"Gerald." I keep my voice level. "When did you arrive at this diner?"
"Twenty minutes before you. Why?"
"Did you tell anyone you were meeting me here? Anyone at all?"
His face goes grey. "My assistant. She booked the car service. But she's been with me for years?—"
"That server. The one who seated you. What did he look like?"
Gerald's eyes widen with terrible understanding. "Young. Nervous. Said he was new."
The server reaches our table. His hand goes inside his jacket.
"Get down!"
Everything happens at once. I shove Gerald sideways, my chair toppling as I hit the floor. I catch a flash of silver—a knife, not a gun—as the server lunges. Women scream. Glass shatters. Then I'm moving, hand finding the gun Sergei made me carry, safety off.
The knife slashes down toward Gerald. He screams, blood spraying from his arm as he throws himself backward. The server pivots toward me, blade raised, and I don't think. Don't hesitate.
I fire.
The shot catches him in the shoulder—not where I aimed, center mass, but close enough. He spins, knife clattering to the tile, and crashes into a table. Food and dishes explode everywhere.
A second man bursts through the kitchen door. I recognize the type—dark clothes, dead eyes, professional. Matthew's cleanup crew, here to silence the last witness.
Gerald's on the floor, clutching his bleeding arm. I put myself between him and the second attacker, gun raised, hands steadier than they have any right to be.
"Stay back."
The man keeps coming. He's got a gun now, raising it toward me, and I know with cold certainty that I'm about to find out if Sergei's training was enough.
The diner's front window explodes inward.
Sergei comes through the shattered glass like something out of a nightmare, moving faster than should be possible. He slams into the second attacker before the man can fire, driving him back into the kitchen with brutal efficiency. I hear struggling, a gunshot muffled by distance, then silence.
"Izzy!" Sergei's voice, urgent. "Status?"
"I'm okay. Gerald's hurt—knife wound to the arm." I'm already moving toward him, keeping my gun trained on the server I shot. He's not getting up, shoulder wound bleeding freely, but I'm not taking chances. "First attacker's down. Non-fatal."
Sergei emerges from the kitchen, wiping blood from his hands. Not his blood. His grey eyes sweep the diner—terrified customers cowering under tables, the wounded server groaning, Gerald slumped against the booth.
"We need to move. Now. Cops are coming."
"Gerald has documents. Evidence of the embezzlement." I grab the manila envelope, still clutched in Gerald's good hand. "We need to get him out of here."
"He's not coming with us." Sergei's voice is cold. Clinical. "He's a liability. Too many people saw him, saw us. If he comes, he leads Matthew straight to our door."
"I can't just leave him?—"
Gerald grabs my arm with his good hand. "He's right. Go. Take the documents. Get justice for Richard." His eyes are clearer now, pain cutting through the fear. "I'll be fine. I've got a backup plan. Another identity waiting. Just... make them pay, Isabelle. Make them pay for what they took from us."
I stare at him—this man who was my father's friend, who kept evidence hidden for months, who's now bleeding in a bombed-out diner because he finally tried to do the right thing.
"Thank you." It's not enough. Nothing would be enough. "For keeping these safe. For calling me."
"Richard believed in you." Gerald manages a weak smile. "So do I."
Sergei's hand closes around my arm. "We're out of time."
