Chapter 3 - Broken Glass & Black Rain
The sound was deafening. Glass exploded into thousands of glittering diamonds that tore through the hanging menus and shattered the light fixtures above the counter.
Norah didn't hesitate. She threw herself flat against the floor, covering her head as wood splinters and ceramic dust rained down upon her. Instinct took over. Leo was wailing beneath Donovan’s shoe, clutching his head, completely paralyzed by the sheer ferocity of the ambush.
Donovan didn't flinch. He crouched low, his coat flaring open, pulling Leo up by the scruff of his collar with one massive arm while extending his other hand toward Norah.
"Move!" he barked.
Norah grabbed his outstretched hand. The grip was shockingly firm, warm despite the chill of the morning, lifting her off the tile as though she weighed nothing at all. He pulled her behind the industrial espresso machine just as another burst of automatic gunfire chewed through the pastry case, turning blueberry scones and display trays into shredded debris.
"The delivery alley," Norah shouted over the roar of the rifles, pointing toward the heavy metal door near the walk-in freezer. "It opens onto Hanover Street, but there’s a deadbolt that requires a four-digit code!"
"Take point," Donovan ordered.
He shoved Leo ahead of him. Leo stumbled like a drunk, sobbing, "I'm sorry, Norah! I swear I didn't know they followed me! I swear to God!"
"Save your breath, Leo," she hissed, sprinting toward the rear exit with a speed that shocked both men.
Her heart was in her throat, but the paralyzing fear that had controlled her life for years had vanished, burned away by pure, white-hot survival instinct. She reached the steel door, her fingers flying over the rubberized keypad. *4-1-8-9.*
The magnetic lock disengaged with a heavy *clack*.
Before she could push it open, the door swung inward violently. A masked gunman in tactical gear stood in the frame, weapon raised, leveling a short-barreled submachine gun straight at her chest.
Norah froze. Death stared at her through the slit of a black balaclava.
In a fraction of a second, before Donovan could raise his sidearm around Leo’s bulk, Norah reacted. She didn't scream. She reached down with both hands, grabbed the scalding, steaming bucket of boiling runoff water from the commercial coffee urn that sat on the prep table next to the door, and hurled it with all her strength directly into the gunman's face.
The boiling water hit the man's mask and exposed neck.
A high-pitched, agonizing scream ripped from his throat as the scalding liquid soaked into his skin. His hands reflexively jerked toward his face, his weapon angling toward the pavement.
Donovan didn't waste the half-second Norah bought them. He fired a single round through the side of the gunman's neck. The man collapsed into the freezing slush of the alleyway.
Donovan looked at Norah. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths. In his eyes, there was something new—an intense, dark respect that bordered on reverent astonishment.
"Remind me never to complain about lukewarm coffee," Donovan muttered under his breath.
"Shut up and run," Norah gasped, stepping over the fallen mercenary into the freezing Boston rain.
A reinforced black SUV barreled down the narrow alley, tires screeching against wet cobblestones, sliding to a halt just inches from them. The rear door flew open. A scarred, silver-haired man in the driver's seat shouted, "Boss! Get in! Vane’s men have two more squads inbound from the waterfront!"
Donovan hurled Leo into the footwell like a sack of trash, then grabbed Norah by the waist, practically throwing her into the leather interior before sliding in beside her and slamming the heavy, armored door shut.
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Three high-caliber rounds slammed against the reinforced bulletproof glass, leaving white, spiderweb cracks, but the window held. The SUV lurched forward, throwing Norah against Donovan’s broad shoulder as the vehicle roared out of the alley and vanished into the gray morning maze of the city.
***
