JOSH STEFANSON HAD NEVER THOUGHT OF HIMSELF AS HEROIC, BUT HE HAD BEEN RELATIVELY CONFIDENT THAT HE WOULD RISE TO THE OCCASION IF AN EMERGENCY EVER PRESENTED ITSELF. Despite working a desk job at a local architectural firm—as opposed to something more physical and dangerous like a firefighter or police officer—he felt that he could protect his family. Now was his chance to find out.
He had seen the news stories about the killer loose in the Kansas City area whom the media had dubbed the Coercion Killer. Still, he hadn’t given a second thought to such things. The chances of actually running afoul of a serial killer were astronomical, much too low to make him question his safety or that of his family. Being the next victim of the Coercion Killer would be akin to winning the lottery.
But, people did win.
He drove the little blue Nissan into the parking lot and found a spot next to the entrance. The lot was nearly empty, only three other cars parked toward the back, suggesting that they belonged to employees. That was good: no witnesses.
Josh’s hands shook, and sweat dripped down his face. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. The gun rested in the glovebox. A .38 special that had been his father-in-law’s. He had never been around guns, but his wife Nancy had grown up on a farm south of KC. She had insisted that they have one in the house and that he knew how to use it. He had gone along with it, not that he ever thought he would have cause to touch the thing.
Josh opened the glovebox and pulled out the gun and a box of ammunition, spilling some of the cartridges on the floor in the process. The bullets rattled against the revolver’s cylinder as he forced his trembling fingers to shove them into place.
Six shots, but hopefully he would only need one.
He kept a photo of Nancy and the kids tucked up beside the odometer. It had been taken the previous summer at Blue Springs Lake. He liked to look at it when he was stuck in traffic and fantasize that he was drinking a beer on the boat instead of heading to work.
As he admired their smiling faces, he knew what had to be done. If he thought about it too long, he would talk himself out of it. He would either go through with this or Nancy and the kids would die. It was as simple as that. There was no room for second-guessing or alternative solutions. It was black and white. Time to man up and protect his family. To be the hero that he hoped he had the guts to be.
Josh slid the gun into the pocket of his khakis and exited the vehicle. The breeze carried the smell of flowers and pollen. He fought the urge to sneeze, failed, and nearly lost his glasses in the process. The asphalt felt sticky beneath his feet. The sun hurt his eyes, which were already irritated from crying.
He could see his target through the bookstore’s front window, but a hardback book blocked the man’s face. The store was empty apart from the owner.
The whole situation felt so surreal. It didn’t seem that he walked to the shop’s door, more that he floated there as if it were all a dream. Or a nightmare. The door came open, and a ringing bell announced his presence. The owner lowered his book and greeted his customer with a smile.
Josh’s heart jumped and then sank. The man behind the counter looked like such a nice man. Kind eyes and an inviting smile on a wrinkled face. Gray and balding. Someone’s grandfather.
He raised the gun, not even realizing that he’d removed it from the pocket of his khakis. The old man’s smile disappeared, and fear contorted his kind features.
“I’m so sorry,” Josh said through the tears.
The man raised his hands. “Take all the money. I won’t give you any trouble.”
Josh cocked the revolver’s hammer.
The old man shook his head and backed away. “Think about what you’re doing, son.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no other way.”
The man shuddered but was relatively calm, considering the situation. “We always have a choice. I haven’t done anything to you. I don’t even know you. I’m just a normal guy who wants to see his family again.”
“So am I,” Josh said as he squeezed the trigger.