The Glass Shatters At Table Nine

The animal part of Elena’s brain didn’t wait for permission.

It didn't care about the water carafe, the blister on her heel, or the fact that the man sitting at table nine was paying for the most expensive steak on the menu.

She saw the flash in the dark SUV outside.

“Get down!”

Elena dropped the glass carafe.

It shattered against the mahogany table, ice and water exploding outward, just as she threw her entire body weight against the man in the charcoal suit.

He was heavy, built with thick muscle beneath the expensive wool, but the sheer force of her momentum shoved him out of the booth.

They hit the hardwood floor together.

A split second later, the heavy front window of Lydian simply vanished.

It didn’t break. It disintegrated into a million violent, glittering needles.

The deafening crack of a high-powered rifle echoed through the dining room.

Screams erupted. Chairs scraped.

The man beneath Elena didn't panic.

He didn't scream.

Instead, a massive hand gripped the back of her uniform jacket, pulling her tightly against his chest as he rolled them both behind the thick oak pillar separating the booths.

He moved with terrifying, practiced speed.

Another bullet tore through the leather seat where his chest had been a second earlier.

Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs. She tasted copper.

The man shifted his weight, his blue eyes locking onto hers in the dim, dust-choked light.

“Are you hit?” his voice was shockingly calm. It was a deep, gravelly baritone that commanded the chaos around it.

“No,” Elena gasped, pulling a shard of glass from her apron. “Are you?”

“No.”

He looked at her, truly looked at her, his eyes narrowing as he took in her steady hands. She wasn't crying. She wasn't frozen.

“You saw the reflection,” he said. It wasn't a question.

“The passenger window rolled down,” Elena whispered, her father’s lessons screaming in her head. “In the rain. Nobody rolls down a window in a storm unless they need a clear line of sight.”

The man’s expression shifted. Respect flickered behind the ice-blue gaze.

“My name is Lorenzo,” he said quietly, pulling a heavy, dark handgun from a holster at the small of his back.

Before Elena could answer, a terrible, wet gasp sounded from the center of the room.

Lorenzo peered around the oak pillar. His jaw tightened.

Elena looked.

It was Victor. Her manager.

He was lying near the service station, clutching his chest. Blood pooled rapidly on the polished floor, dark and thick.

“Victor!” Elena pushed forward, the nursing student in her overriding her fear.

Lorenzo grabbed her arm. “Don't move.”

“He’s bleeding out!”

“The shooter is still out there.”

But the squeal of heavy tires outside proved him wrong. The SUV was tearing away down the wet Manhattan street.

Lorenzo released her.

Elena crawled frantically over the broken glass, dropping to her knees beside Victor.

His eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling. His breathing was a terrible, ragged sound.

Elena pressed both hands hard against the wound in his chest.

“Hold on, Victor. The ambulance is coming.”

But Victor wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at her hands.

He tried to speak, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

“Don't speak,” Elena commanded, pressing harder.

“They... they didn't want... him.”

Victor’s hand trembled as he reached into his blood-soaked jacket pocket.

Lorenzo knelt on the other side of Victor, his gun still drawn, his eyes scanning the exits.

“Who didn't they want?” Lorenzo demanded.

Victor looked at Lorenzo, then back to Elena.

“They wanted... to send a message.”

Victor’s hand fell limp against the floor. His eyes went vacant. The ragged breathing stopped.

Elena sat back, her hands covered in blood. Her chest heaved.

Lorenzo reached down and pulled Victor's hand away from his jacket pocket.

The manager had been trying to pull something out.

Lorenzo extracted it.

It was a photograph.

He wiped a smear of blood off the glossy surface and stared at it. His expression, which had been so perfectly controlled during the gunfire, fractured.

“What is it?” Elena asked, her voice shaking.

Lorenzo didn't answer. He turned the photo around so she could see it.

Elena stopped breathing.

It was a picture of her.

Not a recent one. She was seven years old, standing in front of a rundown motel in Nevada, wearing a heavy wool coat that belonged to her father.

But her father had taken that picture. And he had sworn he burned it.