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Her face swings toward me, then again toward the approaching figure…
Diners look up, slack jawed. The father of the teenage boys stands, blocking my way… “Now, look here…” … But barrelling past, I shove him aside in my headlong charge for the strange waiter.
Roaring some instruction, Romano pushes Katya aside and down, under the table… The lid lifts from the tray… As the dome comes up, I see the dish underneath…
And I'm hurling myself toward him, lashing out for the tray, crashing my fist down on his extended arm. The waiter yelps. Tray and dome topple, clanging down. The dish spins and sprays, splashing cloths, tables and diners in a tide of tomato, pesto and cream, vivid across white tablecloths, the expensive carpet and even more expensive clothes of the diners.
The waiter sits up, red sauce dripping down his shirt front. Romano offers him a hand up, snarling. “What the hell d’you think you’re playing at, Hickman?”
Voices in the background bark and snarl, but it's like some movie background. “Sir, he said he was Guiseppe. He’s not.”
Emilio charges up. “Who are you? Where is my nephew?
Giving me the evil-eye, the waiter swipes himself down with a napkin. “The agency sent me. Here, I’ve got the paperwork…” He slides a hand as though to an inside pocket... “… Guiseppe called in to say couldn’t make it…”
But I’ve already seen the bulge under the jacket…
Reality clicks into slow motion…
…The movement…
… the weapon... A Sig Sauer…
… arcing upward…
Romano’s face morphs from anger, to surprise, to wide-eyed shock…
… grabbing hold of Katya, plunging, he takes her with him…
Lurching, I swing my arm down, trying to knock off the aim…
… but the trigger squeezes…
The crash of a round being fired… And another…
The smash of shattering glass…
A round punches up into the table, splinters flying. Another ricochets from the wall, plaster fragmenting. Diners scream and dive and run, chairs scraping and tables overturning as men and women alike stampede out, scattering for the kitchens, the bathrooms. Some even with the sense to make for the outer door.
Schmidt, charging in from off-side, hurls himself at the assassin, slamming him to the carpet, grappling for the weapon, but Romano flings an arm toward me, then Katya… “Get her out of here!”
Hauling her bodily from under the table and upright, hooking my arm through hers, I bundle her toward the exit, scanning one way and the other for accomplices. Manhandling her out, I hear Romano’s snarled question. “Who the fuck is he? There any more new staff?”
On the street, barely are we clear of the door when another shot slams out. Inches away, stucco shatters and flies as, reflexively, we both duck.
Where the hell did that come from?
Spinning Katya against the wall to shield her with my body… “Stay low!” … Crouching, I hustle her along behind the doubtful shelter of parked traffic, but in the dagger-heels and elegant outfit, she’s dressed for dinner and being seen, not escaping from assassins. Glock in hand, I press her around the corner for the shelter of the side-alley.
Another shot. She shrieks, cowering back into my embrace. “Where are we going?”
“Car’s parked in the next road,” I mutter. But then, with a bare second to think, to measure our situation…
To reach the car, we’d have to cross the street, completely exposed.
Fuck!
For a moment, stymied, I hover…
