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Now I get why the gunmen haven’t left yet. They’re waiting. They’re waiting so they can make a getaway. They’re watching, waiting for crowds to settle down.
But the streets of Manhattan are never vacant. They will be waiting a long time.
Why did they choose a coffeehouse anyway?
A few buildings down is a jewelry shop. Rolexes and diamonds in the window. Of course, shops like that have extra security.
No one thinks security is necessary in a coffee shop, and coffee shops always have lots of cash on hand and a lot of businesspeople wearing expensive watches and jewelry.
The perfect crime.
I have to go to the bathroom so badly. I know it’s just nerves, but the last thing I want to do is soil myself.
On the other hand, what will it matter if I do, if I’m dead?
These people aren’t killers, though. If they were, they’d have been shooting by now.
Or maybe not. I don’t see silencers on any of the guns. If they shoot, people will come. Sure, the crowds on the street will run the other way, but the NYPD will get wind of what’s happening.
I almost want one of their guns to go off—as long as a bullet doesn’t fly into anyone here.
“I have to go to the potty, Mama,” the little girl, the older of the two children, says.
The little boy is probably still in diapers. But the little girl is three or four, probably recently potty trained, and when she has to go, she has to go.
“Not now, honey,” the mother shushes her.
“I have to go now!” she yells.
“You keep that brat quiet,” the man who took our money says.
“Shush, honey. Please. You have to be quiet. Do what Mommy says.”
I don’t dare turn my head to look out the window again. Three men with guns are in here. If I turn my head for a minute, one of them could be trained on me.
Ronan, where are you?
Except I don’t want him here. He would come in here unarmed, and any surprise could mean the worst thing possible.
Take any one of these gunmen by surprise, he may shoot.
And I can’t have Ronan hurt.
As much as I wish he were here, saving me, comforting me, I’m glad he’s not.
If I don’t get through this alive, I at least want him to live. I love him that much.
“Oh, honey, it’s all right,” the mother says.
I look over at the little girl.
She’s had an accident. There’s a puddle on the floor.
“For Christ’s sake,” a gunman says. “Get some napkins and clean up that mess.”
The woman nods, grabbing napkins from the napkin holder on her table and wiping her daughter’s accident from the floor.
My God, these people are horrible. Of course they are. Nice people don’t hold up coffee shops. Don’t scare little children.
