She froze. The cashier froze. Nobody moved.
Then a guy in a leather vest and road-dusted boots walked through the door. He’d been filling up his bike outside. He saw the gun. He saw Lauren’s belly. And he didn’t run. He didn’t call for help.
He dropped his shoulder and drove straight into the man’s ribs like a linebacker. The gun went off. The bullet caught the biker in his upper chest. He went down. The gunman stumbled, dropped the weapon, and ran out the door.
Lauren told me the biker hit the tile floor and didn’t get back up. She said his vest had a patch on the back she couldn’t read because of all the blood. She said she got on her knees next to him and pressed her hands against the wound because she didn’t know what else to do.
She said she could feel his heartbeat through her fingers. Fast at first. Then slower.
