A Gunman Had a Young Waitress at His Mercy — Then an Old Biker Walked Through the Door

“Sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll take a black coffee. Whenever you’re ready.”

The man with the gun laughed. Short. Like a bark.

“You deaf or stupid?”

“Neither,” I said. “Just thirsty.”

He swung the barrel toward me. I watched the hole at the end of it. Black and round and patient. I’ve had guns pointed at me before. Three times overseas. Once in a parking lot in Tulsa. You’d think it gets easier. It doesn’t.