The waitress killed the interior lights.
Red emergency illumination remained above the kitchen doors.
The diner changed instantly from ordinary to trapped.
The girl crossed the room toward the biker.
This time he did not wait for permission.
He crouched.
“Listen to me.”
She nodded quickly.
“There’s a storage room behind the kitchen.”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
He frowned.
“No?”
“My mom said never let anybody put me somewhere I can't see an exit.”
The biker felt another piece of admiration for the missing mother.
“Fair.”
The diner owner said, “There’s a crawl access beneath the old freezer.”
The marshal looked at him.
“Where does it exit?”
“Drainage ditch behind the propane cage.”
The biker shook his head.
“They have someone behind the building.”
The marshal agreed.
A knock came from the front door.
Three slow taps.
Nobody moved.
Then a voice.
“Federal agents.”
The marshal’s face hardened.
The biker whispered, “Yours?”
“Maybe.”
The voice continued.
“We're here for the protected minor.”
The girl stepped closer to the biker.
The marshal approached the door but stayed behind the wall.
“Identification against the glass.”
A credential wallet appeared.
The marshal studied it from an angle.
He swore quietly.
“Recognize?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
The marshal shook his head.
“Too good.”
The man outside was the supervisory deputy who had approved the safe apartment.
The exact person who knew their location before it was breached.
The biker understood.
“Leak.”
The marshal nodded.
Outside, the supervisor called:
“We have orders to transfer the child immediately.”
The marshal answered, “From whom?”
“Washington.”
“Control number?”
Silence.
Then the supervisor gave one.
The marshal looked disturbed.
“What?”
“It’s valid format.”
“But?”
“It belongs to a different operation.”
The biker almost smiled.
“Your boss got lazy.”
The marshal did not.
“He got desperate.”
Glass shattered near the kitchen.
Everyone ducked.
Not a bullet.
A thrown metal object.
Smoke began pouring from a broken side window.
The waitress coughed.
The diner owner shouted, “Gas!”
The marshal yelled:
“Back!”
The biker grabbed the girl and moved.
White smoke filled the room rapidly.
The truckers overturned tables to block the front aisle.
One of them wrapped a wet towel around his face.
The biker looked at the girl.
“Can you run?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The marshal pointed toward the kitchen.
“Freezer access.”
The girl protested.
The biker said, “This time we know where it exits.”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
They moved through the kitchen.
Behind them, someone began forcing the front door.
The diner owner fired one shotgun blast into the ceiling.