Chapter Five

Meg jerked awake.

Raymond and Pepper had alerted. Heads up, bodies tense.

On alert herself now, Meg eased to her feet. Listened intently.

Banging on the front entrance made her flinch.

Since it was Sunday and the shop was closed, it wouldn't be a customer. More reporters, she figured. Banging on the door was not acceptable. She'd just have to call Deputy Battles.

Muffled shouting and cursing echoed through the wall that separated her position from the lobby.

Maybe not reporters.

"Come on," Meg murmured to Raymond, ushering him into the open kennel. Pepper followed without prompting. Meg closed the door, careful not to make a sound. If trouble was here, and obviously it was, she didn't want the two elderly dogs getting caught in the fray.

Her first instinct was to call 911, but a part of her worried that if this was the trouble from her past, she feared that she'd only get someone killed. She didn't want Deputy Battles's blood on her hands. If her photo and last night's holdup at the Gas and Go had somehow hit social media or the internet news...

She shook off the idea. Didn't want to go there yet. Instead, she eased forward, all the way to the door that stood between this room and the lobby. Dropping into a crouch, she peered through the keyhole in the old-fashioned door. She'd never felt the need for a key to lock up between the kennels and the lobby. Maybe she should have. A little late now.

Glass shattered.

As she watched through that keyhole, a man's hairy arm reached through the now broken front entrance door and flipped the dead bolt. Her muscles steeled for battle.

Damn.She should have set the security system. She hadn't meant to fall asleep.

One man, then another entered the lobby. The larger guy—tall, thickly muscled—was older, fiftyish. The other was a few inches shorter and a good deal thinner and maybe in his midtwenties. Both wore jeans, tees and biker boots.

A memory of the guy who'd bled out on the floor at the Gas and Go flashed in her brain. Jeans, tee and biker boots.

No doubt these were his friends.

Damn. Just when she thought her biggest worry was Griff's opinion of her.

"Come on out!" the older man shouted. "Don't make us have to hunt you down."

Using a bat, or maybe it was a club he carried, the skinnier guy swiped most of the items on the checkout counter off for emphasis. Thankfully, the vintage cash register teetered near the edge without crashing to the floor. Meg didn't see any firearms, but that didn't mean one or both wasn't carrying. The bigger guy had a sheathed knife, the sort a hunter carried, on his belt. The feel of cool leather at the small of her back was reassuring.

"You got to the count of three," Big Guy warned, "then we're taking this place apart."

No need to let things get out of hand, she decided. Besides, now that it was clear the trouble wasn't what she'd feared, she could handle things. Hopefully without too much fanfare. Just to be sure she didn't have to take this too far, she sent a text message to 911. Maybe no one would have to die before the police arrived. With that out of the way, she tucked her cell back into her pocket and did what she had to do.

She opened the door and walked into the lobby, closing the door firmly behind her.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" She looked from the older guy to his friend and then to the mess on the floor. Shattered glass and the items that had been on the counter. Nothing irreplaceable. Just a nuisance.

Big Guy glared at her. "You killed my son."

So this was Zyair Jones's father. Regret pricked her. "I'm sorry for your loss, sir. But he didn't leave me a lot of choice. He had a gun pointed at me."

"You mean like this?" Skinny Guy tossed his bat/club down and drew a weapon.

Meg glanced at him. Nine millimeter. Damn. She had hoped neither one was carrying. Oh well, just made things more interesting. The fact that he held the weapon sideways told her he didn't have a freaking clue what he was doing. Just trying to look tough like the thugs in the movies. Did that mean he wouldn't shoot her and, with sheer luck, hit her? She wasn't taking the risk.

Before she could respond, Big Guy growled, "Put that away. I told you I'm doing her the same way she did Zy."

As he spoke, he whipped the knife from its sheath. "Let's see how you like bleeding out alone on the floor."

Meg stared directly into his eyes. "Your son robbed the Gas and Go and was in the process of sexually assaulting the girl who worked there. When I interrupted his criminal activity, he aimed a loaded weapon at me and appeared intent on using it. What would you have done?"

Renewed fury twisted his face. "You think that makes me feel any better? You." He took a step toward her. "Killed." Another step disappeared between them. "My." One more step closer. "Son."

She held his gaze, gave a single nod. "I did. And I guess I'm going to have to kill you too."

While the shock of her daring words startled him, she sack-tapped him with enough force to send him doubling over. The howl of pain that erupted from his mouth echoed through the lobby. She grabbed the vintage cash register—the one thing that remained on the counter—and crashed it against the back of his head. The register hit the floor, and using all of her weight, she shoved the addled man backward.

Skinny Guy jumped astraddle of his downed friend—maybe to protect him, maybe because he was just reckless like that—and waved his weapon. Aiming sideways again. "You are dead, bitch."

Apparently regaining his bearing, Big Guy suddenly lurched upward.

Meg dove for the floor.

Skinny Guy flew forward, and his weapon discharged.

Meg scrambled around to the front of the counter. She grabbed the abandoned bat and shot to her feet just as Big Guy turned toward her. She swung the bat at his head with all her might.

The impact of the hard wood against his skull vibrated up her arms.

He stared at her a moment, his nose gushing blood, his eyes unfocused, then he dropped onto his back. The floor shook with the impact.

A scream rent the air and Skinny Guy threw himself at her.

They tumbled to the floor.

Where was his weapon? Her frantic gaze zoomed from his right hand to his left.

No weapon.

She rolled. Got on top of him.

His hands went to her throat and squeezed.

She punched him in the throat.

His hands dropped immediately to his neck as he gagged and fought for breath.

Rubbing her hand, Meg got up and backed away from the guy now curled into the fetal position.

The sound of sirens in the distance had her breathing a sigh of relief. She went to where the nine millimeter laid on the floor. She picked it up and removed the magazine. Once she confirmed the chamber was clear, she placed the weapon on the counter. One by one, she removed the rounds from the magazine and tossed them over the counter. When she was done, she hurried back to the kennels to ensure Raymond and Pepper were okay. Both stared up at her with worried eyes.

"Good dogs," she murmured, reassuring them before rushing back to the lobby.

The sheriff's department SUV squealed to a rocking stop outside her shop. Two deputies, including Ernie Battles, barreled through the door, weapons drawn. Both surveyed the damage and the wounded.

Battles turned to Meg. "You okay?"

She nodded. Shook her right hand. "I'm good."

The Big Guy roused and scrambled to his hands and knees. Then he puked.

Battles nudged the man with his weapon. "Mr. Jones, you are under arrest..."

The rest of what the deputy said was lost on Meg. Her attention had zeroed in on the reporter with her face pressed to the glass. Worse, her cameraman stood in the open entrance, filming the whole thing.

Holy...

"Back off," the other deputy warned as he moved toward the doorway. "This is a crime scene. I need you back on the street."

The reporter shouted Meg's name.

She turned her back.

"How does it feel to know you killed a man?" The words echoed through the air.

Meg glanced toward the woman being ushered off the sidewalk and back to her van. Two more news vans arrived while she watched.

Dread welling inside her, Meg walked to the counter and sat down on the floor behind it.

Whatever privacy she had hoped to keep intact after all this was gone now. Her face and this new story would be all over the internet by tomorrow. Any hope of maintaining anonymity was gone.

The jig was up.

Two other deputies arrived and hauled the perps away in separate cruisers. By then, Battles had taken Meg's statement and she had started the cleanup. The other deputy, Hershel Gardner, had rounded up a box from the dumpster in the alley and was helping with the glass pickup.

The best part of this, Meg decided—looking on the bright side—was that it had occurred late in the day. No way would it hit the news before morning. The minutes that had elapsed also had her thinking that if she was really lucky, the story wouldn't get picked up by a big network or the Associated Press. No reason for it to, in her opinion. There was plenty of bad going on in the world to keep her issues way down at the bottom on the interest barrel.

"Can we talk?" Battles asked.

"Sure." Meg propped the broom she'd been using against the wall and followed the deputy over to the counter.

Battles searched her face before saying whatever was on his mind. Meg hoped he wasn't going to ask more questions about her self-defense techniques.

"I need you to rethink this thing about not wanting to press charges," he suggested. "I get that you feel bad for Mr. Jones because his son is dead, but you did what you had to do. It was self-defense. Jones has to get right with that. To be honest with you, he's likely part of the reason his son was always in trouble. If Jones gets away with this, it just gives him more power."

Meg understood what he was saying—better than most probably—but she also understood that Jones had been operating on emotion. "The breaking and entering should stand," she agreed. "But not the assault. I think he already got the short end of the stick on that one."

"No question," Battles granted. "But what about the next person he gets riled up at? Will that person be able to fend him off the way you did? If he gets away with what he did to you, then down the road, someone else may end up paying the price."

He had a valid point. Maybe too valid. Meg should have thought of that. Maybe she was operating on emotion a little too fully as well.

"You're right. He should face the full ramifications for what he did, and maybe he won't be so bold next time."

Battles nodded. "Good." He chuckled. "You know, I'm still trying to figure out how you handled a guy at least three times your size. Not to mention he had an accomplice with him who was armed."

She laughed. "I think what really helped was the element of surprise. They didn't see the potential for a real fight."

Battles shrugged. "Maybe so. But the way you emptied that magazine on the weapon and..." He shrugged again. "I don't know, just the way you handle yourself reminds me of my own training."

"Maybe I watch too many cop shows. Picked up on some of the moves. You know how television and social media can influence our thoughts and actions."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Voices outside drew their attention to the street. The first reporter was gone. Had to get her story in before anyone else, no doubt. The other two were shouting questions at a new arrival.

Griff.

Meg's heart reacted and she silently chastised herself.

He climbed out of his truck, then reached into the back for what appeared to be a sheet of plywood.

"I should give him a hand," Battles said.

The deputy hustled outside and helped Griff bring in the four-by-eight sheet of plywood. Once they'd propped it against the wall, Griff glanced at her before going back outside. Meg blinked, considering if she should have said something.

While Battles ushered the two reporters and their cameramen off the sidewalk and back to the street—again—Griff returned carrying a toolbox. This time, he walked all the way back to where she stood.

"Hey."

She sighed. "Hey."

"We're going to secure your front entrance," he explained. "Then I'm coming around back to pick up you and Raymond. You should pack a bag. I plan on keeping you for a while."

"But—"

He shook his head. "No buts. Jodie and Dottie can take care of things around here. You need to disappear for a few days until the smoke clears."

He was right. She understood this. The problem was he didn't, not really. For now, this was her only real option. "Okay."

She climbed the stairs, the receding adrenaline making her feel as if she'd run a triathlon. Since she'd already packed her go bag, all she needed was another with a couple changes of clothes and a nightshirt. Well, and her toothbrush and hairbrush. A few toiletries. She could hang out at Griff's for a couple of days and see how this was going to shake down. Maybe she'd get lucky, and the story would go unnoticed. After all, small-town Tennessee was a long way from big-city California.

She could hope anyway.

Truth was, she probably wouldn't feel safe going forward, whether the story made headlines or not. The life she lived was uncertain enough without layering in the extra issue of not one but two very public situations.

If she dared to stay, how would she ever stop looking over her shoulder after all this?

Staying was a less than optimal idea. But going filled her with a kind of sadness she'd never expected to feel again.

She had allowed herself to get far too close to this place. She walked to her beloved window and watched Griff get something from the back of his truck and head back into her shop. She was way too close to this man.

It was dangerous, too dangerous.

There was no guarantee she could protect him if her past caught up with her.