Chapter 3 - Blood on the Linoleum**
Chaos erupted in a fraction of a second.
“Get down!” Vincent yelled, lunging across the counter before a second burst of submachine-gun fire could turn the space into a slaughterhouse. He threw his body over Claire, shielding her with his broad shoulders as bullets punched through the laminate wood and embedded themselves deep into the industrial refrigerator behind them.
“Vincent!” Claire screamed, her hands flying to grip his shoulders as glass rained down over them. “The baby—!”
“I’ve got you!” he snarled, his eyes scanning the shattered storefront with the terrifying focus of a seasoned combat veteran.
From the front booth, Frank and Danny had already drawn their weapons, returning suppressive fire through the broken windows out into the pouring rain. Muzzle flashes strobed brightly against the dark night, casting wild, dancing shadows across the grease-slicked floor.
“Who is this?” Danny shouted over the deafening report of gunfire, emptying a magazine toward the dark shape of an idling van parked across the highway.
“Moretti’s loyalists!” Vincent barked, pulling Claire lower as a round clipped the edge of the counter, sending a shower of wood splinters into her hair. “Or someone buying Dante’s leftovers! They tracked our plates!”
“Boss, we’re pinned!” Frank yelled, ducking as a heavy-caliber round blew the cash register off its base. “We need to move now or they’ll flank the kitchen exit!”
Vincent looked down at Claire. Her face was deathly pale, her hands clutched tightly around her swollen belly, her eyes wide with shock and pain. The stress of the ambush had triggered something terrifying—a sharp, radiating cramp that made her gasp for air.
“Contractions?” Vincent demanded, his voice tight with panic.
“I—I think so,” she groaned, biting her lower lip until it bled. “Vincent, the baby—it’s too early—!”
“Not on my watch,” he muttered fiercely.
He didn't hesitate. In one fluid, powerful motion, Vincent scooped Claire into his arms, lifting her effortlessly despite her pregnancy.
“Boss!” Danny shouted, firing another burst through the window. “Where are you going?”
“Get the Maybach around to the kitchen loading dock! Clear the alley!” Vincent ordered, carrying Claire toward the swinging kitchen doors.
“Got it!”
Vincent kicked open the kitchen doors just as Walter Dean emerged from the pantry holding a battered 12-gauge shotgun. The old manager’s stoop was gone. He stood upright, his eyes cold and steady, racking a shell into the chamber with the practiced ease of an old soldier.
“Kitchen’s clear,” Walter said crisply. “Take the walk-in freezer exit. It leads straight to the drainage culvert behind the property. They won’t cover that side.”
Vincent stared at Walter for a split second, a sudden, blinding revelation dawning on him. The way the old man moved, the way he handled the weapon, the way he hadn't panicked during a cartel hit.
“Who the hell are you?” Vincent demanded as he carried Claire past him.
“Former military intelligence, Mr. Caruso,” Walter said, leveling the shotgun toward the front dining room as heavy footsteps approached the inner doors. “And an old friend of your father-in-law. Now get your wife out of here. I’ll buy you three minutes.”
Vincent didn’t waste a breath arguing. He carried Claire through the cold-storage unit, bursting out into the freezing rain and the muddy alleyway behind the diner just as Danny swung the black Maybach around, tires screeching against the wet pavement.
May you like
Frank held the rear door open, and Vincent slid inside, pulling Claire into his lap as the armored vehicle surged forward into the stormy night, leaving the burning wreckage of the Magnolia Grill behind them.
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