Chapter 3 - THE ART OF THE AMBUSHThe first gunman cleared the corner with his weapon sweeping high. He was fast, but he was reading a civilian profile. He expected a flinch, a scream, a target begging for mercy.
Instead, I slid across the greasy diner floor beneath his line of sight, kicking his leading ankle out from under him. As he pitched forward, I jammed the barrel of the Glock under his chin and pulled the trigger once.
The body dropped before it even hit the floor.
"Mike!" the last remaining henchman roared, blind fury overriding tactical discipline. He spun around, spraying a wild burst of bullets toward the kitchen doors where Adrian was half-hidden.
"Adrian, get down!" I yelled.
Adrian dropped flat as wood splinters exploded around his head.
I didn't hesitate. I vaulted over the booth seating, using the heavy vinyl benches as a springboard, launching myself directly at the final gunman. My knees slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him with a sickening wheeze. We crashed onto a table, shattering Formica and sending condiment bottles flying everywhere.
He swung the butt of his pistol toward my temple, but I caught his wrist mid-air, twisting it inward until bone popped. He screamed, dropping his weapon. Before he could recover, I drove the heel of my palm upward into his nose, sending cartilage crunching into his brain. He went limp instantly.
Silence fell over the Blue Lantern Diner, save for the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights and the heavy, ragged breathing of the wounded men.
I stood up slowly, wiping a smear of blood off my cheek with the back of my wrist. My apron was ruined. My favorite uniform shirt was torn at the shoulder.
I looked down at Calder.
The corporate executioner, the man who had walked in with a relaxed smile and a death sentence, was now backed against the counter, his hands empty, his eyes wide with a terror he had never expected to feel.
"You're... you're not a waitress," Calder whispered, his voice trembling. "Who the fuck are you? Are you CIA? Interpol?"
I walked slowly toward him, the Glock held steady at my side, the metal dripping with the gravity of a past I had spent fourteen years burying.
"I used to work for people much worse than the government, Calder," I said softly, stopping two feet away from him. "And they taught me one absolute rule."
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Calder swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "What... what rule?"
"Never leave a witness."
