across the street in the general store,” Mack yelled back. “Black truck just drove by.”
“Mr. Frinton drives that truck,” Josh told Mack, peeking over the counter.
“Stay down!” Mack snapped at Josh, pushing the boy back down out of sight. Then he called to Brenda, “Main player is in town.” Mack was hungering for a fight. He didn't like being tied down like a helpless dog.
Brenda forced her mind to consider any possible escape option as she knelt down just inside the walk-in cooler. For the time being, she concluded, the diner was a temporary prison. Brenda put her Glock back into a sweaty shoulder holster and skilfully examined the M-16 she had taken from Bob. “Clip is full. Good.” With those words spoken Brenda waited.
Brain ran up to Burt, ripped off his black hood, and wiped sweat from his leathery forehead. Out of all the men who lived in Green Ridge, Brian was the roughest… and meanest. He was a marine reject who had spent his entire life planting corn, drinking hard, and fighting even harder. “Almost got shot, stupid,” he yelled as he slapped Burt in the back of the head with his left hand so hard that Burt's head jerked forward.
“Bob is dead,” Burt informed Brian and then looked at Wilson Tillins.
Wilson removed his hood, showing Burt a scared face. Wilson wasn't much for fighting or gun play. Because he was Brian's cousin, Brian allowed him to live with him “Maybe this has gone too far? I… never liked Mr. Frinton, Brian… why kill two cops just because they showed up?” Wilson finished speaking in a shaky, scared voice and waited for Brian to clobber him.
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Brian snapped at Wilson. “Mr. Frinton is going to make us kings! Do you hear me? Kings!” Brian focused on the back door of the diner. “You just do as I tell you, you hear me?”
Wilson shot his eyes low. “Yeah, Brian. I hear you,” he nodded his head, too scared to argue. Wilson had already taken countless beatings from Brian—mostly while his cousin was sloppy drunk and howling at the moon. But the few beatings Wilson had endured while Brian was sober had been the worst.
“But what about Bob?” Burt asked. “Bob was my—”
“Hey, we all have to be prepared to die for the cause, Burt, so stop whining!” Brian kicked dirt at Burt. “Now here's the plan. We're going to bust into the diner and kill us some cops!”
“No way,” Burt objected. “That's what Bob tried to do and he's dead.”
