"Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus," he mutters. He's fine.
Another crash, louder this time, makes me sit up. The armored truck is out of sight and the bystanders in cars and on the street slowly rise from the pavement. A construction worker helps the police out of their overturned car ten feet to my left. The gunfire stops a second later, and I let out the breath I was holding. I think it's--nope.
The gunfire begins again, moving closer. Time progresses slowly. The few people still on the street sprint inside for cover. My driver starts praying again and ducks down as a man in full tactical SWAT gear and balaclava lays covering fire behind himself as he rounds the corner. Coming right for us.
I don't think. I just do. My hand reaches inside my purse, pulling out the Taser and pearl handled .22 I carry for just such emergencies. I have to time this just right. I peek through my shattered side window. With the gun now in my waistband and Taser in hand, as the shooter runs beside the front passenger door, I throw mine open with all my might. It hits home. He smashes right into the door, chest and legs first. Dazed, he drops the Uzi and falls to the cement with a groan. The moment he wipes out, I zap his leg with the Taser. His body convulses, then grows still when I release the button. I know from experience how scrambled the bastard's brain is now. Good.
On shaky everything, I manage to climb out of the car, training the .22 on the stunned man. The Uzi has skidded out of reach but not the Glock on his belt. Breathing heavily, I crouch down and retrieve it, throwing the .22 into the town car. I keep the Glock on him as I Taser him again. I'll just keep zapping until the cavalry arrives.
"Holy shit." My gaze whips up toward the man who steps out of the store in front of me. More people follow him. That's when I realize the gunfire around the corner has stopped.
"Everyone get back ins--"
Quick movement to my right startles me enough to turn the gun that way. As if materializing from thin air, a tall man in a black and white costume with "WN" on his broad chest appears. My gun is trained right on his completely masked face where only the eyes are visible. They lock on mine, and he's suddenly breathing as heavily as I am, gasping even. The man raises his hands in surrender. "Please lower your weapon," he whispers for some reason. "I'm one of the good guys." That voice literally sends a chill down my spine as if someone walked over my grave. Why--
"Lower your weapon," another man shouts. I glance left to find a bleeding police officer approaching, pistol right on me.
I toss the Glock near the Uzi. "You guys are welcome," I say cattily.
The, I'm assuming, hero lowers his hands as the officer steps beside me. "Got this?" the hero asks in that same low tone that can barely be heard over the oncoming sirens.
"Yes, sir," the officer says, pulling out his cuffs.
The hero nods, then looks back at me, eyes burring on my face. He stares but when I try to meet his eyes, he gazes down. "I…" His mask moves where his mouth should be but no more noise comes out. Instead he grabs me by the shoulders hard enough to hurt, giving me one quick shake. "Never do that again." He releases me, and disappears as fast as he came.
I roll my eyes. Sometimes I really hate superheroes.
*
Better late than never. I return home five hours later than planned what with giving my statement, accompanying my driver to the hospital after he went into shock, followed by a traffic jam to the airport. I'm glad I broke that bastard's nose for all the trouble he and his friends caused me. On the plane I was waiting for the panic attack, or at least cathartic crying jag, but neither reared their ugly heads. Instead I fell asleep until Shannon woke me when we landed. Both she and Dobbs knew better than to ask questions. We drop Shannon off at her apartment and drive home listening to the news. The robbery didn't go national, and I can only pray my name doesn't get leaked or it will. I don't want certain people to worry. When we walk into the mansion, without a word Dobbs and I go our separate ways. I can tell he's worried, but I don't want to talk about it. Ever.
I strip off my clothes--even now shards of glass tumble out--and climb into the scalding shower until I prune. I feel nothing. I heard four police officers were injured, two civilians were shot, but no fatalities. My driver, who I learned is named Luis after we spent an hour in the hospital waiting room, is now at home with his wife and babies, no doubt hugging them tight. Lucky bastard in every damn sense. I towel off, throw on pajamas, and slide into bed. Okay, really I stare at the phone on my nightstand, buzzing with nervous energy like I'm about to supernova. I lose track of how long I do this, willing it to ring or for me to pick it up and dial.