Page 191 of Bitter Poetry
A Russian soldier is putting his shoulder to the door behind the counter that leads out back. His companion is leaning over something on the floor. The other patrons are crouched down behind tables and chairs.
The door frame splinters under the soldier’s shoulder. He pitches through just as the asshole leaning over something lifts his head and looks my way.
I go to draw my gun, but two of the customers decide now is the time to make a break for the door, and I don’t have a clear fucking shot.
The soldier eyeballing me suffers no such reservations; he draws his gun and shoots.
I duck, shoving the nearest customer to the floor. The bullet whistles past my head and shatters the front window of the shop. Tires screech and a horn blares outside.
No chance of keeping a lid on this motherfucker.
The second soldier follows the first through the door leading out back. Screaming ensues as the remaining patrons flee. I vault over the counter to find Tony on the floor, his face beaten and covered in blood.
“She’s out the back,” he wheezes, waving me on. “Go!”
Gun in my hand, I inch open the busted door—I don’t get far. Something heavy is lodged behind it.
A scream rents the air on the other side.
They’ve got her.
I shove harder at the door. Whatever is behind it screeches as its scrapes over the wooden floor.
“Chris!”
My head swings around to find Roman standing in the open coffee shop doorway, gun in hand.
“What the fuck happened? Who’s shooting?”
Fucking hell!My mind is going a mile a minute. Roman hasn’t seen her yet. But I’ve got to get her away from the Russians… and him.
“The Russians fired on me. Help Tony, then circle around the back.”
I get the door open enough to squeeze through. A bullet hits the wood beside my head with a dullthwomp. I crouch behind the filing cabinet they used to block the door.
It offers limited protection. I grit my teeth and pray as several rounds pop and ping against it.
I wait a few seconds and chance a glance.
One soldier is wrestling with Carmela—specifically, the arm connected to his gun that he’s trying to point my way—while the other is busy putting a boot on the locked back door.
They’re too close to her to return fire. I do the only thing I can—charge.
He gets a shot off, but she yanks on his arm, and it goes wide.
Good girl.
The other one has swung around hearing my pounding approach and reaches for his gun. I slam into him. His head smacks against the wood. His elbow smacks into my face. I bring the heel of my boot down on the back of his leg as he’s still reeling.
Crack!
He goes down screaming.
Carmela is still wrestling with the other soldier and his gun hand, which he’s trying to aim at me again. The fucker on the floor is rolling around screaming and it’s very fucking distracting.
I aim high at the one holding her. It’s point-blank range, but it only clips the side of his skull. In the tight confines of the corridor gunshot is deafening. There’s a lot of blood. His hold on her goes slack, and she shoves away. The second shot goes straight through his forehead.
She screams and clamps her hands over her ears.
