Chapter 8 - The Shot on Fifth Avenue
BANG!
The sharp, unsuppressed gunshot echoed through the high-vaulted dining room like a thunderclap, shattering the remaining Venetian glass chandelier crystals overhead.
The bullet struck Tariq Al-Mansoor squarely in his right shoulder blade.
The impact snapped his upper body backward, forcing his silver pistol to fly from his hand and smash against the marble hearth six feet away. He let out a wet, guttural scream of pain, stumbling backward against the heavy brass entrance doors.
His grip on the fragmentation grenade slipped.
The small steel cylinder dropped onto the thick plush carpet, rolling silently toward table six.
"GRENADE!" Kareem roared.
In a fraction of a second, Kareem lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders and throwing both of us behind the heavy mahogany host stand near the foyer. He covered my body with his broad frame, pressing his arms over my head as the silence stretched for two agonizing heartbeats.
CLICK.
The grenade hit the leg of a heavy oak table and stopped moving.
The safety pin was still fully intact. It hadn't primed.
Across the room, Tariq was scrambling on his knees in a pool of his own blood, frantically reaching his left hand toward the live explosive.
"Don't move!" a thunderous voice boomed from the shattered front windows.
Fourteen heavily armed NYPD SWAT officers burst through the broken glass and brass doors, their tactical lights illuminating the dark room like blinding sunbeams. Red laser sights pinned Tariq to the floor from every angle.
"HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!" the SWAT commander roared.
Tariq froze, his bloody hand hovering two inches from the grenade. He looked up at the circle of automatic rifles pointed at his face, let out a pathetic, defeated sob, and slowly laid his face flat against the carpet.
Two officers swarmed him, slamming his arms behind his back and snapping heavy steel cuffs onto his wrists, while a bomb disposal officer carefully secured the fragmentation grenade in a protective Kevlar pouch.
The room erupted into chaotic noise: police radios blaring, boots crunching over shattered glass, and medical paramedics rushing through the doors with stretchers.
Kareem slowly lifted himself off me, his suit covered in white plaster dust from the ceiling. His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled me up by my elbows, his dark eyes searching my face with frantic concern.
"Nia... Nia, look at me," Kareem rasped, his voice trembling. "Are you hurt? Did any glass touch you?"
"I'm okay, Kareem," I breathed, taking a deep, shuddering breath as I leaned against the host stand. "I'm okay."
Kareem looked over at Tariq, who was being dragged out through the shattered front entrance by four officers, blood dripping from his shoulder onto the sidewalk. Then Kareem looked at the small black pistol still held firmly in my hand.
A slow, profound wave of absolute awe washed across the old mafia don's face.
"You shot him," Kareem whispered, a sudden, booming laugh erupting from his chest. "By God, Nia... you shot him before he could pull the trigger!"
"He pointed a gun at my restaurant, Kareem," I said, a small, weary smile breaking through my exhaustion. "And my grandmother taught me never to let anyone destroy what you've built."
Kareem threw his broad arms around me, pulling me into a tight, fatherly hug right there in the middle of the ruined dining room.
"Margaret Brooks would be so proud of you today, my daughter," Kareem choked out, his voice thick with tears. "So very proud."
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Through the shattered front window, I saw the morning crowd gathered on Fifth Avenue. News cameras were flashing, police lights were spinning, and standing near the ambulance gurney were Elena, Chef Marco, and my kitchen staff, clapping and cheering as they saw me step out onto the front porch.
I handed my weapon back to Kareem, straightened my navy blazer, and walked out into the cold winter sunlight to take care of my people.
