Page 28 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Every tactical calculation I have lights up and runs:
Backstop: if I shoot, where does the round go? Behind Beard is the bakery case and a wall; behind Clean-shaven, the plate glass window and then open sidewalk. Beard’s the safer shot.
Angles: if I move two steps right, the pillar between booths gives me partial cover and reduces their line of fire to a narrow lane. I can protect Jasmine’s position behind the counter better from there.
Hands: Beard’s grip is relaxed—cocky—but his finger is on the trigger, not indexed. Clean-shaven’s stance is sloppy, knees locked, but he’ll jitter-shoot if he spooks. Jitter-shooters are the ones who hit civilians.
Time: Backup is three to five minutes if they are close, more if they’re wrangling Mr. Pritchard’s goat. I can’t give these two that much time.
I shift right, deliberate, no hurry. “Guns down,” I repeat, calmer now. “Nobody wants to die by a lemon bar.”
Jasmine’s mouth twitches, like a laugh got lost on the way out.
Beard grins. It isn’t pleasant. “How about you put yours down first, Sheriff? Show of good faith.”
“Last time I checked,” I say, “robbery doesn’t come with trust exercises.”
Clean-shaven’s eyes flick to Jasmine—just for a heartbeat. I file it. That’s the one who’s going to try to control the room with threats. Beard’s the one who’s here for the thrill.
“Down,” I say. “Both of you. Now.”
They keep coming. Two slow steps. Three. Their boots are surprisingly quiet on tile.
“Give me a reason,” I warn, and I’m not bluffing. I don’t want to fire in here. I will if I must.
A shadow moves in my left periphery—a figure behind the kitchen pass, crouched. Sarah, probably. God, stay down. My chest is a live wire. The AC kicks on with a soft click; the bell over the door sways once, a tiny, stupid pendulum.
I take another controlled half-step back, aligning myself with the pillar. My left hand feels for the edge of the booth seat—anchor point. My right eye stays on Beard’s front sight, the bead clear, the world blurred around it like the camera chose the right thing to love.
“Copper,” Beard says, voice almost amused. “You know how this goes. You walk out. We walk out. Everybody gets pancakes later.”
“Pancakes are a reward for not pulling guns on women,” I say. “Last chance.”
He lifts his pistol one inch.
I tighten, ready to fire first.
The world narrows to a breath and a heartbeat and a bead of light at the end of a barrel.
I hear the sirens then, distant, but on the way, bouncing off storefront glass like hopeful echoes. Beard hears them too; something mean flickers through his eyes. Clean-shaven flinches, shifts his weight, and I choose.
“Drop it!” I bark, and my voice ricochets off chrome and tile. “Do not make me shoot you.”
