The rain was steady. The wheels hissed on the wet road all the way to the diner. Doc did not try to make small talk. She appreciated it more than she could have said. Roz's Roadside had never been so quiet on a Monday morning.
The open sign was on. The coffee was brewed. The grill was hot. But the regulars had not come. Word had gone around the county the way word did in a small town.
"Stay home Monday. Something's coming to Roz's. You don't need to see it." Only Hank, the old rancher, had come in at 6:30. Roz had handed him a cup of coffee and a biscuit and walked him right back out the door.
"Rosalyn," Hank had said, "what is happening in this diner?" "Hank, you go home. You call me tomorrow. I'll tell you then." "Is Delia all right?"
"She is going to be." Hank had stood on the porch a moment, then he had nodded. "You call me." "I will." By 7:30, the diner was full, but not with customers.
Wade sat at the counter in his cut. For the first time in 4 days, he was wearing it. The president's patch on his chest, the dead man's hand on his shoulder. Doc was in the booth by the window. Old Bill was at the back booth with a newspaper.
Three more men sat in the kitchen drinking coffee with Roz. Another four were out in the lot in two pickup trucks. And scattered around the neighborhood a block in every direction, the rest of Wade's men were at their posts. 28 men, most of them old. All I'm old.
All of them quiet. Behind the counter, wearing her apron, hair pulled back, stood Delia Brennan. Her hands were not shaking today. She did not know why. Maybe because she had cried all the tears she had.
Maybe because she was too tired to be afraid anymore. Or maybe because 30 men were watching over her. In the back hallway, out of sight of the dining room, sat Ezra. His wheelchair was angled so he could see the whole floor through the crack of the kitchen door. On the table beside him was a sidearm.
Not loaded. Wade had been clear. "Son, your being here is what matters. You are not pulling a trigger today." "Yes, Gunny."
FBI Special Agents Powell and Shaw were in the walk-in cooler with the door cracked. They had been there since 5:00. They would stay there until Wade gave the signal. Carl Weathers was in his cruiser three blocks away, parked at an angle where he could see the diner's front lot. He had a wire under his shirt.
He had not eaten breakfast. He had kissed his wife that morning and told her he loved her, and she had looked at him strange, and he had said, "Just because." The clock on the wall said 8:15. They waited. At 8:47, a black pickup truck pulled into the lot of Delia's empty house on the other side of town.
Donny Ray Brennan got out of the driver's seat. Six men got out with him. They were not his usual crew. His usual crew were small-timers. These six were bigger, harder, men he had brought down from Des Moines for the job.
Donny Ray had a pistol tucked in his belt. He had a second one in his boot. He had told his men this was going to be simple. A scared waitress, a crippled brother, in and out in 20 minutes. He walked up to the porch.
He tried the door. Locked. He nodded at the biggest of the six. The man took a step back and kicked the door in. They went inside.
The house was empty. Donny Ray stood in the living room, stood on the floral couch where he had sat eight days earlier. He looked around slow. "Where are they?" One of the men said.
Donny Ray's eyes fell on the coffee table. On the coffee table was a single piece of yellow legal pad paper, folded with his name on it. He picked it up. He opened it. In Delia's careful handwriting, it said, "Donny Ray, if you want to talk, I am at Rosa's.
Come alone or don't come. I am done running. Delia." Donny Ray stared at the paper a long time. Then he began to laugh.
"Boys," he said, "she wants a show. Let's give her a show." He crumpled the paper. He threw it on the coffee table. He walked out to the truck.
The truck headed for Rosa's. Across the street, parked in a green sedan with its hood up like it had broken down, a biker named Whiskey watched the pickup pull away. He picked up a handheld radio. "Preacher, rabbits in the boat, heading your way. Seven rabbits total.
ETA 9 minutes." At Rosa's, Wade keyed his own radio once. Click. The signal. Every man in the diner looked up at the clock.
9 minutes. At 8:56, the pickup pulled into Rosa's lot. Donny Ray sat in the driver's seat a moment. He looked through the big plate glass window into the diner. He could see Delia behind the counter wiping it down.
He could see one old biker in a booth reading a newspaper. He could see another old man at the counter hunched over coffee. It looked exactly like he had expected. A waitress, two old men, easy pickings. He checked his pistol.
He smiled. "Boys, I'll go in first with Reese and Halley. You four stay out here, watch the lot. Anybody comes up, you take them. Understand?"
Three nods. Engine off. Doors slamming. Donny Ray walked up to the door of Rosa's roadside diner at 8:57 on the morning of October 14th, 2019. He pushed the door open.
The little bell above the door chimed. Delia looked up from the counter. "Morning, cousin," he said. "Morning, Donny. Put the rag down, sweetheart.
We're going to have a conversation." Reese, the big one, stepped in behind him. Halley, the skinny one with the tattooed neck, stepped in on the other side. The other biker at the counter did not look up from his coffee. The one in the booth turned a page of his newspaper.
Donny Ray walked to the counter. He put his hands on it. "Cousin, you've had your little dramatic note. That was cute. Now you're going to give me what I came for."