The Iron Waitress

The blast rattled Nicolo’s teeth and left a high-pitched ringing screaming inside his ears.

Through the haze of smoke and white phosphorus, heavy footsteps entered the cafe.

“Clear the back!” someone shouted.

Sophia pulled a second magazine from her belt, slamming it home with a sharp clack.

She motioned for Nicolo to stay behind the industrial shelving unit, her expression as calm as if she were waiting for a bus.

“They think we’re cornered in the pantry,” she whispered over the ringing in his ears. “They’ll send two through the swinging doors and keep two on the flank.”

“How many did you say you took down before this?” Nicolo asked, his voice deadpan, grasping at reality through the shock.

“Sixty-six,” she replied softly, adjusting her grip on the pistol. “This makes sixty-seven.”

The swinging doors burst open.

The lead mercenary stepped through, his assault rifle raised—and caught a round directly through his tactical visor before his finger even touched the trigger.

The second man dropped to one knee, sweeping his weapon toward Sophia, but she had already transitioned targets, putting two rounds through his chest plates with cold, mechanical precision.

Silence descended on the cafe, broken only by the hiss of a ruptured espresso line.