The aftermath of the attack was a blur of motion and noise.
Maya moved on autopilot, her body operating while her mind struggled to catch up. She helped Tank right the overturned tables, her muscles screaming with every lift, the wood heavy and splintered beneath her fingers. She swept up the broken glass, the shards glittering under the dim light like deadly diamonds, each piece a reminder of the violence that had erupted. She wiped the blood off the floor—Cole's blood, and Knox's, and Jesse's, and the blood of men she didn't know, their faces already fading from memory. She worked until her arms ached and her hands were raw, until the bar looked almost normal again.
Almost.
The scent of violence still hung in the air, thick and metallic, clinging to everything like a second skin. The
