It all happened in a manner of seconds as Chase took in the man behind the counter, pale, alarmed, eyes wide, staring at him. The guy said nothing. His hands were up. Chase saw movement, and then someone was pointing a gun toward slick behind the counter. The guy holding it was short, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and the only thing that registered was that the gun was now pointed at him. Someone was yelling, and everything went into slow motion: the yelling, the movement of the gun and the skinny guy holding it.
“Drop the gun,” Chase said. His hand went out, knocking over a rack of candy, and he grabbed the guy’s wrist as it swung toward him. He took in the scar that ran up the inside of the arm holding the gun—slender, not a lot of muscle.
Someone screamed behind him, and the gun went off. Glass shattered, but he didn’t let it go. Was he hit? Adrenaline surged. He had no idea. He knocked the hat off the guy, and long hair spilled out, a freckled face. Huge bright blue eyes stared up at him from the face of a girl, a teenager. Shit!
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