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“You should be proud. Your mother told me she is. Especially now, after Dante’s death . . .”
At the mention of his cousin, Daquan looked over his shoulder at Payne.
Payne saw deep sadness in his eyes. They glistened, and it was obvious that he was fighting back tears.
“I can’t get past that, Matt. We were real close, you know, going way back. Now he’s gone, and I’m here.” He looked down and rubbed his eyes. “But I’m really not here. I’m just a shell walking around.”
Daquan lifted his head, looked at Payne—then his eyes immediately looked past Payne, out the window.
Payne saw the sadness in Daquan’s face suddenly replaced with fear.
“Shit!” Daquan said. “They’re back!”
He grabbed the busboy cart and started pushing it quickly to the back of the diner.
Just then, as Payne turned and looked out the window, the glass front door swung open.
Two teenaged black males wearing thick dark parkas marched in, the first one, tall and burly, raising a black semiautomatic pistol in his right fist.
Payne dropped the newspaper and quickly reached behind his back to pull his .45 out from under his sweatshirt.
Daquan shoved the busboy cart at the pair and then jumped behind the back counter as the tall, burly teenager fired three shots.
The sound of gunfire in the small diner was deafening.
Payne leveled his pistol at the shooter as he shouted, “Stop! Police! Don’t move!”
The ringing in Payne’s ears caused his words to sound odd.
The tall, burly teenager turned and tried to aim at Payne.
Payne instinctively responded by squeezing off two rounds in rapid succession.
The heavy 230-grain bullets of the specially loaded .45 ACP cartridges left the muzzle at a velocity of 1,300 feet per second, and almost instantly hit the shooter square in the chest. Upon impact and penetration, the copper-jacketed lead hollow points, as designed, mushroomed and then fragmented, the pieces ripping through the teen’s upper torso.
The shooter staggered backward to the wall, dropping the gun when he struck the wooden counter there.
The second teenager, who had frozen in place at the firing of the first shots, immediately turned and bolted back out the glass door.
The shooter slid to the floor.
As Payne rushed for the door, he kicked the shooter’s gun toward the back counter. The two customers there were lying on the floor in front of it. The one to the left was curled up in the corner with his back to Payne and, almost comically, shielding his head by holding a white plate over it. The one on the right was facedown and still. Blood soaked the back of his shirt.
The enormous cook, who had ducked below the counter, now peered wide-eyed over its top.
Payne shouted, “Call nine-one-one!” then threw open the door and ran out.
Daquan, blood on his right hand as he gripped his left upper arm, crawled out from beneath the cash register.
Daquan hesitated a moment before moving toward the shooter, who was motionless. He picked up the small-frame semiautomatic pistol from the floor.
The cook stood and shouted, “Daquan, don’t!”
Daquan went out the door.
He turned right and took off down the sidewalk, following Payne.
—
