Chapter 7 - Shattered Glass
Shards of razor-sharp glass showered across the linoleum floor, glittering under the flickering neon diner lights like frozen diamonds.
"Get down!" I shouted, instincts developed through a lifetime of corporate threats and neighborhood violence taking over instantly.
Without thinking—without remembering that my legs were supposed to be dead beneath the wool blanket—I planted my feet hard against the floor, grabbed Nora by the waist, and yanked her down behind the heavy wooden barrier of the booth just as a heavy black object sailed through the broken window and landed with a dull thud near the jukebox.
Tssshhhh.
A thick, yellowish-green cloud of tear gas began hissing into the room, instantly filling the diner with an acrid, choking fog that burned the eyes and throat like fire.
"Cough! Oh god!" Clara screamed from behind the counter, her voice instantly turning into a hacking, desperate wheeze.
"Clara! Grab the wet rags by the sink!" Nora yelled, coughing violently as she buried her face in the sleeve of her canvas jacket.
Through the dense, stinging haze of the gas, I peered over the back of the vinyl booth. Outside the shattered front window, the silhouettes of three men moved swiftly against the streetlamps. One of them was holding a heavy iron crowbar; the other two wore black tactical vests over their hoodies.
They weren't local deputies. They were professionals.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind was ice-cold. Uncle Gino hadn't just sent me away; he had sent a cleanup crew the moment he realized I was following Ray’s trail. They hadn't expected me to be in Cedar Hollow anonymously. They thought I would come with an entourage, making it easy to track my movements. Instead, I had blended into the lowest stratum of society—and it had almost gotten us killed.
"Peter!" Nora coughed, grabbing my arm with a grip like a vise. Her eyes were streaming tears, and her face was flushed red. "We have to get out of here. The back door leads to the alley behind the hardware store!"
She looked down, suddenly noticing my feet planted firmly against the floorboards, supporting my weight.
For a fraction of a second, her eyes widened in confusion. You're not paralyzed.
I didn't have time to explain. I didn't have time to lie.
"Can you run?" I asked, my voice cutting through the hiss of the gas canister.
Nora swallowed hard, wiped her streaming eyes, and nodded once with fierce, unyielding determination. "I don't run. I fight back."
"Good," I said.
I stood up completely from the wheelchair, ignoring the dull, phantom ache in my legs from weeks of sitting, and grabbed a heavy heavy-bottomed ceramic coffee mug from the table.
As the back door of the diner burst open and a black-clad operative stepped inside with a suppressed pistol raised toward the kitchen hallway, I didn't hesitate. I reared back and hurled the ceramic mug straight at his face with the velocity and precision of a major-league pitcher.
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The mug caught him squarely on the bridge of the nose with a sickening crack, dropping him instantly to the floor like a felled tree.
"Move!" I yelled, grabbing Nora’s hand and pulling her toward the kitchen shadows as the sound of boots echoed from the front entrance.
