Chapter 5 - The Reflection in the Glass
Two men walked into the diner.
They didn't look like locals. They wore dark trench coats despite the unseasonably mild afternoon, their shoulders squared with military precision, their eyes scanning the room with cold, mechanical efficiency.
My internal alarm system—honed by decades of street survival—spiked instantly.
I didn't turn around. I didn't reach for my jacket pocket. I simply watched their reflection in the greasy, unwashed front window of the diner.
The taller of the two men paused near the cigarette machine, his hand subtly dipping beneath his coat toward a shoulder holster. His eyes locked onto the back of my head in the glass.
They found us.
How? I hadn't used my primary phones. Marco had traveled on a separate ticket. The flight manifest from Paris was secure.
Unless... someone at Charles de Gaulle had flagged the seat reassignment. Or someone in my own inner circle in New York had leaked my travel itinerary.
“Alessandro?” Camille whispered, noticing the sudden, icy rigidity in my posture. Her eyes darted toward the front door. “Who is that?”
“Keep coloring with Sophie,” I ordered in a low, absolute whisper that brooked zero argument. I didn't break eye contact with the reflection in the glass. “Do not look up. Do not turn around.”
The tall man began walking slowly down the center aisle of the diner, ignoring the waitress holding a coffee pot, his boots clicking heavily against the linoleum floor.
Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Ten feet.
I slid my hand slowly into my inner jacket pocket, wrapping my fingers around the checkered grip of my Walther PPK.
“Hey!” the waitress called out, stepping into the aisle. “Can I help you guys? We’re kind of busy over here.”
The man in the trench coat didn't answer her. He brushed past her shoulder, pulled a silenced pistol from beneath his coat, and raised it directly toward our booth.
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“Alessandro!” Camille screamed, throwing herself instinctively across the table to shield Sophie.
I kicked the laminate table upward with my knees, sending ceramic mugs, silverware, and the crayon box flying as the first gunshot shattered the diner window with a deafening explosion of glass and splintered wood.
