15
Bullets spray the bar.
We hit the floor.
“Who’s shooting?” I bark, reaching
for my new .45.
“That hooded son of a b***h at the
door,” Tony shouts. “Rudy. My piece.”
With Anjali pressed against me, her
little automatic in hand, I catch sight of the front door. There’s a man
standing in front of it. He’s big, dressed in a black shin-length tunic, and a
matching black hood. Only his dark eyes are exposed. He has a banana-clipped
AK-47 gripped in both hands. Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he’s striking
a bead on our position on the dirty, wood plank floor. We’re f*****g turkeys
inside a very shallow barrel.
I tip over the closest stool to
create a barrier and fire off a burst which sends Black Hoody down to his knees.
Rudy stands. His own Kalashnikov gripped
in his han
