Chapter 2 - THE BULLET IN THE SHADOWS
The metal table between them was cold.
The autumn wind rustled the dying maple leaves overhead.
Emma peeled the transparent plastic lid from the paper container.
The fragrance of toasted sesame oil and warm ginger drifted into the chilly air.
It was heavenly.
"I might weep," Emma said, breaking apart her wooden chopsticks.
Adrian watched her.
His hands remained resting beside his small brown bag of chicken and rice.
His fingers were long, scarred at the knuckles, and perfectly still.
"Food shouldn't inspire tears," he said.
"You haven't spent nine hours looking at neon olive fabric samples," she countered.
She took her first bite.
The noodles were rich, spicy, and perfectly cooked.
She closed her eyes and let out a soft groan of contentment.
"Unbelievable."
"You look like you survived an interrogation," Adrian observed.
"Worse. A budget committee."
She opened one eye.
"You haven't touched yours."
Adrian looked down at the plain white carton.
He didn't open it.
His dark eyes flicked across the plaza toward the corner intersection.
The black sedan with tinted windows was still there.
Its engine was idling with a low, rhythmic vibration.
Steam rose from its twin exhaust pipes into the October dusk.
Emma noticed the shift in his posture.
His spine had gone rigid.
The relaxed line of his shoulders had vanished.
"Is that your car?" Emma asked quietly.
"No," Adrian said.
His voice was flat.
Too flat.
"Do you know who it is?"
"Eat your dinner, Emma."
The use of her first name surprised her.
She hadn't introduced herself.
Then she remembered the restaurant manager had called her Miss Hayes.
Adrian had caught it.
He caught everything.
Across the street, the driver’s side window of the sedan rolled down two inches.
A thin metallic cylinder protruded from the gap.
Adrian moved before Emma could register the glint of steel.
His right hand shot across the table.
He didn't grab her wrist.
He grabbed the collar of her wool coat and yanked her violently toward the concrete floor.
"Down!" he roared.
The heavy metal table flipped upside down with a deafening screech.
A muffled thwip-thwip-thwip tore through the quiet evening air.
Sparks flew from the underside of the steel table.
The plastic container of sesame noodles shattered into flying ribbons.
Hot oil splashed across Emma's cheek.
Emma hit the freezing pavement, the breath knocked entirely out of her lungs.
"Stay flat," Adrian whispered against her ear.
His body covered hers like an iron shield.
He smelled of rain, expensive cedarwood cologne, and cold gunmetal.
A suppressed pistol appeared in his right hand.
She hadn't even seen him reach beneath his charcoal jacket.
He didn't panic.
His breathing remained slow and controlled.
Three more rounds punched through the metal table legs above them.
Concrete chips showered Emma’s hair.
Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Who are they?" she gasped, terror clawing at her throat.
"People who don't like my dinner plans," Adrian murmured.
He leaned slightly around the edge of the overturned table.
He fired two rapid shots.
Glass shattered across the street.
The driver of the sedan jerked violently, slumped over the steering wheel, and laid heavily on the horn.
A blaring, unbroken wail filled the plaza.
The rear door of the sedan kicked open.
A second man in a black tactical vest emerged, carrying a compact submachine gun.
He raised the weapon directly at their position.
Adrian grabbed Emma by her waist and rolled them behind a solid stone planter.
Bullets chewed through the soil, showering them with wet dirt.
Adrian ejected an empty magazine and clicked a fresh one home in a single fluid motion.
He looked down at Emma.
Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated in primal panic.
"Can you run?" he asked.
"My shoes..." she stammered.
"Kick them off."
She slipped out of her loafers without asking why.
Her stockinged feet touched the freezing concrete.
Around the corner of the avenue, a second vehicle screeched to a halt.
A sleek black Mercedes SUV with heavy armor plating.
The driver’s side door swung open.
A man in a dark suit stepped out, his face pale and frantic.
"Mr. Thorne!" the driver shouted, raising a handgun toward the plaza.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits.
He didn't move toward the car.
He pulled Emma closer against his chest.
"That's not my driver," Adrian whispered.
Emma stared at the SUV.
May you like
Through the tinted windshield, she saw the true driver slumped across the passenger seat, his throat slit red.
The impostor pointed his weapon straight at Adrian's head and pulled the trigger.
