Cooper heard shuffling feet on the other side of the counter. “That’s it, old man. Nice and easy.”
DJ voice was obviously the one in charge, and he sounded way too close.
Gordy pulled his lanky frame into a ball and stopped moving. Barely a second later, the register drawer clanged open.
The hair on Cooper’s arms tingled again. He could almost feel the men on the other side of the counter. For a moment his mind looped frantically. Dear God. Dear God. Dear God—please!
“We’ll take it to go,” the man ordered.
“Wha—?”
“Put the cash in a bag, old man!”
Cooper looked out the window towards Kirchoff Road, hoping a car would pull in the lot and scare the robbers away. He focused on the headlights of an approaching pickup, willing it to turn in. C’mon. Slow down. Maybe a couple of burly construction workers would come by—hungry enough to stop and tap on the window. Regular customers knew Frank would open the door. Cooper watched for their turn signal to blink on and silently pleaded. Help us. Please. The truck passed without slowing. If only Cooper had remembered his phone.
No other vehicles were in sight. Cooper scanned the roads, then shifted his attention to the darkening sky, and then, with dawning horror, Cooper noticed their reflections. The front window reflected the scene inside the diner with mirror-like clarity. He could see everything. Cooper shuddered. Three men stood on the other side of the counter. Frank, easily a head shorter than either of the other two, emptied his own register and stuffed the bills into a paper take-out bag. Frank lifted the tray out of the register and fished a couple of bills from underneath. Cooper could see Frank’s hands shaking as he set the tray on the counter and handed the bag of money to another man in a clown mask.
Cooper fought to control his breathing—keep it shallow. Afraid of making some kind of sound if he shifted his weight, he tried to ignore the cramping in his left calf. He stayed as still as the Frank ‘n Stein’s mascot grinning stupidly at him from the corner. God, make this be over.
Hiro touched Cooper’s arm and nodded her head toward the window. In the deepening shadows at the base of the counter he could see himself and Hiro huddled like they were caught in the crossfire of a commando raid. If the crooks looked closely enough, they could see him and Hiro. Then it really would be over. A trickle of sweat broke free from his maze of blonde curls and crept down his forehead.
“Now. The combination to your safe,” the DJ voice growled from behind the Elvis mask.
“Safe?” Frank’s voice cracked.
Elvis backhanded him across the face. Staggering backwards, Frank cried out and groped the top of the counter for support. The register tray slid and clattered over the edge, showering coins onto Hiro and Cooper like a silver waterfall.
Hiro squeezed her eyes shut like she expected the coins to betray their fragile hiding spot.
“We know about the safe, old man, and how you don’t trust banks.”
Coins rolled across the checkered tile floor. Some circled, others spun, but within a few moments every coin lay still—exposed and powerless. Cooper knew the feeling.
“The combination.” Elvis pressed in close.
“Nobody outside this store knew about the safe.” Frank sounded confused. “Nobody.”
“COMBINATION.”
“Seventy-four.” Frank’s voice shook. “Ninety-three.” Cooper heard him suck in his breath and stop. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Careful, old man. Give me the last number.”
“It has to be,” Frank said, as if it suddenly all made sense. “I gave him a chance.”
“And this is your last chance.” The man raised a pistol in a gloved hand. “The number.” He pressed the muzzle against Frank’s forehead.
Cooper heard a metallic click. Give it to them, Frank. Give it to them.
Frank hesitated, his reflection in the front window ghostly in his white t-shirt and apron.
Coop forced a dry swallow and silently begged Frank to cooperate. Give him the combination. Please. Play it safe.
“Okay.” Frank nodded. “J-just put the gun down. P-please.”
Elvis jabbed Frank in the forehead once with the gun. “That’s better.” He lowered the handgun and tucked it in his waistband. Holding empty hands up in front of Frank, Elvis leaned in close. “The number.”
Suddenly Frank lunged—pushing the Elvis into the clown. The robbers stumbled backwards into the soda machine, and Frank reached for something under the counter.
Elvis regained his balance and swung at Frank’s face. With a loud smack, Frank’s head jerked to one side and his glasses skittered across the counter and tumbled to the floor.
Frank raised his hand over his head. A glint of steel flashed off the blade of a knife. Elvis caught his wrist in mid-air. The man with the clown mask slammed himself into Frank, pinning him against the counter. Frank grunted and gasped. The knife dropped from his hand. Elvis picked it up and jabbed the point under Frank’s jaw. Squealing, Frank lifted his chin high.
“Last number.”
Blood dripped down the front of Frank’s t-shirt. Every ounce of strength drained out of Cooper at the same time.
“Eighteen.”
Elvis lowered the knife and tossed it onto the counter. “Smart, hotdog man.”
“Maybe a little too smart.” The raspy-voiced clown spoke up. “He knows.”
Stomach swirling with dread, Cooper watched. If only he could do something. Help Frank somehow.
Frank grabbed for the knife. Elvis blocked his reach with one smooth move and hammered him in the head with his fist. Frank’s head snapped backwards. The clown, moving quickly, twisted Frank’s arm behind his back.
Cooper tried to look away, but couldn’t. Hiro buried her face in her sweatshirt. He prayed she wouldn’t cry out.
With Frank unable to move, Elvis squared off and slugged him repeatedly in the gut. Cooper felt the force of it right through the counter and flinched with each blow, with each grunt from Frank. A raging growl came from under the Elvis mask that grew louder with each frenzied hit. With an inhuman roar, Elvis hauled back and delivered a crushing blow to Frank’s temple. Immediately the owner buckled, and the clown let him drop. Frank’s head whacked the open drawer of the register on the way down, and he crumpled to the floor with a dull thud that vibrated through the counter.
“Crazy old fool!” Elvis panted and massaged his knuckles with his other hand. “Did he think we’d just trust him not to talk?”
The clown bent down out of sight. “Looks like his neck is broken.”
“Then he’s double-dead.” Elvis raised a lethal fist to his mouth and kissed it. “Sent him to the great hotdog stand in the sky.”
The clown snickered, and Hiro’s whole body started shaking. Cooper held her tight.
“I’ll get rid of the other stuff,” the clown said. “If someone looks in the window and sees the coins and money tray on the floor, the game’s over.”
Cooper held his breath—and clenched his fists.