She scooted back her chair and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Love you, Cassie. Be right back.” She found the phones in the back beside the bathrooms and dug into her purse for change, then dialed.
“Hello?”
“Carl, it’s Jenna. You’re never going to believe—“
Gunfire erupted in stereo.
From the telephone receiver and the restaurant. Carl’s choked-off scream, guttural, agonized, cut straight through Jenna. Rising screams out in Luigi’s main dining room hardly registered. “Carl! Carl!” Then, as shock sank in, and the realization that she was still hearing gunfire from the direction of her aunt’s table: “Cassie!” She dropped the receiver with a bang, ignoring its violent swing at the end of its cord. Jenna ran straight toward the staccato chatter of gunfire, tried to shove past terrified patrons fleeing the dining room.
Someone shouted her name. Jenna barely had time to recognize Noah Armstrong, elegant clothing covered in blood. Then the detective body-slammed her to the floor. Gunfire erupted again, chewing into the man behind Jenna. The wall erupted into splinters behind him. The man screamed, jerked like a murdered marionette, plowed into the floor, still screaming. Jenna choked on a ghastly sound, realized the hot, wet splatters on her face were blood. A booming report just above her ear deafened her; then someone snatched her to her feet.
“Run!”
She found herself dragged through Luigi’s kitchen. Screams echoed behind them. The gun in Armstrong’s hand cleared a magical path. Waiters and cooks dove frantically out of their way. At the exit to the alleyway behind the restaurant, Armstrong flung her against the wall, reloaded the gun with a practiced, fluid movement, then kicked the door open. Gunfire from outside slammed into the door. Jenna cringed, tried to blot from memory the sound of Carl’s scream, tried desperately not to wonder where Aunt Cassie was and just whose blood was all over Armstrong’s fluid silk suit.