Deliberate.
Predatory.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I think something might break.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I stagger backward, trying to put myself between them and the last of my staff.
“Ishaan, go!” I scream.
He hesitates.
“GO!” I roar.
He runs.
The enforcers step into the kitchen proper now, their silhouettes huge and wrong in the smoke and flashing red light.
One of them raises his weapon.
At me.
Time does something weird.
Everything stretches.
The strobe freezes his mask into a skull grin.
The smell of burning plastic gets stronger.
My arm throbs in slow, wet pulses.
I think, absurdly, of my parents.
Of my dad teaching me how to flip falafel without breaking it.
Of my mom yelling at suppliers in three languages.
Of Varek Glimner’s smile.
Oh.
So this is the “example.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin, even though my knees are shaking so hard I don’t know how I’m still upright.
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant,” I rasp.
He fires.
Not at me.
At the gas line behind the grill.
