Gunning For Secrets, Jo Gunning Thrillers: Book 7

Sample Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

A few minutes before all hell broke loose, Jo Gunning walked toward the National Bank in downtown Dallas. The April morning sun felt good on her back, and no one was paying any attention to her—just the way she wanted it. This particular bank branch was on the smaller end, located on the ground floor of a tall high-rise several blocks from her hotel.

She pushed through a set of revolving doors into the building’s spacious lobby, then strolled into the bank. At a high counter with four teller windows across the room, a young man with long brown hair pulled into a ponytail was helping an elderly woman with a transaction. Jo couldn’t make out their conversation, but she could hear the tenor of the woman’s voice, high and shaky. Another teller—plump and middle-aged—waited at the next window. Behind the counter, a large wall-mounted TV displayed graphs of financial information, then shifted to a news story about the murder of a local journalist. A woman in a skirt and heels stood at a high table in the center of the lobby. She finished writing and started toward the waiting teller.

Jo approached the high table, and as she looked for a form to complete her transaction, her gaze roamed the room, taking in the rest. A few desks sat across from the teller counter, each occupied. A Hispanic man at one, typing on his keyboard. His desk phone rang, and he answered it, frowning and speaking in a low tone as he glanced around. A woman with long black hair sat at another; she finished a transaction with a younger couple, and they got up to leave. A stern-looking man in a suit occupied the third desk, his hair flecked with gray, bifocals perched on his nose. He was checking a file and scratching his head.

The room was cool, even though the Texas day outside was in the low seventies. Jo—ex-Army and Civil Affairs—took in the information quickly. It was second-nature to her. Being observant had saved her life many times, most recently in Prescott, Arizona, when she’d run afoul of human traffickers. Her experience and a little luck had saved her life. She’d stayed in Prescott while an investigation had been conducted, and then she’d wandered east. She would soon need to travel to Alabama, where she was expected at the trial for Rance Pollack, a dangerous man who’d been involved in the drug trade. But for now, she didn’t need to be anywhere, and as she found the correct banking form, the soft elevator music playing in the background seemed to confirm it.

Everything seemed ordinary, until it wasn’t.

Jo was reaching for a pen when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye—three men entering the bank through the glass door. All wore dark clothes and masks that fully covered their faces. She couldn’t even see their eyes. As she turned for a better look, they were reaching into their coats for weapons.

“This is a robbery!” one of them barked. Tall, with broad shoulders and big hands, he was built like a quarterback and carried a large black duffel bag. His pistol swept the room. “Do as we say and no one gets hurt!”

He moved toward the desks, while another stalked toward Jo and the teller counter. Behind him, the third robber pulled something from his pocket. He was tall, and he reached up and fiddled with the locks on the door. Jo couldn’t tell what else he did as the second one moved toward the tellers, pistol raised. A Beretta, common but deadly. Easily concealed, but solid firepower.

“Back away from the counter and raise your arms!” he snarled at the two tellers.

They did as he said. Jo knew there had to be some kind of silent alarm button that one of the employees could’ve pushed, but had they? And even if the police were going to respond, the robbers were moving quickly.

“Anyone else back there?” the second one said. He had a way of talking in grunts, as if there were sandpaper in his throat.

The young man with the ponytail nodded. “One more.”

The two remaining customers were paralyzed, fear etched on their faces. The tall man rushed around the lobby, reaching up and closing blinds, leaving a shaft of light shining through the glass entrance door. His long arms stretched out as he leapt deftly over the counter. He moved past the terrified tellers and disappeared through a side door. Jo knew he’d be carefully checking the rest of the premises. Jo presumed there would be other bank employees.

The second robber turned to her. She stood her ground, staring into his blue eyes.

“Go,” he snarled. He jerked his head toward a door to the right of the teller counter.

Jo did so warily, assessing whether she could take him down. Grunt—as she now thought of him—stood several feet away. She could dive at him and probably disable him, but she didn’t know if he’d pull the trigger. She might be hit—or worse, someone else. Better to do as he said, for the moment.

As those thoughts raced through her mind, the broad-shouldered man hustled the people who’d been sitting at the desks past her. The three employees had their hands up, and their eyes were wide. They paused at the side door with Jo. In the meantime, Stretch had reappeared behind the teller counter with a stocky man whose mouth moved, but no words came out.

“Clear,” the robber called out.

Jo was correct. The stocky man was the only other person at the back of the bank.

Stretch stood with pistol at the ready, covering that man and the tellers. Grunt was ordering the two customers at the counter toward the side door. The well-dressed woman was shaking, and Jo thought the elderly one might faint. As she approached, Jo murmured at her.

“It’s okay.” The woman nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Jo whispered, trying to get the woman to focus on something other than her fear.

“Barbara McCarthy.”

Jo smiled at her, and she momentarily relaxed. As the group stood there, Grunt approached Jo’s group. He pointed to the side door.

“Who can open that?”

The employees shifted nervously, and the gray-haired man who’d been at his desk when they stormed in raised his hand.

“I can.”

“Do it,” Grunt said.

The man approached the door on wobbly legs, took a keycard from his pocket, and opened the door. As Grunt held it open and covered the group, and the man with the athletic build—QB in her mind—roughly searched each of them, emptying their pockets and throwing their belongings across the lobby. When he got to Jo, he pulled out her phone, her credit card and driver’s license, some cash, and a small military knife. She traveled light, with only a few changes of clothes at her hotel, a mile away. He didn’t say anything when he saw the knife, just threw it with the other stuff. Then he shoved her out of the way. At the same time, Stretch told the two tellers and the stocky man to carefully empty their pockets and throw their belongings over the counter.

QB motioned for the hostages to go through the door. “Do anything stupid, you’re dead,” he said to them.

At the same time, Stretch gestured with his pistol to the side door. “Through there,” he ordered the tellers and the stocky man.

The plump woman turned and went through the teller door first, followed by the man with the ponytail and the stocky man. As Jo followed her group, she kept assessing the situation. All three robbers wore the same tactical pants, lightweight nylon black jackets, black gloves, and the combat-style black boots. Their ski masks were high-tech, with breathable material that covered everything, even their eyes. Each carried a Beretta. They were coordinated, in sync; they knew what they were doing. Very efficient. Even their movements didn’t allow much to distinguish them from one another.

Jo passed the door to the teller area and glanced inside. The tall one wasn’t trying to get cash out of any drawers or a cash dispenser. He was nowhere in sight, and she couldn’t hear him either. At the end of a hallway, Grunt gestured to an open door on the left. He’d dropped the duffel bag on the floor.

“In there,” he said, then stood back, Beretta raised.

The tellers and the other employees went in first, followed by the two women, and finally Jo. The storage room had metal shelves and a long counter with cabinets. No windows, no pictures on the walls. The two bank customers leaned against the shelves, along with the man in the suit and the stocky man from the back of the bank. The two tellers and the Hispanic man stood to Jo’s left, the black-haired woman on her right.

“Sit on the floor, backs to the wall or cabinets,” Grunt ordered. They all did as they were told. “Put your hands on your knees where I can see them,” he said.

They all complied once more as he stood in the hallway, the pistol still on them.

“We good?” QB called out from down the hall.

“Yes,” Grunt replied.

Jo listened for Stretch’s voice, but she didn’t hear anything. The big-handed man appeared, standing in the hall. They stood with pistols ready, waiting. Jo glanced around. There were nine people, including her, all crammed into the storage room—waiting to see what happened next.

 

Renée Pawlish has another winner you won't want to miss. She is able to sustain a series with intricate plots, strong characters, and thrilling suspense. You never have to worry about boring copy and paste fillers taking up half of the book to reiterate details from earlier books in the series. I highly recommend any of her books, especially since they provide exciting reading without graphic violence, sex or bad language. ~Reader review