No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

flesh of his throat, or his eyes. No time for hesitation. It was
possible, she knew, but not exactly plan A.
The cracked mortar under the counter, she remembered.
The loose stone.
That could be useful.
She stood and approached the coffee counter, pretending
to fill another Styrofoam cup. When no one was looking, she
raised her right foot, rested it on the wobbly stone, and leaned
forward. She applied a little pressure, then more, then more —
fussing with the COFEE carafe’s lever to conceal the noise —
until the stone popped free and clacked to the tile floor. Lars,
Ed, and Ashley didn’t notice. Sandi glanced up briefly, and
then resumed reading.
When the woman’s eyes were back in her paperback,
Darby scooped it up. It was a little smaller than a hockey puck,
smooth and egg-shaped. Just large enough to bash out a few
bloody teeth, or to throw hard. She pocketed the cold rock and
returned to her seat on the bench, taking mental inventory.
A two-inch knife.
A medium-sized rock.
And a single .45-caliber bullet.
I’m going to need help, she realized.
She could try and take down Lars herself, of course.
Surprise him, injure him, twist the gun from his jacket and
detain him with it until the snowplows arrived at dawn. Hogtie
him with his own electrical tape, maybe. And if things went to
hell, she supposed she’d be mentally prepared to kill him. But
attempting it right now, solo, would be irresponsible. She
needed to share her discovery with someone else here, in case
Lars managed to overpower her and quietly hide her body
without the others realizing. She couldn’t save Jay if she got
herself killed first.
The difference between a hero and a victim?
Timing.