Chapter 21 - The Iron Grip
The barrel of the tactical rifle against Maya’s forehead was colder than the winter rain pouring outside, but the freezing chill did not register compared to the violent tremor running through her veins. The smell of burnt gunpowder, shattered brick dust, and ionized rain filled Bellanote Diner. Broken glass crackled beneath the heavy combat boots of the two masked men standing before her.
"Move, girl," the man with the gravelly voice snarled, digging the muzzle deeper into the tender skin between her brows until her head was tilted upward toward the diner’s flickering neon sign. "Hands where I can see them. One twitch, and I paint this greasy counter with your brains."
Maya didn’t flinch back; instead, every instinct she possessed screamed that hesitation meant death. In her right hand, hidden deep within the pocket of her soiled yellow apron, her fingers curled around the heavy, cold rectangular piece of solid tungsten Dante had given her weeks ago—the Blackwood crest card. Its milled edges bit into her palm. She didn't drop it. She kept her fingers coiled around it like an anchor.
"Who is Marcone?" Maya asked, her voice shaking violently despite her best efforts to sound steady. She raised her left hand slowly into the air, keeping her chin lifted. "I’m just a waitress. You’ve made a mistake. I don't know who you are."
"You know Dante Blackwood," the second man grunted from near the broken register, his weapon trained on the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and the back alley exit. "Which means you’re collateral. Or leverage. Move your ass, princess."
The lead gunman reached out with a gloved hand to seize her collar.
In that split second, Maya’s survival instincts took over. She had spent years growing up in the rougher corners of Brooklyn, dodging hands far quicker than this lumbering mercenary’s. Instead of shrinking away, she lunged forward, using the sharp corner of the steel Blackwood token hidden inside her fist to strike fiercely upward into the exposed hollow of his throat right above his tactical collar.
The man gagged, a wet, suffocating gasp ripping from his lungs as he staggered backward onto the rain-slicked tile.
"Bitch!" the second operative roared, pivoting his weapon toward her.
Maya dropped immediately behind the heavy oak-and-stainless-steel diner counter just as a deafening burst of automatic fire chewed through the laminate wood, sending white splinters, flying salt shakers, and ceramic mug shards exploding across her head. The noise in the enclosed space was catastrophic. Her ears rang with a high-pitched, deafening squeal.
She crawled on hands and knees through the spilled coffee and crushed peppermint candies toward the kitchen swinging doors. She needed to reach the back fire escape. Dante was somewhere out in the city, bleeding, his car blown apart on an overpass with Sofia huddled in terror. If Maya died here, no one would know where Marcone had come from, and Sofia would never hear her voice again.
*Sofia,* she thought desperately, tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks. *You ran. Please tell me you ran.*
Before she could push through the kitchen doors, a heavy combat boot slammed directly into her ribs from the side. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs in a sickening rush. Maya collapsed against the stainless steel prep table, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The first gunman, his eyes bloodshot and furious above his black balaclava, dragged her up by the hair. "Stupid cunt," he wheezed, his voice hoarse from the strike to his windpipe. He brought the heavy butt of his submachine gun down against the side of her temple.
May you like
The world shattered into spinning white sparks, followed by a thick, suffocating blackness. As the diner floor rose up to meet her face, Maya’s fingers slackened, but the heavy steel card slipped from her apron pocket and clattered softly beneath the deep shadow of the ice machine, hidden from view.
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