Page 102 of The Body in the Backyard

“Hands up!” shouted the first guy. He was wearing a buttercup-yellow ski mask that looked like he’d gotten it in the children’s section. Nick was ninety percent sure the gun in his gloved hand was a toy with the orange tip painted black.

“Everybody on the ground,” insisted the second, who waved a definitely real twelve-gauge shotgun with cobwebs on the barrel at them. A neck tattoo of a spider peeked out of the neckline of his sweatshirt.

The third was a head shorter than his buddies. He and his Ruger semiautomatic with the safety still on hung back closer to the door.

Amateurs.

“Hey, mustache man. Open that register,” the one with the toy gun said to Wilfred.

“Make up your mind, boys. Hands up, on the ground, or open the cash drawer,” Nick said, gauging the distance between the gunmen and Griffin, who was cowering in his chair behind a jewelry insurance brochure.

“I don’t think they’re here for him, Nicky,” Weber said quietly as he put his hands in the air and stepped behind Nick, probably to hide the shiny badge on his belt.

Nick agreed. It was just his luck that buying an engagement ring would be interrupted by a couple of local boys who probably got tuned up at the fire hall and decided it was a nice night for an armed robbery.

The first gunman sneered through the mouth hole of his too-tight ski mask. “I told you to let me do the talking, DeWayne.”

“And I told you not to use my name, Virgil!” the rifle guy said.

“Both of you shut the fuck up. We want the cash and diamonds and a couple of them there fancy watches in this here bag,” the third guy said, tossing a paper shopping bag at Wilfred, who was clutching the feline Elizabeth Taylor in his hands over his head. Gabe was still sitting on the floor in lotus position with his hands up.

The door jingled open, and a man sporting a deep tan, a goatee, and fedora took one step inside. All the gun barrels in the store swiveled in the newcomer’s direction.

“I like your hat. Get out,” Nick said over the din.

The man took a sweeping glance around the store, then pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them aloft. “I’ll just come back…never,” he said, flashing a nervous smile in Griffin’s direction before backing out the way he’d come.

“Gentlemen, let’s talk this out,” Weber said, drawing the attention of the bad guys.

“These guns speak for themselves. Put the shinies—startin’ with them earrings or cuff links or whatever the hell they are—in the bag or Imma start puttin’ holes in big dude over there,” the third guy said, pointing his Ruger at Gabe.

“Hey, Gabe, you remember that hilarious joke you made in the kitchen?” Nick said, holding his hands at ear level and inching toward the third gun.

“I do,” Gabe said solemnly.

“Great. Practice makes perfect,” Nick said.

“Enough talking! Get on the goddamn floor,” the shotgun-wielding guy bellowed at Nick.

“Weber, you remember that time in that bar on Second Street?” Nick said, chancing another step forward.

“With the bachelorette party or the motorcycle club?”

“Motorcycle club.”

The third guy had had enough. He stepped forward and pressed the barrel of the Ruger against Nick’s sternum.

Nick grinned. “Now!”

With his left hand, he swept the gun to the floor while his right hand plowed into the man’s face, snapping his head back.

Gabe flowed to his feet, grabbed the yellow ski mask guy’s arm, and tossed him over his shoulder, sending him flying behind the counter before anyone could blink. Weber stepped into shotgun guy’s personal space with a spinning elbow that caught the bad guy square in the jaw.

Nick’s guy recovered first and charged. He was wiry but quick with his handsandfeet, Nick realized with an oath when he caught the toe of a cowboy boot to the midthigh.

Gabe’s quarry crawled out from behind the jewelry case and started throwing office supplies at Gabe, who batted them away.

Weber was wrestling shotgun guy on the floor, their limbs flailing. Wilfred was frantically pawing under the register. It took him a minute, but he stood back up, holding his nonfunctioning revolver in shaking hands.