He pulled the zipper of his windbreaker halfway down, started the car, and caught a reflection of himself in the rearview mirror. He was thirty-seven, but Cait had said that, with his features, he could have been any age between twenty and fifty. “You’ve got the face of a spy,” she’d said, laughing. “Handsome, but hard to remember.”
He drove away from the trim Colonial—smaller than most of the houses on the block, but neatly landscaped. When they’d first bought the house three years ago, Cait—on track to be the youngest partner in her law firm—had pronounced it a good starter house, considering the baby that would inevitably come along. But now, given just his income, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with the Joneses—or the Fosserts—in a pricey suburb like East Falls Church.
He made his way through the pleasant streets until he reached I-66, better known to locals as the Custis. Traffic was heavy, as usual, and given his car’s poor acceleration he had to wait nearly thirty seconds before he could merge. One victim of his budgeting was the Subaru, which he probably should have sold a year or two ago. But it had held out for 170,000 miles; chances were good it would last 30,000 more.
The laboring sound of the engine, and the aggressive traffic, kept him company until he turned off the Custis onto Highway 120 south, half an hour later. Maybe he should downsize, he thought for the hundredth time—but downsize to where? Most of northeastern Virginia was one overpriced suburb, save for tiny pockets here and there where the crime rate stubbornly refused to drop. He could move farther out, of course, to Fairfax or Springfield, or maybe someplace in Maryland. But he hated commuting, and the idea of spending more time each day on the road was like a lead weight on his soul. Besides, he was sure that—
Now the Subaru intruded into his thoughts again. In addition to its usual hum of complaint, it had started to make a regular ticking sound that—given all the Humvees he’d repaired in a previous life—he recognized with dismay as a failing timing belt.
He continued down 120 for a few miles, hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t: a few misfires confirmed the diagnosis. Now he was left with a choice. He could gamble, wait to get home and repair it himself. But the risk—a damaged piston, bent valve, maybe even a cracked cylinder block—didn’t seem worth it, especially if he wanted to trade it in once it rolled over 200K.
That meant leaving the highway, pulling into a gas station, and seeing what the damage to his wallet would be.
With a muttered curse, he took the next exit. Here, at least, fortune smiled on him: the off-ramp emptied onto the kind of anonymous commercial strip replete with fast food joints, cheap motels…and service stations. If he lived here, he mused, his commute would be much easier. Affordable, too. But of course it was one of those spots where nobody wanted to live and real estate would be a lousy investment.
He drove a few blocks, looking for a gas station with a promising-looking auto shop attached. He chose one on the opposite side of the four-lane road, with a convenience store grafted to one side, set close beside a forlorn-looking creek. He pulled in next to the shop—cars on the lifts, but no mechanics in sight—and, zipping up his windbreaker, walked into the store.
It was then he realized that fortune wasn’t smiling on him after all—and that this might be the start of a very bad day.
Even before the glass-fronted door closed behind him, he understood a robbery was in progress. A skinny man, hair askew and clothes wrinkled, was standing just behind the sales counter, gun trained alternately on a cashier and the small group of people—two mechanics, an elderly patron, and what looked like another shop employee—standing close together on the far side of the lotto rack.
As the door chime sounded, the man turned, gun swinging wildly. Lime froze, then raised his arms slowly, fingers apart, careful not to further antagonize the gunman.
“Get over there,” the man said in a reedy voice, directing Lime to join the hostages on the far side of the counter.
Lime did as he was told, and the gunman turned back to the clerk, resuming a conversation that had been interrupted. “You’re full of shit,” he said. “You gotta have more than that.”
“Swear to God,” the cashier said, voice trembling nervously. “It’s still early. There’s only a hundred, a hundred and twenty maybe, in the till.” He took a step back. “Look for yourself.”
The gunman didn’t move. “What about the safe?”
“Only management has access to that, man,” the clerk replied. He was sweating and obviously—at least to Lime—telling the truth.