Two things were wrong about Justine’s initial assessment of this unbelievable situation.

  One, the old woman exploding out of the girl’s restroom wasn’t really a witch. Two, the old woman was just a homeless guy hiding behind a cheap Halloween mask.

  Well, she thought, at least I was right about the shotgun.

  With a slight stagger, the witch started pointing his shotgun at the people nearest to him. To her right, two other men in masks appeared, pushing their way up to the counter. Dressed in torn jeans and hand me down jackets, neither wasted any time pulling out a couple of beat up semi-automatics.

  Was her favorite Starbucks really getting robbed by a ghost and a zombie?

  Behind her, the witch with the shotgun slurred his words, “Give us the fucking money, all the money.”

  The guy reeked of alcohol and filth so badly that Justine almost threw up. She was dreaming, right? How could another shootout be happening around her? This couldn’t be happening, not again.

  Then, the first shot rang out and embedded itself into the ceiling. Snapped back to reality by the smell of burnt gun powder, Justine’s senses instantly became sharper, more heightened.

  “You heard him, bitch. Clean out the registers and the safe!” The man beneath the ghost mask screamed as he leaned over the counter and placed his gun up against the barista’s temple. During this, the zombie pushed Justine back away from the counter. Soon, she found herself corralled into a small group of customers huddling next to each other.

  “Now!” Ghost face screamed at the top of his lungs. “You won’t get a second warning!”

  In response, the stunned woman stood rigid while her eyes and mouth wordlessly screamed out in terror. The zombie gave her about half a second to comply before grabbing her shirt collar and pushing hard against it. Weighing less than 100 pounds, she went flying backward into the wall like a rag doll. For the first time since the ordeal began, the young woman found her voice. “Don’t kill us… please!!!”

  On the verge of another scream, Ghost face’s tirade was interrupted by a movement from an office door somewhere behind the coffee machines. A tall, lanky Hispanic man moved tentatively forward. Dressed in a cheap shirt and tie, Justine surmised he was the manager. And from the way his hands were shaking, it was clear that he was scared shitless.

  “Excuse me,” His voice was weak but steady. “I’m the manager. We’ll gladly cooperate. Barbara, please open the drawers.” He tried to force a set of keys into her trembling hands. Unable to make them work the way they should, she let them drop to the floor without even trying to catch them.

  Ghost face screamed something inaudible through his mask. Though Justine could swear it was something like, “I’ll kill you all.”

  Fed up, he pressed his gun against the manager’s forehead. His knuckles were bone white from squeezing the pistol, and the crowd let out a collective gasp in anticipation of what would happen next. Before anything terrible could occur, another employee scrambled forward and snatched the keys up from the floor.

  “I’ve got it, Barbara.”

  A young college kid, with a nametag that read JASON “TRAINEE,” hurried over to the register closest to the door. Visibly shaken, he inserted the key into the lock and began cycling through the cash out functions. After a few keystrokes, the drawer popped open, and he looked to Ghost face for what to do next.

  “Bag it,” he hissed, though the sight of cold hard cash seemed to calm him down slightly.

  “Yes, sir.” Without having to be told twice, Jason stuffed the bills into a small paper bag that he had retrieved from underneath the counter.

  “All the fucking money kid, we want all the fucking money.” The witch pointed his shotgun toward a young couple trying very hard to stuff themselves underneath a small table for cover. As they squirmed, the witch burst out in a fit of drunken laughter. He kicked hard at the table which sent their fashionable laptop crashing to the floor.

  “All the fucking money,” he repeated like a broken record. “We want all the fucking money.”

  Trying his best to stay calm, the manager pleaded again to bring order back to a chaotic situation. “You can have all the money in the registers. It’s yours.” He looked from ghost face to Jason, then back to ghost face with his forehead soaked with sweat. “But the safe is on a time delay. I can’t open that. No one can.”

  Ghost face swung his hand around and shoved his gun back into the manager’s face. “You can open it. The timer only has a 9-minute delay. Stop dragging your ass. Besides,” he looked back at the other two felonious trick-or-treaters. “We’ll wait.”

  Dumbstruck, the manager’s brow wrinkled, and Justine knew a question had just entered his mind. How could they know about the time limit on the safe?

  Justine knew, though. She had begun to worry about this being an inside job from the very beginning. For all their threats and bravado, the fact that they were wearing masks was a good sign. It meant that these guys just wanted the money. But as time dragged on, another possibility took shape.

  Her worst fear was that an ex-employee hid beneath one of those masks, and if the manager happened to recognize one of them. Well, desperate men tend not to leave witnesses.

  Just then, a young woman dressed in tight jeans and a leather jacket stumbled drunkenly back into Justine. Here to sober up from last night’s party, she didn’t even bother to apologize. Fortunately, the stumble forced her back into someone else, someone who during the commotion had slipped out of Justine’s thoughts and precariously into the background.

  The ex-marine shifted his feet slightly as his thick frame seemed to attract the other hostages like moons around a giant planet. So many moons that he was finding it challenging to carve out space for him and his clients.

  Justine rotated her body around and tried to catch his eye. Six inches shorter than him, her first attempts only half garnered his interest. When he finally did notice her, the first thing she did was silently mouth the words “FBI” to him. Confused, the bodyguard stared her up and down with a skeptical eye. After all, she was wearing a worn-out Georgetown sweatshirt and a pair of thermal running sweats.

  Also, he found it tough to believe that this girl in a ponytail was an FBI agent.

  But Justine had a way of making people trust her. And in some cases, fear her. So when she leveled her brown eyes on him with a penetrating stare, he only resisted for a second before eventually relenting. Pressed for time, she chanced a whisper. “Why aren’t you doing something?”

  The bodyguard kept his eyes locked on hers. He silently put his arm out to the side and pushed the French couple further behind him. The gesture signaled what he was willing to do, or more precisely, what he wasn’t. The customers cowering around them were secondary in the hierarchy of his concerns.

  Justine fumed at the jarhead.

  This prick was going to leave these innocent people to the whims of the Hobo’s 11. She was more than tempted to punch the guy in the throat. But this thought quickly subsided because she knew not everyone shared her sense of morality. Why would they? Besides, if these idiots stayed composed for the next two minutes, then she wouldn’t’ have to do something stupid like intervene.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Inside her head, she could hear Saunders saying, “Eleven shootings in five years? That has got to be some kind of record.”

  Back at the counter, Jason finished emptying the last register into a bag. Then, the kid handed it over the booty to Ghost face who greedily accepted it. Immediately, Jason backed away and knelt next to a still sobbing Barbara.

  “It’ll be ok.” He said in a soothing voice. “I’m here.”

  “Cute,” Ghost Face said in a villainously mocking tone. “Open the fucking safe, Jimmy. Your nine minutes are almost up.” The robber stuffed the bag of money into his coat pocket, then turned toward the crowd. “We all want to be out of here before the cops show up. Don’t we?”

  The manager bent down to check the time on the safe. The countdown timer had just rolled past two minutes when the back of his mind made a connection that it shouldn’t have. He looked up. The ghost mask was in pretty good shape, but the cloth openings for the eyes had become worn and faded. Faded enough to see the person behind them.

  “Brad?” The manager asked in disbelief. “Brad, is that you?”

  Justine’s stomach hit the floor. The manager extraordinaire had just made a connection that could cost him his life. “Shit!” Her inner voice screamed as she searched around to see the other robber’s reaction to this revelation. Zombie remained silent. While the witch, completely plastered on whatever he had been drinking just before he busted out of that bathroom, started singing “Give us the fucking money” at the top of his voice.

  In retaliation for his transgression, Brad cracked the manager on the side of the skull with his gun. The blow dropped the manager to his knees like a sack of potatoes.

  “Who the fuck is Brad? Your boyfriend? We just want the money, not a rundown of your pathetic dating life.”

  Blood streaming from his temple, the manager stared at Brad, searching for a way to reason with him. But Brad didn’t want to reason. Brad wanted the money. He cocked the hammer of his pistol as a signal that there would be no more threats. The manager immediately got the hint.

  “Money, right…” He broke off his stare and focused on the safe. “One more minute.”

  Justine knew it was decision time. Was there going to be a smooth getaway or a bloody one? Contrary to her FBI personnel file, she preferred the smooth one. But since the manager put two and two together, the more likely outcome was the crew would kill the manager to protect their identities. Or worse, the other two might even try and cap Brad, and a lot of innocent people would die in the crossfire.

  Worst of all, Justine was unarmed.

  “He knows who you are.” Zombie’s voice was calm, determined, and fucking scary as hell. “He knows your name.”

  Too focused on the manager to take Zombie’s words seriously, Brad still seemed willing to leave here without making a mess. However, Justine heard the threat quite clearly. In that instant, the decision on whether to act was made for her. No more debate. It was time to act.

  Without wasting another second, she spun around and stood up on her tip toes. Quickly, she planted a slobbering kiss on the bodyguard’s unsuspecting mouth. He reacted to this by simultaneously kissing her and pulling away. This embrace only lasted a second, and when they finally broke apart, Justine squealed like a lovesick puppy dog.

  “You loved it” She loudly whispered before wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and screaming. “How could I ever live without you? This could be the end, and you’ve never even told me that you loved me!”

  Not wanting to play along with her ruse, the bodyguard tried his best to push her away. But Justine was stronger than she looked. The two of them fumbled around awkwardly with each other for a couple of moments before he finally managed to break free of her embrace and yell. “You’re a crazy bitch!”

  “Honey! That wasn’t very nice.”

  Already having what she needed, Justine pretended to take his not so subtle hint by backing away. As they separated, she noticed Brad had taken an interest in their little scene. Right away, she played even further into the act by forcing out some fake tears — anything to keep their attention away from the truth.

  “I don’t have time for this love bullshit.” Brad turned back to Zombie and said, “We can deal with this later. Lock it up!”

  The order seemed to work because Zombie began to back out of his partner’s sight line. However, Justine recognized what was happening right away. It was a ploy. And as soon as the manager cracked open that safe, Zombie was likely going to shoot Brad in the back of the head, then double tap the manager just to be sure.

  The witch, mainly forgotten by the other two, began to converse with himself in an even louder voice. “The money, my money; it’s all my money!”

  As drunk as he was, she wasn’t too worried about his aim. However, if he started unloading his shotgun, even firing blind, there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop him from piling up the bodies. The witch would have to be dealt with before that could happen.

  “It’s open.” The manager forced a smile. But his bloodied face made him look more like a ghoul than the drunken witch. Brad lowered his weapon slightly, signaling to the manager that this might turn out all right. But it wouldn’t. Even under his jacket, Justine could see Zombie’s shoulders tense up as he prepared to strike.

  The order, she firmly told herself, would be important.

  Her first move was to push the bodyguard hard against the chest. Caught completely off guard, he fell back into the French couple and together they landed unceremoniously onto some potted plants. That left one person between her and the witch. But there wasn’t enough time to shove them out of the way. So, a ringing eardrum and some powder burns would be this person’s price to remain breathing.

  Justine aimed the best she could at a covered target and squeezed the trigger on the bodyguard’s Glock. In response, the bullet left the barrel traveling at 1200 feet per second. At that speed, the mask obscuring her target’s facial features mattered very little to her hobbled aim.

  The bullet found it’s mark, and the witch fell limply to the floor.

  All at once, the crowd around her began to scatter. In the commotion, the clear shot she had at the other two was now obstructed by a half dozen scared customers scrambling toward the exit. Spooked, Zombie fired his first shot at Brad’s head, but the bullet went wide right. Behind the counter, ornate tiles exploded from the impact. The fragments peppered his face, but he somehow held steady to his gun without firing it.

  The manager, thinking only of himself, immediately dropped to the floor. While Jason, thinking only of Barbara, threw himself over her cowering form trying to shield her from any errant shots. Meanwhile, she wasn’t thinking at all. Tears just continued to stream over her cheeks, as her admirer kept watch.

  Finally realizing something was wrong, Brad quickly trained his weapon on Zombie’s chest. For a second, the two criminals stood there like extras from a John Woo movie pointing their guns at one another.

  Two seconds passed, and her sightline eventually became clear of innocents. Justine leveled her weapon on Zombie and screamed. “FBI! Drop your weapon and lay on the floor… now!!!”

  Brad half reacted to Justine’s command and lowered his gun slightly. Zombie also responded, just in the opposite way.

  Without preamble, he fired. This time, the masked robber found his mark as the bullet pierced Brad’s shoulder. Instinctively, Brad let rip with a primal scream, then fell back against the counter clutching the wound. Blood poured from between his clenched fingers as his gun went crashing to the tile floor.

  Zombie knew he had the upper hand and quickly moved to fire again.

  Justine was quicker, though. She had fired her borrowed weapon the second after Zombie’s bullet tore into Brad’s shoulder. Her aim, unencumbered by a thick neoprene mask, easily hit her target. The bullet entered the robber’s skull through the left temple. The force spun him around like a strange, deathly ballerina. Soon after, his body bounced off the counter before crumpling onto the floor in a bloody heap.

  Justine rushed forward to secure the room. As she did, she clutched the back of Brad’s jacket, slinging him to the ground like a discarded coat. The crack team’s last survivor screamed out in pain.

  “My bad.” She wrenched his hands into a submissive position behind his back. “Sorry about the pain, but you should have just slept in this morning.”

  Justine adjusted her knee slightly as Brad cried out once again.

  “You’re right,” Justine acknowledged his pain while she ripped off the zombie mask. “I should have clipped him before he shot you. But Brad… you’re the bad guy.” The manager, sensing the worst was over, peeked out from behind the counter. She barked at his pallid face. “Call the police!”

  Justine scanned the periphery of the store, which was now almost empty save for two dead bodies and an understandably shaken barista staff. Through the commotion, she caught sight of the bodyguard hustling his French couple into the back of their Escalade. He didn’t come back inside for his weapon, let alone see if she needed any assistance. No, he just scurried into the driver’s seat then proceeded to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  In the distance, Justine could hear loud sirens heading in her direction. The local police would be on site in less than a minute.

  Brad moaned softly. Blood from his wound began pooling on the floor. Justine watched it envelop the same straw she’d been looking at a few minutes ago before all this went down. “Why did I let this happen again?” She muttered, thumbing on the safety. Then, with more force than she meant to, she tapped the gun’s barrel against the back of his head. Another soft moan escaped his bloody lips.

  “You think you’re suffering, Brad? Do you know how much paperwork is involved in a police shooting? Not to mention that I should have met up with Jeff over an hour ago.” Outside, three DC Metro cruisers stopped just short of the front door. “Do you think the people coming to arrest you will write me an excuse?”

  The only thing the man lying beneath her knee could offer was a gurgled cough. “You’re probably right, Brad. I don’t think they will either.”