The café was too quiet. The hum of the fridge, the hiss of the fryer—gone, like the air itself was holding its breath.
The waitress, who had lingered behind the counter, flinched at the sudden silence. Then she heard it—tat-tat-tat—sharp bursts tearing the night. Her head snapped toward the window.
Her eyes widened.
The black SUV outside was smoking, bullet holes punched across its body like open wounds. Shadows slumped inside, still.
Her hands shook as she reached for the landline, pressing trembling fingers against the keypad. 9…1…
The glass door swung open.
A man stepped in, face blank, SMG cradled in his arms.
TAT-TAT-TAT!
Bullets tore through the air, splintering the counter. The waitress jerked, blood blooming across her apron before she crumpled, her phone clattering uselessly to the floor.
Two more workers screamed—brief, choked sounds cut short as the gunfire shredded them. The scent of gunpowder and blood filled the café, sharp and metallic.
