No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

Sandi gasped, covering her mouth.
“When … when they realize we’re not running to the
truck,” Darby said to everyone, “they’re going to change their
tactics and come for us. They have no choice, because we’re
all witnesses now, and we have their hostage. So this building
is going to be our Alamo. For the next four hours.”
She pulled the final item from her pocket — she’d almost
forgotten about it — and placed it on the faux-granite
countertop with an emphatic click. It was Lars’s .45-caliber
cartridge, gleaming gold in the harsh light.
Seeing the bullet made Sandi collapse into her seat,
burying her red cheeks in her hands. “Oh, Jesus Christ. We are
not going to last four minutes—”
Darby ignored her. “First, we need to block the window.”
“Alright.” Ed pointed. “Help me flip that table.”
* * *
Ashley watched the window darken.
A broad shape moved against the glass from the inside,
rotating upward, reducing the orange light to glowing cracks.
He imagined the glass creaking with pressure.
“Oh, Darbs.” He spat in the snow. “I love you.”
Lars glanced over to him. He was crouched in a diligent
firing stance by the Ford’s tailgate, his elbow resting on the
bumper, his Beretta aimed at the front door.
“Don’t bother,” Ashley said. “They’re not coming out.
She called the ambush.”
“How?”
“She just did.” He stood up and walked a few paces,
cracking his sore vertebrae, stretching his legs, inhaling the
alpine air. “Jesus, isn’t she something? I just … I just love that
little redhead.”