The kissing. That part has Bianca squealing. “I knew it! It’sthatkind of arranged marriage.”
I look at her, completely confused. “What kind is that?”
Bianca pauses for effect then says, “The kind with lots and lots of sex.”
I’m about to set the record straight, but I miss the chance. Because that’s when Behemoth Bruce comes barreling over to our table, pulling us both to our feet and into the protection of his body. “Active shooter. Go.” He corrals us to the back of the cafe, covering us as shouting comes from the street. “Go, now!”
15
LENA
“Out the back,” Bruce orders. He sounds calm even as people in the cafe are starting to scream. Lucy shouts out that she’s calling 911.
I hurry in the direction Bruce is pushing us but can’t stop myself from turning back, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s happening over his shoulder. I can’t get a good look, but I don’t see a gunman in the cafe. Don’t hear any shots coming our way.
“The premises hasn’t been compromised. The threat is on the street. We’re evacuating from the rear.” Bruce might look thick, but he obviously knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t waste any time getting me and Bianca out the entrance we came in, back into a service corridor that was built behind the historic buildings, giving direct access to the loading dock and a private parking lot below.
Bruce bypasses the elevator and pushes open a heavy door, shoving us into a corner as he steps into the stairwell and confirms no one is inside. “Clear,” he barks, hauling us in behind him. He’s holding a gun now, ordering us to stay behind him as he leads us down the staircase, his head on a constant pivot as he watches for threats above and below.
The stairwell is quiet, our footsteps the only sound. We’re moving fast and one of Bianca’s heels snags on the steps. I grab her hand, catching her before she falls.
She squeezes my fingers, giving me a tight smile as we follow close behind Bruce. Two flights down and we reach the door to the parking garage. Bianca’s bodyguard puts one hand on the door, looking back at us before he pushes it open. “Stay close, but don’t come out until I say clear. Understand?”
We both nod and hold our breath as Bruce props the door open with one foot, his gun held in front of him as he scans the garage. It’s well-lit, the florescent lights humming above us. I strain my ears, trying to pick up anything beyond the ambient sound. No car engines. No footsteps. No gunshots.
Bruce waits a beat, scanning the parked cars for any suspicious movement. When he’s sure we’re in the clear, he moves into the garage, keeping us bracketed between him and the concrete wall as we sidestep our way toward the car. We stay on his heels, cowering behind his bulk exactly as he told us to. If someone shoots in our direction, he’ll get hit first.
We don’t have far to go. Bruce parked in the third spot closest to the entrance. He wanted closer but there were delivery vans already occupying the other two spots. We move quickly. As quickly as three people shoved between the grill of a van and a wall can move.
It’s only been minutes since we left our cozy table at the cafe. Maybe fewer than five. But my heart is caught in my throat and my palm is sweaty where it meets Bianca’s. After the last thirty-six hours I would’ve thought I’d be less freaked out in a crisis, but it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to not fall into complete panic.
“We’re almost there,” Bianca whispers, trying to reassure me. “We’ll be safe in the car in seconds.”
Five more steps and we’re at Bianca’s Mercedes. “Crouchdown,” Bruce orders. “Go past the door, I’ll open it, you get in. Keep your heads down no matter what.”
We do exactly as Bruce says. Bianca and I crouch, moving as fast as we can along the side of the sedan. As soon as we clear the rear door, Bruce pulls it open. We’re a heartbeat away from scrambling in when I hear a sick thud above our heads. I glance up just in time to see Bruce go down, his eyes rolling back as his knees buckle and he drops to the ground like a rock.
A man takes his place. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. A balaclava is pulled over his face. His eyes are shadowed. One arm is raised, a heavily tattooed hand pointing a gun straight at us.
My first thought is that Bianca is pregnant.
My second is that we have to run.
If we get into the car, we’re sitting ducks. Even if we can get in without getting shot, I’m pretty sure Bruce has the keys.
I have to get Bianca away from the gunman and give us a chance, no matter how slim, of getting away. A very,veryimperfect plan takes shape.
I push Bianca toward the back seat. “Get in and go out the other side,” I whisper, hoping she understands. “Go, go!” I hear her scurrying behind me, feel the shake of the car as she crawls inside.
The man in front of me doesn’t blink. His gun doesn’t move, either. The muzzle is still trained on me, and I realize that he isn’t here for Bianca.
He’s here for me.
A second realization barrels into me just as fast: Bianca and her unborn baby could get hurt because of me.
That fear, greater than anything I could feel for myself, spurs me into action. Still crouched low, I grab the inside of the open car door, pull it toward me and then shove it back hard. It can only be pure luck that the top of the door catches the gunman right under his outstretched arm, scrapping along thebottom of his arm and forcing it upward just as he pulls the trigger.
He shoots high, the bullet flying above my head.