The Iron Waitress

The muffled thwack-thwack of the suppressed pistol echoed against the tile floor.

Two heavy thuds followed immediately outside the ruined doorway.

Nicolo peered around the edge of the stainless-steel counter, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Two of the heavily armed mercenaries lay motionless near the threshold, center-mass hits delivered with lethal economy.

“Who the hell are you?” Nicolo whispered, his hand instinctively reaching for his empty holster before he remembered he had left his piece in the car.

Sophia reloaded in under two seconds, her eyes locked on the blind spots of the dining room.

“Keep your head down, Mr. Bandi,” she said flatly, her gaze scanning the street. “There are four more outside, and they aren't here to negotiate a turf dispute.”

The remaining gunmen, realizing their advance had met sudden resistance, opened blind suppressive fire through the front windows.

Bullets tore through the remaining glass, shattering bottles behind the bar and raining liquor down over the floor.

Sophia didn't flinch.

She waited for the rhythmic pause between magazine changes—the universal heartbeat of tactical engagement.

On the third beat, she pivoted around the corner of the bar, fired three rapid rounds into the smoke-choked doorway, and ducked back just as a fusillade of return fire chewed the wood where her shoulder had been a second before.

A third body crumpled outside.

Three down. Four to go.