While there existed a certain quiet peace at a gas station at two am, Deputy US Marshal Tim Gutterson was in a less than meditative mood when he pulled into 'Harry's!', glaring at the fuel gauge of his SUV as he did.
A long, long day at the Marshal's office, or rather out of it, literally, physically chasing around all day after a recent custody jumper had left Tim aching and weary, wanting nothing more than some fast food and to put on a film to drift asleep to, but apparently, fate had other plans.
While the fuel gauge was telling him the tank was at least a third full, more than enough fuel for him for potentially another two weeks if he drove it right and kept up his own maintenance, the car had begun to cough and judder as if the tank was running empty and the vehicle was struggling on what little fuel it had left within.
'Harrys!', the absolutely fascinatingly laid out sign was a twenty four hour place that sat, conveniently, directly on Tim's route home. While this made for easy refills on a regular basis, today was not regular. The car acting like it was out of fuel, or close, while the gauge gave out totally different information meant one of two things; there was a problem with his gauge, or his tank, and neither one would be that easy to fix. He had to hope it held on long enough to get a mechanic on his upcoming day off, or even the following evening after work.
Whatever was gonna happen over the next day or so, Tim had to deal with what he could now.
He figured twenty five dollars in the tank would get him home, to and from work the following day, and to a mechanic after that, unless there was a crack in the tank. He didn't want to fill it on the off chance it would be a waste of money, depending what the problem turned out to be.
He rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his head from side to side until something popped and the ache in his neck and back subsided significantly. While he was tired, he was also a former Army Ranger, and a long day like this would be just the start of your days work back in Afghanistan. A few stretches and maybe a sip of coffee would see him fighting fit if he should happen to get called back to the office, ready to go for another dozen hours or more.
The gas station was mostly empty, a few other cars parked around. Two sat by pumps, another one parked near the front entrance of the station. In a small employee lot to the side of the building, a beat up, POS pick-up truck sat at a shoddy angle in the parking bay. Tim knew the truck, knew the dipshit kid who drove it, a mouth breather named Algernon who took great pleasure in the fact Tim was a former Ranger, spewing ugly racist shit about 'Them Bastards' Tim had fought against when ever Tim had to go in. For what ever reason, he figured if Tim had gone over to the Middle East, it had to be borne of a desire to shoot brown people, which, naturally, was entirely wrong;
Tim had joined the Army, then the Rangers because he'd dropped out of High school after dad broke seven of his ribs and his arm, and Tim spent so much time in hospital that he couldn't possibly pass. Taking a GED at home meant not leaving right away and since Tim was fairly certain he'd have died in that house, he took himself to a recruiting station and the rest was history. He'd passed the GED easily, in less time than most of his fellow recruits in the room as it had never been about not being smart enough.
But if you tried telling just about anybody that, they nodded and smiled and reached for the flyer for a Klan rally.
Seeing his truck parked up made Tim's heart sink a little. He preferred Harry, the owner of the place, or one of his kids, his three sons and daughter frequently taking shifts at the store. The kids were polite, hard workers, well educated and politically aware. They were respectful of Tim's service without ignorantly hating the people he'd fought against and Tim was usually happy to chat for a while, if time allowed, when he stopped by for his regular fill up.
Algernon had actually been absent from the day shifts lately and now Tim saw why. The kid was on the graveyard shift and even as Tim began to fill up, he could see through the doors and windows, Algernon slumped over the counter and looking utterly miserable.
Tim felt no pity. The kid was racist and ugly in it, always saying just enough to make Tim suspect he was part of some hate group, somewhere. He wore long sleeves in all weather, edges of tattoos sometimes peeking out from beneath the sleeves and kept a skin head hidden beneath a beanie hat. In Tim's experience, the combination of verbal racism, hidden tats and a regularly shaved head said poor things about the person who had all three.
The pump told him he had exactly twenty five dollars of gas in the car, Tim not having to think too hard to make it land exactly, having perfected the skill over years of practice. He allowed himself a victory smile and rolled his neck again, the ache returning quickly, bringing with it a scratchiness at the back of his throat. He headed for the door, already fishing his money from his pocket as he went, aiming to drop the twenty five on the counter and leave before Algernon started in on asking how many 'rag heads' Tim had taken out in Afghanistan, figuring if he was getting sick, he could pick something up tomorrow and he'd ride out however bad it got tonight. That was how much Algernon pissed him off.
The night air was already cool, but the AC in 'Harry's!' was perpetually set to 'Arctic', and Tim shivered a little when the super cold air crept under his clothes as he crossed the floor. The store wasn't laid out like most. Most gas stations placed the counter behind rows of shelves, the idea/hope being that on your way through you'd be overcome by the desire to buy chips or soda, anything at all to help the owners make a profit since half the gas money went to the provider. Harry didn't truck with that, keeping the shelves to the left, leaving a clear route to the counter. He figured if people wanted more than just gas, they'd buy more than just gas.
Algernon glanced up as Tim approached, and with one look, Tim knew something was wrong.
Algernon looked pale, drawn, lips pressed together in tight lines. His eyes flickered to Tim's right even as Tim heard the 'snick't' of a shotgun being cocked.
He heard a curse as a shell was ejected from the gun, saying a silent 'thank you' to all the Movies and TV shows that convinced people you needed to cock a shotgun to arm it, when in fact it would just eject a shell every time.
"Don't fuckin' move" a voice, from behind Tim, growled, and Tim complied, going completely and totally still.
"Shit, fuck" the person to his right was spitting.
Tim flicked his eyes to the curved security mirror that hung on the wall near the counter. It was angled to let the teller see the rest of the store from the counter, nestled beside a CCTV camera.
Tim could see the rows of shelves leading to the big fridges at the back, the shelves lines with brightly coloured snacks and drinks. He could see a small group of customers, or perhaps now, hostages, huddled together between the shelves. A gunman stood over them, a sawn off shotgun pointed vaguely in their direction. If he fired, with them huddled so close together, he could hurt or even kill a lot of people.
Surrounding Tim, there was the guy behind him, who held a shotgun in his arms and a handgun tucked in to his belt, and to Tim's left, the chump who had cocked his shotgun and wasted a round for no good reason, the guy wavering between holding his weapon on Tim and trying to spot his lost shell.
"You get your hands up" the guy behind Tim was snarling.
All three wore dark clothes, looked younger than Tim but older than Algernon, somewhere in their twenties. Two were white, the two nearest Tim, the kid guarding the hostages looking olive skinned, possibly Latino.
"before I do I got to give you fair warning" Tim spoke quietly, keeping his voice calm "I'm a Marshal. There's a gun on my belt but I'm not gonna reach for it, I just don't want you be surprised"
"You're a pig?" the guy behind snapped.
"No. I'm a Marshal" Tim corrected "You want me to put my hands up?"
"Do it, slow. Eddie, get his gun off've him" the guy ordered "You got any other guns Marshal?" he asked of Tim.
"Got one in a holster in the small of my back" Tim told him "Side arm and back up"
"And after that?" the guy snarled.
"Nothing" Tim lied easily and well, not mentioning the gun he had strapped to his ankle, the combat blade in a sheath on his other calf, the flick knife in his pocket or just the Army Ranger training that meant he could probably kill these dip shits with a packet of chips if he could just get that sawn off facing away from the hostages "So did I time this badly or what?" he asked as 'Eddie', shoving the barrel of the shotgun into Tim's ribs, stepped in to take the visible weapons.
"Get his cuffs" the apparent boss was ordering "Cuff him"
Tim swallowed a curse "Man, take what ever it is you came for and go, I ain't gonna stop you"
"Shut up" the leader snapped.
Eddie had Tim's side arm, shoving it into his own pocket before reaching for the back up, and the cuffs. He struggled for a second with the holster, having to tuck his shotgun into the crook of his arm. Every instinct Tim had was telling him to turn around, break Eddie's nose and arm, take the shotgun and shoot the leader in the chest with it. He knew he could do it and how quick it would be. But the sawn off was still pointing at the huddled hostages and Tim couldn't predict how quickly or readily the kid holding it may use it. He could raise it to go after Tim, or fire into the crowd of people. So Tim let his gun be taken, his cuffs, turning slowly and holding up his hands.
Eddie didn't think about it, cuffing his wrists together in the front. It would be a mistake he'd regret, Tim would make certain.
The leader was striding forwards as Eddie stepped back, and Tim said another silent curse as he saw the butt of the shotgun come up.
He tried to bow his body before it hit, reduce the impact, but it slammed into his gut and he felt all of the air in his body whoosh out of his mouth, leaving him gasping and on his knees.
The barrel of the gun was jammed against his neck as he wheezed and coughed, fairly positive he would be sick.
"Alright lardass" the leader was talking to Algernon "Where was we before this faggot walked in?"
"I can't open the safe" Algernon squeaked, the usual bravado and bluster in his voice totally absent "The boss won't give me the code"
"So who has it?" the leader snarled, shoving the barrel of his harder against Tim's neck.
Tim felt a growl of pain and frustration leave his throat, the leader hearing it and turning his mad eyed glare towards Tim "You got a problem, faggot?" he asked.
Tim shook his head but the guy wasn't satisfied, swinging the back of his hand into Tim's cheek. A ring he wore caught and pulled, Tim feeling the hot sting of a new wound, the first trickle of blood on his skin. He glanced at the hostage holder, the kid having finally turned away from the hostages.
So Tim moved. His cuffed hands came up and wrapped around the barrel of the shotgun, tugging forwards as he started to rise up. The leader was yanked off balance and directly into Tim's rising knee, his nose flattening against Tim's knee cap. It hurt Tim but he was already moving, using the gun as a club to send 'Eddie' sprawling before striding over to the remaining kid.
This guy was smarter and just immediately let his sawn off swung from his finger and hold his hands out.
"Algernon, come here" Tim snarled as he took the gun from the kid and told him to lay on his belly with his arms and legs splayed.
One of the hostages was an older guy who looked less distressed than the others and Tim nodded to him. The guy was on his feet in a second, taking the sawn off and striding back into the main space to cover the other two as Tim stood on the third guys hand.
"Can anyone reach in my right hand pocket and fetch my keys for these cuffs?" he asked politely.
A college aged looking girl held up a shaky hand and did as asked, unlocking the cuffs faster than her shivering should have allowed. She was visibly steeling herself, calming herself, as the silver bracelet slipped away.
"Take those keys and go to my SUV outside, there's more cuffs in the glove compartment" Tim told her and she nodded and took off running.
Tim cuffed his guy, hauling him up and marching him to meet the rest of his friends.
Algernon had emerged from behind the counter, staring in open mouthed shock at the beaten and bruised pair. The guy Tim had nodded at was smart, recognising there was one of him and two of them. He stood beside the leader, one boot resting on the guys calf, the sawn off aimed firmly at Eddie. Eddie was no threat, by now, drooling and dazed, but the leader was conscious and pissed about it.
"You call the cops?" Tim asked, Algernon nodding dumbly "Tell em I was here?"
Another nod.
Tim shoved the third kid down, making him lay flat with his cuffed hands held awkwardly above his head. He moved to the other two, taking their weapons away and piling them up atop the counter.
It took about four minutes for a patrol car to pull up, sirens screaming, a second sounding about a minute behind. The college girl had returned with the cuffs, all three men now bound and laid out, revealing herself to be a nursing student and using a first aid kit from the shelves to cover up the bleeding gash on Tim's cheek after probing it to check his cheekbone or eye socket weren't broken.
Algernon had produced a bag of ice and a towel to wrap it in, Tim holding it to his cheek to try and get ahead of the inevitable swelling.
The cops raced in, guns raised, slowing to a halt at the site of three gunmen laid prone and Tim leaning against the counter in a manner that defined 'casual'.
"Uh…we got a call about an armed robbery?" one of them asked "You the Marshal?"
"That's me" Tim told them "Guess I walked in on 'em"
"So…I guess this is all…alright then" the cop gave a small smirk "You're the Ranger, right, Gutterson? Hot damn, kid" he nodded, impressed "Remind me to call you next time I got a hot house to raid"
"Man" Tim sighed, his gut and head beginning to ache in earnest now that the situation was in other peoples hands "I just wanted some gas"