Chapter 2 - Crossfire at the Crossroads
Chaos erupted before Hannah could even blink.
The front glass of Millie’s Diner exploded inward in a glittering cascade of jagged shards as automatic gunfire shredded the diner's front facade.
“Get down!” the scarred agent roared, tackling Hannah to the linoleum floor behind the high stainless-steel counter as bullets punched through the walls, sending ceramic mugs and sugar dispensers shattering into dust.
Glass rained down like hail. The neon OPEN sign flickered violently and died in a shower of sparks.
From the kitchen, the narrow-faced agent returned fire, his suppressed pistol spitting three rapid shots through the service window toward the front doors.
“How many are out there?!” the scarred agent yelled over the deafening roar of gunfire, pressing Hannah flat against the floor.
“Three!” Hannah shouted back, her ears ringing, dirt and plaster raining down from the ceiling. “They’re coming from the black SUV!”
“They’re not syndicate mercenaries,” the scarred agent muttered, his teeth gritted as he reloaded his magazine with practiced, mechanical speed. “That’s clean-up crew from the private security firm that bought out Jonah’s old employer. They want the child as leverage.”
Hannah’s heart pounded against her ribs. Jonah. And baby Sofia.
“He went down the old service road behind the diner,” Hannah blurted out, her voice cutting through the gunfire. “There’s an abandoned railway maintenance tunnel half a mile south. If he’s on foot with the baby, he’ll be trapped!”
The scarred agent locked eyes with her. For a split second, he looked at her not as a stubborn civilian waitress, but as an ally in a war zone.
“Stay down,” he commanded.
He vaulted over the counter, firing two precise rounds toward the shattered front entrance where a masked figure in tactical gear was attempting to breach the door. The intruder stumbled back, screaming, vanishing into the darkness of the parking lot.
“Move! Move!” the narrow-faced agent yelled from the kitchen exit.
Without hesitation, Hannah scrambled to her feet, grabbed her purse containing her notebook and the crumpled receipts, and followed the two federal agents through the back kitchen door into the chilly autumn night.
The black sedan Jonah Vance had used was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the gravel road. But fifty yards away, half-hidden behind a rusted dumpster, a second vehicle sat idling with its lights off.
A rugged, unmarked Ford Explorer.
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“Get in the back,” the scarred agent ordered, yanking the rear door open.
Hannah didn't argue. She climbed inside, pulling her knees to her chest as the two agents jumped into the front seats, tires spinning gravel into the night air as they accelerated without headlights down the unpaved service trail.
