“Reminds me of home.” A soft smile transformed the old man’s face. “Back when my wife was alive, we used to—”
The bus swerved off the main road and ground to a halt. Out of the corner of his eye, Cole caught a flash of light—the sun glinting off metal.
This could not be happening.
But it was.
“Put your hands on the seat in front of you,” a man’s voice grated out. “Everyone! Hands on the seat where I can see them.”
Cole spotted a second masked gunman just as a bullet tore through the roof of the bus. Someone screamed.
“I said now!”
“Do it, son.” His seatmate sounded calm, but his withered hands trembled as he placed them on the top of the seat.
Cole obeyed, hot anger competing with cold chills.
“This is a holdup,” the second man said, walking to the rear of the bus. “We don’t want to hurt anyone. We just want your valuables.”
Someone whimpered as a bag’s contents hit the floor. A cheap pen rolled by, stopping near Cole’s feet. He stared at the label and narrowed his eyes.
Why would someone hold up a bus? And why did he feel almost as if he’d known something like this was coming?
TWO
It felt like some crazy Western movie gone awry. Kenzie Jacobs gripped the seat in front of her and wished she could disappear. Her life seemed to be a series of bad days. Just when she didn’t think things could get any worse…
She winced as the first gunman—the one with the leather jacket, the one who had been sitting right in front of her—shoved his weapon into the bus driver’s face again.
“Get away from the radio!”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, holding his hands high.
The gunman jerked the driver to his feet, then marched him up the aisle with a gun pressed to the back of the man’s head. Kenzie didn’t watch. She couldn’t. She closed her eyes and prayed that she wouldn’t hear more gunfire, more screams, the sound of the driver’s body hitting the floor.
“Keep your hands on the seats!” the second man yelled from the rear. “Heads down. No looking around. The faster we get your valuables, the faster you can get off this bus.”
No shots. The driver would live another few minutes, at least.
Kenzie wished she could pull a Hollywood stunt and save the world…or at least this bus full of people. But she was never any good at saving people. So she lowered her head and closed her eyes and tried to keep the tears from pushing past her eyelids.
She didn’t have anything of value with her. No jewelry. Little cash. One credit card. Even her shoes were inexpensive.
Something bumped her foot. Her eyes cracked open and she saw a gloved hand snatch her purse from the floor. The gunman breathed heavily near her ear. She could feel the heat radiating from him as he dumped her belongings. Her pocket knife hit the floor with a clatter. Lip gloss rolled to the front and thunked down the steps. A package of tissues landed near her shoes. She was glad they hadn’t been open. She might need them today, if she ever made it to lunch with her mom.
When cold metal pressed against her temple, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t.
The second gunman stood just in front of Cole. He could kick the thug’s knees and throw his backpack over the man’s face, if someone else could just go for the gun.
But the gun would go off before anyone could get it. Someone would die. And the bad guys would have to be together, or he’d have to take out the second man when the first one’s back was turned. But how could he know, when he had to keep his head down? Peeking into the aisle gave him a full-on view of the man’s camouflage jacket, Wolverine work boots and nothing else.
Maybe it would be all right. If everyone just relaxed, they could take the money and go, and everyone would be okay. Maybe heroics would be the wrong thing to do—would hurt people more than help.
He winced. Yeah, he was good at doing that. His gaze fell on Obsession—still open on his lap—and he skimmed down to where he’d left off. Where two gunmen told the bus passengers to put their heads down, their hands up, and robbed them.
No…
Where they put a gun to Monique’s head. Where the bad guys jerked her to her feet, marched her down the steps. His eyes jumped to the first line again.
If her car hadn’t died that morning, Monique might not have, either.
Someone was going to die.
No. It was just a crazy book. One he didn’t want to read anymore. He moved his leg, jostling the book closed.
Then he was the one with the business end of a pistol pointing at his head.
Cole settled his foot flat on the floor again and tried to slow his breathing, but his heart raced faster. He could feel the blood pulsing in his neck as he tried to remain motionless, to fight the urge to jerk away from the weapon, to not give the gunman the wrong idea.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the man in the front finally shouted.
The gun shifted, but remained inches away from Cole’s ear. With it so close, he could grab the gun first, if he got lucky. Duck and grab, then drop the guy while the seat still protected him from the first man’s gaze…and weapon.
The one he could use to fire at Cole anyway. Hitting the kid in front of him, or the man next to him. His seatmate met his eyes, blinked, mouthed, “No, son.”
“Don’t move! Keep your hands on the seats, your heads down.”
Something rustled near the front. Cole’s eyes settled on the book cover, with Monique gazing up at him. Frightened. Haunted.
“We’re taking one of you with us.”
The whimpers grew louder.
“If you move before five minutes, if someone calls the cops, if we don’t get away clean, she’s dead. But if you cooperate as well as you have so far, she’ll be deposited somewhere, unharmed, for the police to find.”
Monique’s face merged with the girl from the bench, and Cole’s heart lurched.
Kenzie stood in the aisle after being jerked to her feet. Numb, she looked toward the back of the bus. The man from the bus stop met her gaze for a split second as the guy in the camo jacket held a gun to his head. Then, nothing but a sea of hands. No faces except the two men leering at her with their eyes. No one to come to her rescue.
“Come on,” said the man with the leather jacket, tugging on her arm. The other guy moved toward her and pointed his weapon at a nearby child. The message was clear: Struggle, and she’d take more down with her.
She walked with leaden feet, slowly descending the stairs. Her shoe touched the tube of lip gloss, and she watched dully as it fell to the ground beside the front tire. It was her favorite kind—discontinued. Her purse lay on the dusty floorboard. Maybe when it was all over she could pick up her things. Maybe the bus driver would hold them for her.
Maybe she’d no longer need them.
Her breath hitched as she was led to the road. Her captor gripped her arm, keeping a watchful eye on the bus. The other man disappeared from view. Moments later, a black van skidded to a halt, and the side door popped open.
“Your chariot, pet.”
Just before they shoved her inside, she glanced back at the bus. Something crashed against her head.
Then everything went black.
Cole