He wasn't going to wait for the police. He was going to smash the glass.
"Gary," Bear said, his voice dropping an octave. "Take the girl into the back office. Lock the steel door. Do not open it for anyone but a uniformed police officer. You understand me?"
"But—"
"Do it now!" Bear roared.
Gary grabbed the little girl's hand and bolted toward the back of the store, disappearing through a heavy gray door and throwing the deadbolt.
Bear turned back to the front just as the man in the polo shirt lifted the concrete trash can lid over his head, his face twisted into an ugly, desperate snarl.
The first strike hit the glass with a deafening crack.
Chapter 2: The Standoff
The heavy pane of reinforced safety glass didn't shatter entirely, but a massive, spiderwebbed fracture exploded outward from the center of the impact. The sound was like a gunshot echoing through the quiet convenience store.
Bear didn't flinch. He stood his ground, watching the man in the polo shirt pull the concrete lid back for a second swing.
The man’s face was completely transformed now. The reasonable, concerned father was gone. In his place was a cornered animal, desperate and violent. He swung the lid again.
CRACK.
More glass splintered. Small shards rained down onto the interior doormat, glittering under the harsh fluorescent lights. The frame of the door groaned in protest. One more solid hit, and the entire pane was going to give way.
Bear reached down to his belt. He didn't draw the heavy, fixed-blade knife sheathed there, but he rested his hand on the handle, feeling the familiar, worn leather. He didn't want to use it. If he pulled a weapon and cut this man, the arriving police would have all the excuse they needed to shoot Bear on sight.
He needed an alternative.
He glanced around the front of the store. Next to the door was a heavy, freestanding metal rack filled with motor oil and windshield washer fluid.
Outside, the man hoisted the concrete lid for a third time, his chest heaving with exertion.
Bear stepped to the side, grabbed the metal rack, and shoved it forward with all his strength. Hundreds of pounds of plastic bottles and steel framing slammed against the inside of the glass door just as the concrete lid struck the outside.
The glass finally shattered, collapsing inward in a wave of sharp, cubed fragments. But instead of an open pathway, the man was met with the heavy metal frame of the display rack, completely blocking the entrance. Bottles of motor oil cascaded onto the floor, spilling slick, black fluid over the broken glass.
The man dropped the concrete lid. It hit the pavement with a heavy thud. He stood in the broken doorway, breathing hard, staring through the metal bars of the rack at Bear.
"You're making a mistake," the man panted, his voice dropping the pretense entirely. There was no more 'concerned father' routine. It was just cold, venomous threat. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"I know exactly what you are," Bear rumbled, stepping closer to the barricade. "I've scraped things like you off the bottom of my boots."
The man reached through the bars of the rack, trying to push it aside. It wouldn't budge. Bear had wedged it perfectly against the doorframe, and the spilled motor oil made the floor beneath it impossible to gain traction on.
"They're going to arrest you," the man sneered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "When the cops get here, I'm telling them you tried to abduct her. I'm telling them you attacked me. Look at you. Who are they going to believe?"
It was the psychological warfare again, and it was the only weapon the man had left.
"They're going to believe the little girl," Bear said calmly.
The man laughed, a short, ugly sound. "She's a kid. Kids get confused. I have photos of her on my phone. I have a whole story ready. You have nothing."
Bear stared at the man's khaki pants. The small, pink bulge in his right pocket was still there.