Page 2 of Risk of a Lifetime
Outside, cars honked at the two drive-up windows. They apparently didn’t know there was a robbery in process. If they needed money for lunch today, they weren’t getting any here.
From across the room, Leon cleared his throat, waving the gun in Marcy’s direction once again. “What do you think?”
“Me?” she asked.
“Yeah. You got all them fancy degrees. What do you think I should do with this opportunity?”
Opportunity? What opportunity? He was robbing a bank. She glanced at the teller. No help there. She looked at Joanie. None there, either.
Well, hell, she might as well come up with something herself. “You’re right. A person doesn’t get many chances like this in life. You’ve got to be careful what you choose. Maybe—”
“We know you’re in there, Leon.” Deputy Evans’s voice vibrated from outside the bank through a bullhorn. “We’re gonna tow your truck if you don’t come out of there right now. I ain’t got time for your shenanigans today.”
Her uncle, Cal Davis, the Sheriff of Crayton Police Department, was out of town on a much-needed vacation until next week. He’d left Evans in charge. Nothing wrong with that, except this wasn’t one of the usual pranks Leon played around town.
Leon fiddled with the blind at the front window. Rubbing his palm against his pant leg, he appeared confused. His jerky head motions didn’t make her feel any safer, either.
Someone might get hurt before this was over. She wished her uncle was the one waiting outside in the street. In fact, she wished it was—
“You gonna come out, or do I have to come in there?” the deputy said.
Evans had a wife, three little kids, and a mother to support. Marcy had to think of something before the situation turned to tragedy.
She eased to her feet and leaned against the counter, quiet and nonchalant. “Why don’t you ask for a bullhorn of your own?”
Leon swung around. His gun arm veered up shakily as he focused on her. “What did you say?”
“Ask for a bullhorn. The teller could call to tell them you want one. She could go outside to get it for you.” At least that would be one less hostage in the bank.
“Why would I want a bullhorn when I’ve got all this money?” He lowered the gun back to his side. His head jerked repeatedly.
She glanced at Joanie, then the bank president, then the guard who hadn’t moved since he’d crashed to the floor. She realized she appeared to be the only one thinking in the room. Or the only one about to get sent straight to heaven for mouthing off.
“That way you could talk to them about what you’ll need for your getaway,” she said.
He wrinkled his forehead. Sweat beads popped on his upper lip. “Good idea. ‘Cept you make the call, and you go out to get it.”
That hadn’t gone as she planned. She nodded and made the call before heading to the front door.
Leon stepped in front of her, gun pointed at Joanie. “If you don’t come back, nobody else is leavin’. Got that?”
“Got it.”
…
Marcy stepped out the door into the brisk warmth of a fall morning. The clock at the corner of Third and Main struck the half hour. Her eyes scanned the scene in front of her. Two police cars stationed across the street sat silent, but their lights flashed a warning.
The stocky, sandy-haired deputy and one other cop stood behind a police cruiser directly in front of her. On her left, the tall, lean rookie crouched on the far side of the second car, his gun drawn and steadied on the top of the trunk.
Another man, likely law enforcement, although not in uniform, leaned against the far, rear fender of a car a few spots down. The man ignored the events on the street. Back to the bank and on his cell phone, he looked as if he dared anyone to bother him.
Her insides twisted when he moved away from the cruiser. Even from that angle, his six-foot-one stance and the dark-brown hair skimming the collar of his leather jacket were more than familiar. Familiar enough to make her insides zing with recognition.
Stretched taut across his back, the coat moved with him as he walked away. She knew every muscle beneath that jacket. All the scars. Didn’t need to see his face, she’d recognize those shoulders anywhere—Jean Bernard Bradley.
JB to the world. More than JB to her.
Bullhorn in hand, Deputy Evans trudged from behind the car and stepped in her direction. He looked more agitated than concerned. From the slump of his shoulders and the lines in his face, he’d probably been up for hours getting the kids ready for school while his wife fixed breakfast.
