He jiggled the car keys in his hand, ready to get back in and drive should McClane confirm his suspicion. “Are we being watched?”
How the hell should I know? McClane asked, somewhere between irritated and embarrassed—probably by his lack of omniscience, Riley supposed. He glanced around casually, scanning the road, the sidewalk, the parking lot on the other side of the street, hoping his passenger might pick up something.
Straight ahead. Diner, McClane offered finally.
Confused, Riley looked up and saw a little girl with her nose pressed against the dirty glass front of the diner he’d chosen. Her mouth was smeared with syrup and her eyes observing him with rapt attention. Their gazes locked for a moment and she grinned at him cheekily and waved.
Riley smiled back instinctively and tipped his hat, which made her giggle and squirm in her seat until her mother noticed and redirected her attention to her half-eaten breakfast with a small smile of her own in Riley’s direction.
“I think I’m getting paranoid,” Riley sighed and locked the car.
The diner was one of several narrow businesses lined up like oversized shoeboxes in a squat, C-shaped building. It was flanked by a comic book store on the one side and a busy hair and nail studio on the other. Someone had had high hopes for the place at some point and decorated it lovingly, but the colors had long since faded in the cruel desert sun and the lettering on the window that proudly declared that this was
“Dotty’s Diner” had seen better days.
Charming place, McClane commented, somewhat skeptical. I can see the grease on the counter from here. I hope Dotty can at least cook.
Riley didn’t have the heart to point out that Dotty had probably either moved on or was suffering from severe disillusionment. He didn’t want to discuss his choice of eating establishment because then he’d have to admit to McClane and himself that the primary reason why he’d picked the place was that it was so close to the I-10. He just wanted to eat and get back on the road. He could feel the uneasiness creep up on him again, fueled by the persistent itch between his shoulder blades. He told himself it was probably nothing. A bad taste left in his mouth because of what had happened at the roadhouse. A lingering chill caused by his nightmare about Misha.
Only it wasn’t.
He hesitated halfway across the parking lot, gut churning in increasing anxiety. In a spur of the moment decision, he turned around, walked back to the truck, and climbed in again to search through his bag and pull out his father’s old H&K pistol. He stared at it for a long moment, unhappily. He wasn’t the type of man who made a habit out of carrying guns. He could handle the weapon and was a decent shot, but it was a skill he kept honed because it reminded him of his dad, not because he was particularly interested in it. The knife throwing was fun, but he’d never developed a taste for shooting.