I know, I know, I just showed you all the back copy, but I just can't wait! *throws confetti* Let's take a peek at the first half of the second chapter of Ring Around the Rosie, should we?
And if you want to read the first chapter, click
here
Chapter
Two
copyright 2014 Julie Coulter Bellon All rights reserved
Sarah froze. The scene in front of her was straight out
of a nightmare. The tip of the gun
brushed Ron’s top shirt button and the man who held it was the most
hardened-looking man she’d ever seen.
His black hair curled under his ears, highlighting a flame tattoo that
feathered on the side of his neck with every movement. Clean-shaven, he had a scar on his jaw,
testifying that he’d been burned at some point in his life. He was overly muscular, like he’d spent too
much time in the gym and didn’t know when to stop. And he had a gun on Ron.
The room spun and she put a hand to her temple. Think Sarah. Think. What can I do?
We’re across
the street from the police station, she reminded herself. Help is probably
on the way right now. Relieved at the
thought, she kept her eyes on the gunman in front of her, as if watching would
make him less likely to shoot. Did he care about having a witness? What was he
going to do when every officer from across the street descended on the diner?
She turned to the
door, crouching, and with only one of her high-heeled shoes still on her
foot. She tested her rubbery legs to
see if they could hold her weight, and it was tough with only one shoe, but
doable. Starting to stand, she
immediately crouched back down when automatic gunfire echoed all around
her. Two men dressed in full combat
gear from helmet to boots stood at the front door of the diner firing their
weapons toward the parking lot.
Where their
rescuers would be coming from.
The thought of all
those police officers coming to help and being gunned down tore a scream of
terror from her throat. It was quickly
lost in the noise around her. Please
don’t let them die. She tried to
focus on the men and wrap her brain around what was happening. No. They were pointing their guns higher in
the air. Like they wanted to scare the
police from approaching them. Why?
She grabbed her
throat and sat down hard, the images in front of her harder and harder to
process. Ron being held at
gunpoint. Bullet casings hitting the
floor, the diner smoldering around her. Sarah could feel panic rising in her.
She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, but that made it worse
instead of better. She just had to get
out of here.
Sarah opened her
eyes. Everything was moving in slow motion, but happening so fast. She was breathing fast and shallow, which
made her even more dizzy. It was all
Sarah could do to stay sitting upright and not curl up in a fetal position and
scream until help came or she was killed.
This was going from bad to worse in the space of a millisecond.
The shooting
finally stopped and she got on her hands and knees to crawl around an
overturned table blocking her way to the door.
I need air. The gunmen
turned to her simultaneously, blocking her way out. She was forced to stop mid-crawl. A whimper rose in her throat as she looked up at them. Their faces were blank, as if this was
routine, something they practiced every day.
She swallowed and sat back, waiting for them to kill her. “Please, don’t,” she said, hoping they would
hear her plea. They didn’t even blink. Did have earplugs in? Nothing fazed them, not even the noise of
the alarms or the guns.
The two men didn’t
acknowledge her, instead watched somewhere behind her position, as if waiting
for a command of some sort. Sarah
pressed her hands into her face, making it hurt like a thousand needles were
being stabbed into it. Sarah knew she
was bruised and burned, but at the moment, it was fear, not fire, burning the
back of her throat.
“What’s going on?”
she managed to ask, loudly, before the man standing in front of her took his
helmet off and revealed a completely bald head. He glanced at the tattooed guy still holding Ron at
gunpoint. Tattoo Guy nodded and the bald
man grabbed her arm, forcing her to her feet.
The room spun and tilted at the sudden movement, her balance off with
only one heel on. She held her stomach.
“I think I’m going to throw up.
Please. Let me get my purse. I need my purse.”
She started to
search for it, spying it on the other side of the broken booth. Why didn’t I pick
it up before? That purse had a first aid kit in it, her phone, and a set of
keys she could maybe use as a weapon if push came to shove.
Baldy’s
grip tightened, but he didn’t let her go, merely gave her another blank look.
“Please, can I
just get my purse?” She pulled on his
grip a bit, trying to free her arm.
“It’s right there.”
“Shut up,” he
said, shoving her away from it and toward Ron.
“Stand up,
Captain,” Tattooed Guy shouted in Ron’s face.
“Now.” He lifted his gun to
press against Ron’s chest and Sarah’s heart hitched. No matter what had passed between them, she didn’t want him
dead. Penniless, miserable, and alone,
maybe, but not dead.
Ron stared at her
as he got slowly to his feet, regret in his eyes. She flashed back to the last day they’d had together. That same look had been on his face when
he’d come home to find his bags packed. She’d wanted a reaction, some
attention, maybe a promise to try again, but he’d just picked up the bag. He
hadn’t fought for her. He’d let her go.
She knew deep down
he regretted how things turned out, but that day he’d offered no explanation or
even much of an apology. He’d been stone-faced with no emotion allowed to show
through the cracks. Always the police
officer, first and foremost.
But now, as he stood
in front of a gunman, she saw fear flicker over his face. That was something
she’d never seen before. It just wasn’t
in him. She looked between Ron and the
gunman. If Ron was scared, with his training and everything he dealt with in
his profession, then she should be terrified.
Ron stood in front
of the man, his features smoothing.
“What’s your name?” His calm
tone gave her some courage. He was
going to sort this out. She took
another breath. Everything will be okay.
The gunman
sneered. “How quickly you forget.” He
turned to the bald man holding her.
“What are you staring at? Get everyone to the back room. We’re on a schedule. And shut off those alarms.”
The
gunmen around her jumped into action, the bald one hauling her toward the back,
his grip tight enough to snap her arm in two.
She walked like a drunken sailor on her one heel. Up, down, up,
down. Her guard seemed annoyed by it,
but she didn’t dare take off the one shoe she had left with all the glass and
debris on the floor. She glanced back
at Ron, but smoke obscured her view of him.
This is not okay. His
calm tone hadn’t helped like she’d hoped.
Sarah quickly
faced front and looked down as she tripped over something large and soft. It was a woman’s body. The waitress. Judging from the angle of her neck, she was
dead. Sarah let out a yelp of fear, her
insides churning. Stay calm. She
looked away and saw two of the other guards attaching clay-like squares the
size of a laptop screen to various locations on the walls and doorway of the
diner. The last gunman was struggling
to keep his assault rifle at the ready while he pulled Ron’s co-worker, Claire,
away from a man on the floor.
“What is this all
about?” Sarah asked, walking on tiptoe to minimize injury to her bare foot.
“Shut
up,” Baldy told her. He pulled her
through the plastic sheeting covering the back of the diner, revealing a work
area whose floor was covered in dust and tools. He led her to a door that looked oddly small because the walls
around the frame had been overlaid with a thick fiberglass-looking
material. Like it was fortified.
The reality of her
situation sank deep into her bones.
They weren’t going to kill anyone right now. They were all hostages and this attack had been pre-planned. She tried to turn around, but Baldy gripped
her arm so hard she groaned at the pressure adding to her aches and
bruises. “You’re going to break my
arm,” she told him, then regretted her words. She didn’t want to give him any
ideas. “Please. Let me go.”
“Okay.” He let go,
but shoved her through the fortified door. Sarah stood inside the room, rubbing
her arm and getting her bearings. It
was a back office. It was a fairly
large rectangle, with a little alcove that had a flat screen TV. There were four chairs arranged in a
semi-circle on the perimeter of the room with a larger captain’s chair in the
middle. The desk was in the corner and
it had a laptop and a small TV on it. The only window was small and placed high
above the desk.
“Sit down,” Baldy
commanded.
He turned around
to leave the way they’d come, and she followed him out the door, until he
stopped and pushed his finger into her chest.
“Sit down,” he said again. His
eyes narrowed to mere slits, his other hand on his assault rifle. She stepped back, the vehemence in his voice
echoing in her ears. Maybe I’ll wait
for Ron and decide what to do from there.
She hobbled back
into the room. It had been protected
from the blast and the floor was thankfully clear, so she took off her one
remaining shoe. Looking down at the
wedge heel, she wished she’d worn stilettos.
They would have made a makeshift weapon at least. Her low heel looked
pretty harmless against someone like Baldy.
Before
she could think more on it, Baldy pushed into the room again. She moved to the side as another guard
escorted everyone else in. Claire came
first, limping. Sarah flattened herself
against the wall, unable to stifle a gasp when she saw Claire’s pant legs
shredded and an open gash bleeding down her calf. Colby was next, and there was blood all over his front, but she
couldn’t tell if it was his or not. He
held a bloody and barely conscious Bart around the waist, but struggled to hold
him up. She quickly covered her mouth
with her hand. The sight of blood had always made her feel sick.
She
needed to take her mind off of it.
Lightly skimming the bruise on her face, she felt for the small burn
near the top of it, assessing her own wounds.
The burn almost hurt worse than the large bruise. She really couldn’t complain, though, comparing
her injuries to the ones on the people in front of her. It was a miracle she wasn’t hurt worse. Everything had flown through the room during
the explosion. When she’d finally
opened her eyes, she was on the floor with the hostess podium and a fallen
booth piled protectively around her.
That stroke of luck had shielded her from the impact and she was
grateful to be alive.
Her eyes searched
the people being herded in. “Where’s
Ron?” she asked when Claire and Colby got close.
“I’m
not sure,” Colby told her as he laid Bart on the floor and slumped beside
him. He turned to Baldy, his jaw
set. “No matter what this is about, we
need a doctor in here.” He motioned to Bart, before clenching his fists. “If he dies, I’ll make it my personal
mission in life to make you suffer.
Believe me, you don’t want his death on your hands.”
Baldy
stared Colby down and patted his rifle.
With barely a blink, he went over to stand next to the door. He did keep a wary eye on Colby as he opened
it and glanced out, obviously waiting for someone else to come.
He’s
waiting for Ron to come, the voice in her head said. They wouldn’t take everyone else hostage and
kill him, right? That wouldn’t make sense.
Nothing makes sense. Her
eyes stayed glued to the door.
Claire
maneuvered her way to the floor, pulling Sarah’s attention to her, in obvious
pain from her leg wound. She knelt next to Bart. “How bad?” Claire said to Colby.
He
studied Bart, not looking up.
“Bad. He’s going to go into
shock if we don’t do something.” Colby
grimaced as he held his side. “I’ve got
some shrapnel that needs to come out.”
Claire leaned over
and pulled what was left of his shirt back. She hissed out a breath when she
saw his side. “Cole, it’s full of glass.”
“Feels like it,
too.” He took a look at her leg. “We’ve got to get your bleeding controlled.
Fast.”
Listening to them
talk about the blood made Sarah feel light-headed again. She’d never been good
in a crisis, especially one that involved wounds. She bent over, trying to take deep breaths, but the rusty scent
of blood was everywhere. She gagged and
put her nose inside her shirt. Don’t
throw up, don’t throw up, she chanted in her head. It was no use. She ran for the door in the corner, praying there was a bathroom
or at least a closet of some sort where she could be sick in private.
She burst through
the door, her hand over her mouth.
Knowing she had mere seconds before she lost it completely, she nearly
cried in relief when she saw the toilet.
She managed to get the lid open seconds before she promptly lost her
lunch. Tears streamed down her face as
she struggled to get control of herself.
When she was
finally done, she flushed the toilet and went to the sink. The cold water felt so good on her
face. She splashed it over and over on
her cheek that had now started to throb with pain. Daring to look in the mirror, she stared at her reflection. Her injuries looked as bad as they felt. Half her cheek and over to her ear was
purpling with a bruise. Part of her
hairline and forehead were singed. Her
cheek was swelling, the burn pulling at the skin. She would definitely have some scars to remember this day by,
both emotionally and physically.
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