Safe from Harm (2 page)

Gabe shook his head. “Got me.”

At that moment, their waitress, Debbie—no wait,
Deirdre
—finally came up to their table wearing a pissed off look and a blouse that was just a little too tight for her ample bosom. “Well, hi,
Gabe
,” she said, setting down a glass of water in front of Chris so hard that it sloshed out onto the Formica table. “I haven't seen you in here in a while. Or, you know, anywhere
else
for that matter.”

Gabe sent a quick glance Chris's way just in time to catch the amused look on his face. “Uh, yeah. I've been working another area of the county lately.”

She gave him a tight smile and slammed his glass down. “I'll bet.”

Gabe cleared his throat. “So, uh…how ya been?”

She tilted her head to one side, giving him a dirty look. “Like you care.” She then turned to Chris and offered him a bright smile. “What can I get you, Officer?”

Chris gave his order, all the while smothering a smile—the bastard—but when Gabe started to give his, Deirdre turned away in a huff, blond ponytail swinging, and marched angrily back to the kitchen.

“What the hell?” Gabe muttered, lifting his arms to his sides.

“Well, you're just making friends everywhere,” Chris taunted. “Probably just as well. I don't know that I'd eat anything she serves you if I were you. She looks like she'd like to see you gargling broken glass. Dare I ask what you did to piss
her
off? Or are you clueless on this one, too?”

Oh, no,
that
one Gabe knew.

“Let's just say I was more of a gentleman than she expected and leave it at that,” Gabe grumbled, pushing back from the table. “I'm going to go see if I can just put in an order at the counter. Back in a sec.”

Gabe strode toward the counter, glancing out the expanse of windows that lined the front of the diner as he went, his pulse kicking up when he saw a man making his way in from the parking lot. The guy had his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched over, and his baseball cap pulled down over sandy-brown hair, his eyes cast down at the pavement. Not exactly anything out of the ordinary, but something about the guy seemed
off
.

Gabe's internal shit-storm alarm went into overdrive—a persistent gnawing at his gut that was enough to make him glance over his shoulder to track the movement of the guy as he came into the restaurant and took a seat at the counter.

“How ya doing?” Gabe said with a jerk of his chin.

The guy's eyes darted toward him, then away again, but he didn't say anything, just clasped his hands in front of him and tried to a little too hard to stare straight ahead.

“You been in here before?” Gabe asked, keeping his tone conversational. “Their BLTs are awesome, in case you're wondering what to order.”

The guy sent another glance Gabe's way, looking oddly uncomfortable to be receiving any attention. His voice cracked a little when he muttered, “Thanks.”

Yep, something was up. That was for damned sure.

Gabe regarded him for a minute longer, giving him the once-over, looking for any bulges that might indicate a weapon. Unfortunately, he couldn't just frisk a guy without any cause. He didn't look high or drunk. He wasn't being belligerent. He just looked nervous as hell. No crime in that.

Still, there was something about him that Gabe didn't like one damned bit. When the guy pulled out his phone and started texting, Gabe received the message loud and clear. Obviously, he wasn't interested in a conversation.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Gabe said, abandoning his own lunch order. He headed back to the table where Chris sat, already enjoying his chicken salad.

“What's up with that guy?” Chris asked, jerking his head almost imperceptibly toward the man at the counter.

He shook his head. “Dunno, but something's making him jumpy.” A beep suddenly sounded in his earpiece, sounding a low-battery warning. “Shit, my radio's going dead. I'm gonna run out and grab another battery from the car.”

Gabe headed to his car, casually strolling past the guy's red pickup truck, glancing into the cab and the bed as he went. Nothing unusual or suspicious in plain sight, damn it all to hell. He had half a mind to run the guy's plates, see if there was an outstanding warrant or suspended license or something that would be making the guy so jumpy.

But he tamped down his paranoia as he got into his SUV to switch out his radio battery. The guy could be jumpy for any number of reasons. Maybe cops just made him nervous. It happened. It was probably fine. That's what he kept telling himself, in spite of the nagging suspicion eating away at him.

He was sitting in the front seat of his Tahoe, testing the new battery in his radio, when a beat-up blue Ford pickup pulled in. The driver parked a few spots down and had barely put the POS truck into park before he jumped out and went charging into the diner.

What the fuck?

Gabe launched from his Tahoe, speaking urgently into the radio mic at his shoulder as he rushed toward the door. “Dispatch, car three.”

The radio crackled as dispatch responded. “Car three, go 'head.”

“I have a 10-37 at Moe's Diner on—” A sudden rapid popping sound and terrified screams made Gabe's gut clench.
Shit.
“Shots fired! Going in!”

Gabe didn't wait for a response before drawing his weapon and rushing forward. He threw open the door, assessing the situation at a glance. The restaurant patrons were on the floor, huddled under tables. What he didn't see was the shooter. Or Chris.

Deirdre was crouched nearby, hugging an elderly woman who was sobbing hysterically, and pointed toward the kitchen. Gabe gave her a terse nod and hurried that way, taking a quick peek through the round window in the door before easing it open.

“Where'd he go?” Gabe whispered to the man in a hairnet that was huddled next to a supply shelf.

The guy gestured toward a door that led to a storage room. “B-back door.”

Gabe hurried to the storage room and the back door that led to the employee parking lot behind the diner. The second guy he'd seen enter the restaurant was nowhere to be found, but the shifty guy who'd been sitting at the counter was trying to haul ass, but he was limping.

“Stop!” Gabe roared. “Sheriff's department!”

The guy stumbled a couple of steps forward, but then stopped, wisely raising his hands and dropping to his knees. Gabe rushed toward him, keeping an eye out for the other guy, relieved to hear approaching sirens. He quickly patted down and cuffed the son of a bitch as he read him his Miranda rights.

“My name's Billy Monroe,” the guy said in a rush. “It's not me you want. I didn't shoot anyone!”

“Maybe you missed the ‘remain silent' part,” Gabe spat as he hauled the guy to his feet.

“I swear!” Billy insisted, his words tumbling out. “I was supposed to do this mission with him, but I didn't.”

Gabe frowned at his words.
Mission? What the…?

“I'm not a killer, man,” Billy continued. “It was my cousin, Derrick Monroe. I'll tell you what you need to know. You gotta believe me—I didn't do this. But I need a doctor. I think I got hit by a ricochet or somethin'.”

Gabe didn't respond. He was too busy running the name Derrick Monroe through his head.
Why the hell was it so familiar?

He'd just led Billy around to the front of the building when the other cars arrived. His brother Tom was the first to come rushing forward. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm good,” Gabe assured him. “You see the other guy?”

Tom shook his head.

“How about Chris Andrews?” Gabe panted. “He come out yet?”

Tom frowned. “Chris? He's here?”

Gabe's stomach sank, and suddenly he remembered why the name Derrick Monroe had sounded so familiar. It was because Derrick was the son of Jeb Monroe, a local farmer whose antigovernment rants—which specifically included anticop tirades—had begun to gain an impressive following on social media. They'd received an alert on Derrick just a few days before based on some comments he'd made online, comments that had included a declaration that the only good cop was a dead cop.

He shoved his suspect into Tom's hands and ran back into the diner. “Chris!”

“Deputy!” someone called out. “Over here!”

He rushed toward the sound of the voice. It was one of the other waitresses. She was on her knees next to Chris, where he lay on the ground among shattered glass and plates and other debris that littered the floor, pressing a bussing towel to his neck. Chris gurgled, gasping for air, choking on his own blood, his eyes silently pleading with Gabe.

“Ah, Jesus, Chris,” Gabe ground out, dropping down beside him and taking over for the waitress, glancing toward the door to see the paramedics hurrying inside. “Hold on, buddy. Help's comin'. Just hold on…”

* * *

Gabe sat in the corner of Mulaney's pub, his head in his hands. His broad shoulders, normally held erect and proud, were hunched, his dejection a palpable force in the room as Elle approached.

He reached out for his beer, but it evaded his grasp with a harsh scrape of glass on wood. “What the hell do you want?” he growled, slowly lifting his gaze to meet hers. It seemed to take him a moment to completely focus.

“I'm cutting you off,” she said, easing down into the chair next to him. “How many have you had anyway?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Lost track. Not enough, however many it is.” He pulled a hand down his face. “You know I can still hear the shots? I can still see Chris on the ground, bleeding out.”

She reached out and grasped his forearm, giving it a comforting squeeze, not sure what else to do to help him. “Gabe—”

“And I can still hear Jessica's screams,” he interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to block the sound in his head. “When the doctor told her Chris hadn't made it, she lost it. I just… Yeah.” He shook his head, banishing the words that had been on his lips. “So, if it's all the same to you, honey, I'll keep going until that particular memory is washed clean.”

Then he gave her his trademark grin and gently took the bottle from her, lifting it briefly in salute before chugging it down.

Elle glanced around, noticing some of the other patrons were staring, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with the drunk in the corner. She sent an angry glare their way, and they abruptly averted their gazes. When she turned her attention back to Gabe, she leaned in a little and smoothed her hand along his arm. “Gabe, it's time to go.”

“You don't work here,” he grumbled.

“True, but I'm half owner,” she admitted. “And I'm not letting you drink yourself to death. Chris's murder wasn't your fault.”

“The hell it wasn't,” he snapped. “I should've been in there with Chris. I
had
been in there just two minutes before. If I'd
been
there when that asshole went in—”

“You'd probably be dead, too,” she interrupted, the horror of that possibility making her stomach roll with dread. She had to give herself a mental shake before she could continue. “Derrick Monroe went in that diner to kill a cop. It didn't matter
which
cop. Chris just happened to be the one he chose.”

Gabe ran his hand over his hair. “D'you know Jessica went into labor when she found out? Gave birth to their baby girl.”

Elle nodded.

“Yeah?” He lifted his brows at her, then laughed. “Hell, what am I saying? Of course you know. You know everything.”

She stared at him for a long moment, wondering where the hell that was coming from. But then she shook her head, willing to cut him a little slack under the circumstances. “We'll explore that bullshit comment later,” she assured him. “But you might be interested to know Billy Monroe gave me enough to get a warrant for his cousin. And he's agreed to testify against Derrick. I'm going to put that son of a bitch away for what he's done, Gabe. I promise. I want you to know that.”

“Why?” he countered.

She frowned at him. “Sorry? Why, what?”

“Why are you suddenly being
nice
to me?” he asked. “Normally, you avoid me like the fucking plague.”

“I'm just trying to be a friend,” she told him truthfully, not willing to go into why she'd kept him at arms' length all these years, why she'd refused to let him get past her defenses despite all his advances. Why bother? Nothing she could say would make a difference. He wouldn't change. So why should she?

He grunted. “Yeah, well, my friends have a way of meeting untimely ends, so you might as well save yourself the trouble.”

She pushed back from the table and stood, extending her hand to him, her heart twisting with pity. “C'mon, Dawson. Let me take you home. You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

He turned his aqua gaze up at her, studying her through lashes that were far too long and thick to be wasted on a man. “Shouldn't you be on a date with douche-suit?”

She frowned, confused. “With
who
?”

He shook his head. “Mr. Multimillion-Dollar Deal. The asshole.”

She sighed. “He's not an asshole.”

He gave her a pointed look, clearly conveying his opinion on the matter.

“Okay, fine. He's an asshole,” she admitted. She'd already determined
that
without Gabe's input. It'd been abundantly clear Chet was not the guy for her when he'd acted completely put out by the fact that she needed to go deal with a suspect in the murder of a cop. “But that's not why I bailed on my date with him.”

He lifted his head, squinting as if trying to focus. “Yeah? Then why did you?”

“Because your brother Tom called me and said you'd told him to go to hell when he tried to take you home,” she confessed. “And then your brother Joe called to tell me you'd told him to fuck off and leave you alone. And then the bartender called and told me he didn't feel comfortable telling a cop to leave. And, seeing as how my aunt Charlotte is out of town and can't come in here to kick your ass out of our bar, they thought maybe I could manage it.”