Interlude at Duane's by F. Paul Wilson

Author:F. Paul Wilson [Wilson, F. Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781488094576
Publisher: MIRA Books
Published: 2006-03-13T05:00:00+00:00

EMPLOYEES ONLY

He pulled it open and stuck his head inside. Empty except for a table and some sandwich wrappers. And no goddamn exit.

Feet pounded his way from behind to the left. He slammed the door hard and ran right. He stopped at the first endcap and dared a peek.

Jamal rounded the bend and slid to a halt before the door, a big grin on his face.

“Gotcha now, asshole.”

In a crouch, gun ready, he yanked open the door. After a few heartbeats he stepped into the room.

Here was Jack’s chance. He squeezed his wrist through the leather thong in the barbecue spatula’s handle, then raised it to vertical in a two-handed samurai grip, serrated edge forward.

Then he moved, gliding in behind Jamal and swinging at his head. Maybe the guy heard something, maybe he saw a shadow, maybe he had a sixth sense. Whatever the reason, he ducked to the side and the chop landed wide. Jamal howled as the edge bit into his meaty shoulder. Jack raised the spatula for a backhand strike, but the big guy proved more agile than he looked. He rolled and raised his pistol.

Jack swung the spatula at it, made contact, but the blade bounced off without knocking the gun free.

Time to go.

He was in motion before Jamal could aim. The first shot splintered the door frame a couple of inches to the left of his head as he dived for the opening. He hit the floor and rolled as the second went high.

Four shots. That left two—unless Jamal had brought extras. Somehow he couldn’t imagine a guy like Jamal thinking that far ahead.

On his way toward the rear, switching aisles at every opportunity, he heard Ecuador shouting from the far side of the store.

“Jamal! You get him? You get him?”

“No. Fucker almost got me! I catch him I’m gonna skin him alive.”

“Ain’t got time for that! The truck be here soon! We gotta get inna the safe! Wilkins! Get back here and start lookin!”

“Who’s gonna watch the front?”

“Fuck the front! We’re locked in, ain’t we?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Find him!”

“A’ight. Guess I’ll have to show you guys how it’s done.”

Jack now had a pretty good idea where Ecuador and Jamal were—too near the barbecue section to risk going back. So he moved ahead. Toward Wilkins. He sensed that if this chain had a weak link, Wilkins was it.

Along the way he scanned the shelves. He still had the spatula, the comb and the butane match but needed something flammable.

Antibiotic ointments…laxatives…marshmallows…

Shit.

He zigged and zagged until he found the hair-care aisle. Possibilities here. Needed a spray can.

What the—?

Every goddamn bottle was pump action. He needed fluorocarbons. Where were the fluorocarbons when you needed them?

He ran down to the deodorant section. Everything here was either a roll-on or a smear-on. Whatever happened to Right Guard?

He spotted a green can on a bottom shelf, half hidden behind a Mitchum’s floor display. Brut. He grabbed it and scanned the label.

DANGER: Contents under pressure…flammable…

Yes!

Then he heard Wilkins ambling along the neighboring aisle, calling in a high, singsong tone.

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