Chapter 2 - The Sound of Shattering Glass
“Down!”
The word had barely left the stranger’s lips before he launched his body across the small distance separating the booth from the marble counter.
Sylvia had no time to scream, no time to react, no time to even drop the pink cake box in her hands. The man hit her around the waist with the force of a sprinting athlete, driving her backward over the slick tile floor and throwing both of them into the narrow recess behind the solid marble counter.
An instant later, a chaotic wall of automatic rifle fire tore through the front of Belladonna Patisserie.
The sound was absolute, violent madness.
The heavy glass display cases shattered into thousands of glistening shards, spraying sugar decorations, porcelain plates, and fresh pastries into the air like shrapnel. Bullets pulverized the plaster walls, chewing through wood trim and sending thick clouds of flour and white dust swirling through the blinding glare of the SUV’s headlights.
The pink cardboard cake box flew from Sylvia’s grip. It slammed against the lower shelving, burst open, and the magnificent two-tier strawberry cake slid out onto the dirty floor, collapsing beneath the stranger’s boot as he dragged Sylvia deeper into cover.
Sylvia pressed herself flat against the cold floorboards, covering her ears with her hands as her lungs filled with the sharp, acrid stench of cordite and pulverized concrete.
The stranger pinned her down beneath his broad frame, using his own body as a shield against the spray of flying debris. Sylvia could feel the intense, feverish heat radiating off him, and through her thin coat, she felt the sickening dampness of his warm blood transferring onto her clothes.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he commanded directly into her ear, his voice tight with suppressed physical agony. “Keep your head down.”
As abruptly as it had begun, the roaring cascade of gunfire ceased.
The sudden silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the steady drum of rain pouring through the destroyed storefront and Sylvia’s shallow, ragged breathing.
Then came a sound that made Sylvia’s blood run cold—the sharp crunch of heavy tactical boots stepping over shattered glass and broken tile.
The stranger rolled off her instantly, shifting his weight onto his uninjured left hip. Despite the grave wound in his side, his movement was fluid, practiced, and terrifyingly silent. He retrieved the black handgun from his waistband, his pale fingers wrapping around the grip with absolute familiarity.
“They’re coming inside to clear the room,” he murmured, his voice a barely audible whisper against the ambient noise of the rain.
Sylvia curled into a tight ball against the base of the marble counter, clutching her knees to her chest, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror.
Through the gaps in the smashed cabinetry, she saw two tall figures step through the ruined window frame. They were dressed in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by dark balaclavas, raising short-barreled assault rifles into the dusty air.
The wounded man didn't hesitate.
He leaned around the corner of the marble counter and fired.
The sharp crack-crack of his weapon echoed crisply through the ruined space.
The lead attacker dropped instantly to the floor, his rifle clattering against the tile. The second attacker reacted with incredible speed, diving sideways behind a heavy oak display table and blindly spraying a burst of bullets toward the counter.
Marble chips sprayed into Sylvia’s hair as the round slammed into the counter’s front face.
The stranger didn't flinch. He leaned low, using the dust-filled air as cover, calculated the shooter's position, and fired two precise rounds through the wooden legs of the display table.
A muffled cry of pain echoed from behind the table, followed by the heavy thud of a body collapsing onto the floor.
Silence returned to the patisserie once more.
The stranger waited three agonizing seconds, his weapon leveled at the darkness, before slowly lowering the barrel.
“Genevieve!” he called out, his voice hoarse.
From deep within the rear kitchen, a muffled, hysterical sob answered him.
“I’m... I’m in the walk-in freezer!” the baker’s voice cried out, trembling behind thick steel insulation.
“Lock the heavy latch from the inside and do not open it for anyone,” he ordered sternly. “Do you hear me? Nobody.”
“Okay! Okay!”
The stranger turned his head back toward Sylvia.
The air between them was thick with floating flour, pulverized drywall, and the gray haze of gunsmoke. Sylvia could barely make out his features through the gloom, but his dark eyes burned into hers with an intensity that pulled her out of her catatonic state.
“My... my daughter,” Sylvia choked out, her breath coming in ragged, hyperventilating gasps as she stared at the ruined strawberry cake smashed across the floor. “I have to get home to my daughter...”
“Then stand up,” he rasped, struggling to push himself upward against the wall.
“I can’t,” she whimpered, her legs feeling like lead weights, completely paralyzed by shock. “I can’t move...”
“More of them will be here in less than two minutes,” he said, his tone uncompromisingly sharp. “If you stay on this floor, you die. Stand up.”
When she failed to respond, he reached down with his uninjured arm, grabbed the lapels of her wet trench coat, and hauled her to her feet with sheer, unbelievable physical strength.
Sylvia stumbled, her knees buckling, but he caught her around the waist, taking her weight onto his broad shoulder. He was bleeding profusely now; the exertion of the gunfight had reopened his wound, and a fresh stream of dark blood was visible through his torn suit jacket.
Yet he refused to slow down.
He dragged her through the swinging kitchen doors, navigating the dark, stainless-steel prep stations with uncanny familiarity. At the far end of the bakery’s pantry, he raised his boot and kicked open a heavy steel service door.
The freezing night air and pounding rain slammed into them like a physical wall.
They stumbled out into a narrow, dimly lit service alley that ran behind the Hanover Street commercial buildings. Dumpsters lined the brick walls, and rainwater coursed down the asphalt like a shallow river.
They had taken no more than ten ragged steps into the alley when the roar of another powerful engine echoed off the narrow brick walls.
Bright headlights turned into the alleyway from the far street.
Sylvia screamed, covering her eyes against the glare, expecting another volley of fatal gunfire.
A heavy black Mercedes sedan skidded sideways into the narrow space, its tires smoking as it slid to a halt just inches from where they stood, completely blocking the alley exit.
The rear door flew open instantly.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a visibly broken nose, dark slicked-back hair, and a tactical rifle slung across his broad chest leaped out into the pouring rain.
“Boss!” the man roared, sprinting toward them with panicked speed.
The stranger’s strength finally gave out completely. His knees buckled, his weapon slipping from his hand as he collapsed forward into the rain-soaked asphalt.
The newcomer caught him seamlessly before his head could strike the pavement, hoisting the wounded man’s massive frame effortlessly against his chest.
“Dominic! Jesus Christ, look at me!” the man barked, pressing his gloved hand over the bleeding abdomen. “Look at me, boss!”
“I’m looking at you, Vincent,” the wounded man—Dominic—rasped softly, his dark eyes fluttering as his consciousness began to slip away under the assault of blood loss.
“You’ve lost way too much blood,” Vincent said, his voice laced with fierce, protective anxiety. “We gotta get you to the clinic right now.”
“Get us out of here first,” Dominic commanded, his voice fading to a whisper. “Now.”
Vincent’s sharp, dangerous eyes suddenly snapped upward, locking onto Sylvia, who was standing frozen in the pouring rain, covered in flour, mud, and Dominic’s blood, holding her wet leather purse against her chest.
May you like
Vincent’s hand shifted toward the sidearm holstered at his chest.
“Who the hell is she?” Vincent growled, his voice dropping into a lethal register.
