Chapter 3 - THE PANTRY RUN
The glass in the dining room doors shattered inward.
Customers screamed in high-pitched terror.
Tables flipped over, crystal flutes crashing onto hardwood.
Thud-thud-thud.
Submachine gun fire chewed through the kitchen drywall.
Plaster exploded like white dust across the line.
"Down!" Roman roared.
His arm caught me by the waist.
He dragged me beneath the heavy stainless-steel prep table.
His body covered mine completely.
He grunted as his healing wound struck the edge of the metal shelf.
Fresh blood seeped through his white shirt, soaking into my collar.
"Roman! Your stitches!" I cried, trying to push him off.
"Be quiet, Megan," he hissed against my cheek.
His breath was ragged, hot with pain.
He drew a matte-black firearm from his waistband.
He didn't fire blindly.
He tracked the boots approaching through the smoke.
Two men in black tactical parkas kicked through the service doors.
They carried short-barreled automatic rifles.
"Vance is in the kitchen!" one shouted.
"Take the woman too! She saw the faces!"
Viktor stepped out from behind the walk-in freezer.
His gun coughed three times.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Both shooters collapsed onto the greasy floor tiles before their barrels could level.
"Rear alley is cut off by two sedans!" Viktor called out.
"They're using smoke on the front street!"
Roman looked at me.
His gray eyes were completely devoid of panic.
"Where is your son right now, Megan?"
"Mrs. Gable's apartment," I panted, clutching his lapel.
"Two blocks south."
"On 14th Street."
"Above the dry cleaner's."
"Is the fire escape accessible from the alley?"
"Yes."
Roman grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet.
"Viktor, take the main exit with four men."
"Draw their perimeter team toward the river bridge."
"Boss, you're not patched up!" Viktor protested.
"Move, Viktor," Roman commanded.
His voice was pure iron.
Viktor nodded once, reloaded his weapon, and sprinted toward the dining room.
Roman pulled me toward the industrial walk-in pantry.
He shoved the heavy steel door open.
Inside, metal shelves were stacked with five-gallon cans of olive oil and bags of flour.
At the very back of the room sat a square metal hatch in the brick wall.
A coal chute from 1920.
Roman jammed the barrel of his gun into the rusted iron latch.
He threw his weight against it.
The lock sheared off with a screech of tearing brass.
"Through," he ordered.
I dropped to my knees in the dust.
I squeezed through the narrow chute into the freezing rain outside.
The wind tore at my wet blouse.
Roman tumbled out right behind me, landing heavily in the puddle.
He let out a sharp gasp of agony, clutching his ribs.
I grabbed his arm, hauling him upright against the brick wall.
"Lean on me," I whispered.
"I'm heavier than you think, Megan."
"I carry fifty-pound trays of braised short ribs for eight hours," I retorted.
"I can hold you up."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips despite the blood dripping down his side.
We slipped down the narrow alleyway behind the pharmacy.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Blue and red lights strobed against the low-hanging clouds over the loop.
Two blocks south.
The neon sign of Sunlight Dry Cleaners buzzed in the drizzle.
On the third floor, a soft yellow light glowed behind the faded lace curtains.
Leo's window.
My heart leaped with sudden, desperate hope.
Then, from the dark shadow beneath the fire escape stairs, a black sedan clicked its high beams on.
Blinding white light pinned us against the brick wall.
The passenger door opened.
A man stepped out wearing a dark trench coat.
He held an unsuppressed Kimber .45 leveled directly at my forehead.
"Hello, Megan," the man said.
His voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly familiar.
Julian Cross.
May you like
My late husband’s former business partner.
The man who had promised to pay Leo's medical trust three years ago before vanishing with every dollar we owned.
