The sharp, synchronized mechanical symphony of thirty firearms being racked echoed off the damp, smoke-stained walls of The Rusty Anchor. It was a sound that triggered primal, paralyzing terror in the human psyche. Instantly, a dozen red laser sights cut through the hazy atmosphere of the bar, dancing erratically across the fabric of Elara’s charcoal-gray blazer and my cheap black suit.
Elara’s breath hitched, her lungs suddenly refusing to draw in the stale, nicotine-laced oxygen of the room. Her brilliant, strategic mind, which had flawlessly navigated multi-billion-dollar corporate mergers and international banking crises, violently short-circuited. Corporate predators attacked with lawsuits, leveraged buyouts, and media smear campaigns. They did not attack with sawn-off shotguns level
