Chapter 4 - The Fire and the Proof
The black sedan didn't park in the shadows. It pulled up directly onto the concrete apron in front of the diner’s glass doors, its high beams blinding Hannah as she stood behind the register.
The doors opened, and four men stepped out into the freezing night air.
It was the scarred man, his thin associate, and two heavy-built enforcers carrying leather gloved hands tucked deep into their dark overcoats. They pushed through the front door of Millie's Diner, the brass bell ringing wildly against the glass.
The scarred man walked straight to the counter. He didn't look at the menu. He looked at Hannah’s face, then at the empty floor behind her.
"Where is he?" the scarred man demanded.
"Where is who?" Hannah asked, her hands resting flat on the register. "I told you on the phone—a guy in a silver truck bought cigarettes and left."
The shorter man didn't waste time talking. He walked behind the counter, kicked open the swinging wooden door, and shoved his way into the kitchen. The sound of pots crashing and metal shelves being overturned echoed out into the dining room.
"Hey!" Rita yelled, stepping out of the pantry holding a wooden rolling pin. "Get the hell out of my kitchen!"
One of the heavy enforcers grabbed Rita by the arm, shoving her roughly into a vinyl booth. "Sit down, old woman, unless you want your neck broken!"
"Leave her alone!" Hannah shouted, taking a step toward them.
The scarred man grabbed Hannah by her navy apron, pulling her across the formica counter until her face was inches from his. The smell of cheap tobacco and stale rain was overwhelming.
"Don't play games with me, girl," he snarled, pulling a heavy black handgun from his coat and pressing the cold steel barrel directly against her temple. "We found his tire tracks in the mud outside your drive-thru window. The Expedition was here five minutes ago."
Hannah’s heart pounded so hard she felt lightheaded, but she forced herself to meet his dark, murderous eyes without flinching.
"He drove up to the window," Hannah lied, her voice steady and clear. "He asked if we had a mechanic on duty because his radiator was overheating. I told him the nearest service station was four miles down Route 66. He didn't even turn off his engine. He just drove off down the back road toward the river."
The scarred man stared at her, searching her face for any flicker of hesitation.
"Route 66?" the shorter man called out, stepping back out of the kitchen, holding the empty thermos Hannah had used earlier. "There’s fresh tire tracks heading down County Road 12 toward the old gravel pits!"
The scarred man slowly lowered the gun from Hannah’s temple, though he didn't let go of her apron.
"If you're lying to me, Hannah," he whispered, his voice smooth and terrifying, "I’ll come back here and burn this diner down with you inside it."
He shoved her back against the register. "Let's go! Cut him off at the river bridge!"
The four men turned and rushed out the door, jumping into their sedan. The tires squealed violently on the wet pavement as the vehicle roared down County Road 12, disappearing into the dark, snow-covered woods.
The moment they were gone, Hannah ran to Rita, helping the older woman up from the booth.
"Are you okay, Rita?" Hannah gasped, her hands trembling.
"I'm fine, honey," Rita wheezed, rubbing her bruised arm. "Just mad enough to spit fire. Did the boy get away?"
"He took the gravel trail," Hannah said, looking out the window toward the dark woods. "He’s head-start by five minutes, but those men have high-speed sedans. If they catch him at the narrow river bridge, he won't have anywhere to run."
Hannah looked down at the receipt printer on the register.
Then she looked at the pickle jar.
Inside the jar were all the receipts from the past eight days—the timestamped proof of every single visit, every coffee bought, and every minute Julian had spent at the diner. But more importantly, in her pocket was the receipt Julian had given her, carrying the private number of his loyal lieutenant in St. Louis.
"Rita," Hannah said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous resolve. "Where is your nephew’s 4x4 truck?"
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"Parked behind the dumpster," Rita said, frowning. "Why?"
"Because Julian Valente is trying to save an orphan baby," Hannah said, grabbing her heavy winter coat and her car keys. "And I'm not letting those bastards murder them in my woods."
