Chapter 2 - The Midnight Knock
The digital clock on the microwave glared 2:14 AM in harsh red numbers.
Alara sat on the wooden kitchen chair, a mug of cold chamomile tea untouched before her. Across the room, Jack sat upright on the edge of the sofa, his bad leg stretched out, eyes fixed on the sliver of space beneath the apartment door. He hadn't slept a wink. Every time the wind whipped a loose shingle against the roof or a distant car horn sounded on the avenue, his muscles coiled like springs.
Stella and Leo were sleeping side-by-side on Alara’s narrow bed in the adjacent alcove, cocooned in pillows to keep them from rolling off.
"You should rest," Alara whispered into the quiet. "The stitches will tear if you keep holding yourself like a spring-loaded trap."
"Rest is a liability," Jack replied, his voice barely audible over the hum of the heater. "In my line of work, the moment you drop your guard is the moment someone puts a bullet through your back. Or worse, through someone else's."
"And what line of work is that?" Alara challenged, leaning forward. "Because 'mob enforcer' or 'syndicate hitman' usually doesn't come packaged with twin babies and a tactical diaper bag."
Jack looked up, meeting her gaze steadily. "You don't want to know, Alara. The less you know about who I am and who wants me dead, the better your chances are of still running this diner on Thursday morning."
"You're in my home, bleeding on my sofa, and holding my sanity hostage with twenty thousand dollars in cash," she shot back, a sudden spike of adrenaline overriding her fear. "I think I've earned a little context."
Before Jack could answer, a sharp, metallic sound cut through the silence of the apartment.
Clink.
It wasn't a knock. It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of a master key sliding into the heavy brass tumbler of the exterior stairwell door downstairs.
Jack was off the sofa in a fraction of a second. The pain in his side flared violently, a harsh gasp tearing through his teeth, but he ignored it, moving with terrifying speed toward the corner where he had dropped his tactical backpack.
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Alara’s heart slammed against her ribs. She stood up, knocking her chair backward. "Who is that? The diner is locked!"
"Not the diner," Jack hissed, pulling the matte black handgun from the bag and slamming a fresh magazine home with a crisp clack. He jerked the slide back, chambering a round. "They found us."
