Chapter 6 - Smoke and Steel
The bathroom door creaked open, the barrel of a submachine gun probing cautiously around the frame.
Vincent didn't wait for them to spot him. With a sudden, violent thrust, he kicked the bathroom door outward with his boot, catching the intruder squarely in the chest and sending him crashing backward into the tile wall. Before the man could recover, Vincent’s suppressed pistol barked once.
The intruder slumped to the floor, motionless.
"Grab his rifle," Vincent ordered, tossing a compact tactical carbine across the tiles toward Nema.
Nema stared at the weapon, her hands shaking. "I don't know how to shoot this!"
"Point it at anyone who isn't me and pull the trigger until it clicks!" Vincent snapped, stepping out into the ruined bedroom. "Move, Nema! We need to reach the panic shelter in the basement before they seal the stairwells."
They bolted out into the smoky hallway. The amber emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows across the walls, which were scarred with bullet holes and dark streaks of soot.
As they rounded the corner toward the main spiral staircase, a figure stepped out from the shadows ahead of them, blocking their path.
It wasn't a hired mercenary in tactical gear. It was Tommy.
He wore a tailored suit covered in dust, holding a heavy revolver in his right hand. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and wild with a desperate, manic energy.
"Well, well, well," Tommy laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "If it isn't the little waitress who didn't mind her own damn business."
Vincent raised his weapon instantly, but Tommy smoothly shifted his aim, pressing the barrel of his revolver directly against the side of a frightened-looking young maid he was holding hostage with his left arm.
"Don't do it, Vincent," Tommy warned, his voice cracking slightly. "Drop the piece, or the maid joins the furniture."
Vincent hesitated, his muscles locking up. In close-quarters combat, Vincent was lethal, but he wouldn't risk an innocent life.
Nema’s eyes locked onto Tommy. She remembered the hatred in his eyes when he left Frank’s Diner. She remembered the white powder falling into Dom’s coffee. And now, he was standing here holding a gun, destroying everything in his path just to save his own skin.
She gripped the tactical carbine Vincent had given her, her knuckles turning white.
"You're a coward, Tommy," Nema said, stepping out from behind Vincent’s cover.
Tommy sneered, turning his gaze toward her. "You should have stayed in your diner, sweetheart. Pouring coffee was the only thing you were actually qualified to do."
"Maybe," Nema replied, her voice steadying as a cold focus settled over her mind. "But at least I didn't need a gun to feel like a man."
"Bitch—" Tommy started, shifting his grip on the revolver to aim at Nema.
It was the exact distraction Vincent needed.
With blinding speed, Vincent dropped his pistol, drew a heavy combat knife from his tactical belt, and threw it with pinpoint accuracy. The blade caught Tommy’s revolver hand square in the wrist, slicing deep enough to force a scream of agony from Tommy’s lips.
The heavy gun clattered to the floor.
May you like
The maid dropped to her knees, scrambling away into the smoke.
Tommy clutched his bleeding wrist, stumbling backward against the wall, his eyes wide with sheer terror as Vincent closed the distance between them with lethal intent.
