Free Tiny Little Thing by Beatriz Williams Page B

Em.
    As Cap knew he would. Because only training—constant, immersive, reactive training—can counter the faults of human instinct.
    Or anyway. Cap was willing to take the chance.
    He aimed for the gun first, knocking it out of the wiseguy’s hand in one swift strike of his elbow. He howled. Em fell free. Cap reached back for a killer punch to the man’s saggy jaw.
    Jingle, jingle. The door swung open. Cap released the punch regardless. The man dropped like a sack of vanquished flour.
    Cap turned to the door, expecting to see a flood of dark blue, Boston’s finest, but instead there’s another man in a dark suit and a brown fedora, pointing a gun straight to his chest.
    The lookout.
    “Hands in the air.”
    Cap lifted his hands slowly. He couldn’t see the back booth from here. He cast out the net of his senses, hearing and smell and touch, the vibration in the air, searching for some sign that Tiny was still crouching unseen underneath the table, where he left her. Her three-carat engagement ring still sat in his inside jacket pocket. A stupid place to put it, but what else was he going to do?
    “Take off his hat.” The lookout nodded to the man in the first booth, whose wallet sat on the edge of the table.
    “His hat?”
    “Take it off. Nice and easy.”
    The gun was pointed straight at Cap’s heart. This man knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Not like the fleshy idiot lying motionless on the floor. Why was this one, the competent one, stuck with lookout duty? Lookout was the idiot’s job.
    Cap reached for the hat and lifted it gently from the man’s head.
    “See? That wasn’t so hard. No one needs to be a hero. Now put the wallet in the hat.”
    Cap picked up the wallet and dropped it in the hat.
    “Atta boy.” The man raised his voice. “Now, all of you, take your wallets out of your pockets and put them on the table. Nice and easy, so this nice man here can put them in the hat.”
    There was a second of shocked silence.
    Where the hell were the police? Hadn’t someone called from the kitchen in the back?
    The man fired his gun into the ceiling. “Now!”
    A shower of plaster fell on his shoulders. A woman screamed, a faint pathetic little noise. He pointed the gun back at Cap. “No funny business, either!”
    Okay, then. Keep the man’s focus right here, on Cap, until the police arrive. No one gets hurt, that’s the main thing.
    Let the police take care of it, Cap. Don’t be a hero. We don’t need a hero, here. Just a regular guy to keep the gun occupied, to drag his feet until the police saunter on up.
    The man jiggled the gun. Under his fedora, a faint sheen of sweat caught the light.
    “Go on. Next booth. Keep it moving.”
    Cap dragged his feet to the next booth. The woman there, a woman in a cheerful yellow suit, dropped a little coin purse into the hat with shaking fingers.
    “Open the pocketbook, lady,” said the man at his side.
    “But . . .”
    “Open the pocketbook.”
    She unhooked the clasp and opened her pocketbook.
    Someone was whimpering behind him. The little boy.
Mommy, Mommy,
he whined.
    The man nudged Cap with his gun. “Empty it out.”
    Cap took the pocketbook and shook it out over the table. A wad of Kleenex, a tube of lipstick, a battered compact, a pen, a couple of rubber bands. A neat roll of dollar bills, the housekeeping money.
    “What have we here,” said the man. He picked up the roll and dropped it neatly in the hat. “Next.”
    Two more booths, three more wallets. The whimpering was getting louder now, accompanied by a low and constant moan, the boy’s mother. The only sounds in the coffee shop, except for the gravelly hum of some electric appliance he’d never noticed before. He and the crook were getting closer to the booth in the corner now, where Tiny was hiding.
    Where the sweet hell were the police? Cap glanced at the door.
    “Lady! What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing?”
    Cap turned his head, and Jesus H. Christ.
    There she was, Tiny