Here is the second thing Leo did not know: Booth nine was occupied.
It was the last booth along the far wall, half-swallowed by shadow because the overhead fluorescent tube had been flickering for two weeks. Sitting in that booth were four men, eating quietly.
Mike Callahan had ordered the patty melt and a black coffee. At forty-eight, he had hands that looked like they’d been carved from ironwood and eyes the particular shade of gray that exists just before a storm makes up its mind. He was the charter president of a Hells Angels chapter out of San Bernardino. He had ridden through three states in the last four days, thinking about a younger version of himself who had made choices he couldn't always justify. Mike did not consider himself a good man, but he considered himself an honest one. He had a code, and that code had kept him alive and mostly whole for nearly three decades.
Across from him sat Bobby Gallagher, the chapter's sergeant-at-arms. Bobby was reading a trucking magazine and eating scrambled eggs. Being responsible for the physical security of the chapter meant Bobby noticed things the way other people breathed. He had noticed, for example, that the gravel outside had crunched differently twice in the last seven minutes. It wasn't the heavy crunch of an eighteen-wheeler. It was the careful, hesitant crunch of someone trying not to make noise.
Bobby didn't say a word. He simply set down his magazine and picked up his coffee.
Next to him was Declan Reed. Ex-military, three tours—two he never discussed, one he couldn't legally discuss. At forty-one, Declan moved like a man who expected the ground beneath him to explode at any moment. He carried his silence with total deliberateness. He had been eating a slice of apple pie. Slowly, he put his fork down.
Garrett Hayes, the youngest at twenty-nine, was big through the shoulders with a cinder-block jaw. He had been enthusiastically telling Mike about his seven-year-old daughter's obsession with horses. But when Bobby set down the magazine and Declan dropped his fork, Garrett stopped talking.
He looked at Bobby. Bobby looked at the front door.
That was the entire communication. Garrett placed both massive hands flat on the tabletop. They were ready.
Outside, Leo gripped the Mossberg. He could feel his pulse hammering in his palms, behind his eyes, in the soles of his feet. He needed to look like he’d done this a hundred times, because Corey had a short fuse and a long history of cracking under pressure.
"On three," Leo whispered. "On three," Corey repeated.
Leo counted.
The glass door of the Pioneer Wells Diner burst open with a violent crash.
Brenda Kowalski had her back to the door, refilling the napkin dispensers. Her reading glasses were pushed up on her head, her orthopedic shoes planted firmly on the worn linoleum. The sound hit her like a physical blow. She spun around, knocking over a dispenser, and gripped the counter.
"Everybody down! Down! This is not a joke! Get down on the floor right now!"
Leo’s voice cracked on the word joke, which he immediately hated, but his body was moving. The shotgun was up. The diner suddenly felt blindingly bright and impossibly small.