Chapter 3 - The Gas Station Alibi
Hannah felt her heart slam against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hand tightened on the hard plastic receiver until her knuckles turned white.
Julian watched her with razor-sharp intensity. His hand was firmly inside his coat now, resting on the grip of a hidden weapon, his body positioned between the window and the baby.
"Hannah?" the scarred man’s voice rasped over the speaker. "I asked you a question."
Hannah took a slow, silent breath through her nose, forcing her voice to drop into the tired, bored cadence she used whenever a customer complained about cold soup.
"A black Expedition?" Hannah said, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. "Mister, it's twenty degrees outside and three in the morning. A truck pulled in five minutes ago, but it wasn't an Expedition. It was a silver Ford pickup."
Silence stretched over the line. Two seconds. Three seconds.
"You sure about that, girl?" the man asked, his tone darkening.
"I know what a truck looks like," Hannah replied testily. "The guy got out, used the bathroom, bought a pack of Marlboros, and left. If you want to come buy coffee, come on in, but stop calling me while I'm trying to mop the floor."
She didn't wait for a reply. She slammed the receiver back onto the wall hook.
She turned back to Julian, her face pale. "They're two miles away at the weigh station. They saw your car take the exit."
"They have spotters on the highway," Julian said, his eyes flashing with lethal calculations. "They didn't see me pull in; they just saw the vehicle profile on the traffic camera. But they're coming. They'll be here in three minutes."
"You can't drive back onto I-55," Hannah said rapidly, her mind racing. "There's only one highway on-ramp from here. If you drive out, they'll box you in on the bridge."
"Is there a back road?"
"County Road 12," Hannah said, pointing toward the dark woods behind the diner. "It runs parallel to the river through the old gravel pits. It's unpaved and full of ruts, but it connects to Route 66 six miles south. No traffic cameras."
Julian looked at her, a profound look of respect settling into his dark eyes. "You're smart, Hannah."
"I grew up in these woods," she said, leaning over the counter. "Now go! Take the kitchen exit through the back alley!"
"Wait," Julian stopped, pulling a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and dropping it onto the counter. "Take this."
"I don't want your money!"
"It's not for you," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper. "It's for the diner. When Moretti’s men get here and realize you lied, they're going to search this place. You and the old woman need to leave right now. Take your car and drive to your family's house. Don't come back here until I call you."
Hannah stared at the money, then at Julian, then at little Leo, who opened his hazel eyes, blinking sleepily at her.
"How will you call me?" Hannah asked.
Julian grabbed the blue ballpoint pen from the counter, grabbed a blank receipt from the register roll, and wrote a private, encrypted phone number on the back. He shoved it into Hannah’s palm, pressing her fingers shut over it.
"Keep the receipt," Julian whispered, his face inches from hers. "If anything happens to me, call that number and ask for Marco. Tell him the eagle is in the valley."
Before Hannah could answer, the kitchen door swung open, and Rita stepped out, holding two warm, foil-wrapped apple pies and a large thermos filled with hot water and powdered baby formula.
"You aren't going anywhere on empty stomachs," Rita said sternly, shoving the food into Julian’s coat pocket. "Now get out the back before those bastards arrive!"
Julian looked at the two women. A rare, breathtaking smile broke across his exhausted face—a brief glimpse of the warm, generous man he had been before violence stole his family.
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"Thank you," Julian said softly.
He turned and vanished through the kitchen, the heavy steel fire door clicking shut behind him just as the bright headlights of a black sedan swept across the front windows of Millie's Diner.
