Chapter 7 - Ambush in the Kitchen
The kitchen was cold. Freezing air poured through the cracked-open steel delivery door at the back, smelling of rust and wet snow. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the faint moonlight filtering through the greasy windows.
I pressed my back against the tiled wall, listening.
*Drip. Drip.*
A leaky faucet over the prep sink.
Then, the soft scuff of wet rubber on tile.
Marcus was moving down the line between the deep fryers and the walk-in freezer. In the dark, he wasn't just a drunk anymore; he was a desperate animal backed into a corner, facing financial ruin and prison time if the girl lived to see morning.
“I know you’re back here, hero,” Marcus’s voice rasped from the gloom behind the stainless steel dish racks. “You should’ve minded your own business. This ain’t your family. This ain’t your fight.”
I didn't answer. You never give away your position by engaging in dialogue. I stepped quietly around the edge of the meat slicer, my pistol held in a tight two-handed low-ready.
Suddenly, a heavy cast-iron skillet slammed into the side of my shoulder, thrown with violent force from the shadows!
The impact threw my aim off, spinning me against the prep table. Before I could recover, Marcus lunged out of the darkness, tackling me at the waist. His bulk drove us both into the stainless steel prep station, sending knives, bowls, and silverware crashing across the floor with an ear-splitting din.
Marcus had the snub-nosed revolver in his hand. He wasn't trying to wrestle; he was trying to bring the barrel up against my ribs.
I drove my left forearm across his throat, pinning his head back against the edge of the sink, using every ounce of leverage to push his gun arm away toward the ceiling. The man possessed the unnatural, wiry strength of a lifetime of manual labor and pure, adrenaline-fueled malice.
“You’re dead!” Marcus spat, teeth bared, pressing down with all his weight. “I’m taking the girl, and you’re getting buried under four feet of drift!”
His finger tightened on the trigger.
*BANG!*
The gunshot was deafening inside the enclosed kitchen. The bullet punched clean through the tin ceiling tile, showering us in white plaster dust. The muzzle flash illuminated his twisted, murderous expression for a split second.
I seized the recoil. With a sharp twist of my wrist, I slammed the heel of my palm into the side of his gun hand, fracturing his grip, and ripped the revolver from his fingers. The gun skittered across the wet floor, vanishing beneath the massive walk-in freezer.
Marcus let out a roar of rage, swinging a heavy hook toward my jaw.
I ducked beneath the blow, drove a savage knee directly into his solar plexus, and followed through with a right cross that broke his nose with a wet crunch.
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Marcus staggered back against the delivery door, groaning, holding his shattered face. Blood leaked between his fingers, dark and thick against the snow.
“End of the line, Marcus,” I said, training my weapon directly on center mass. “Get on the floor. Hands flat behind your head.”
