Chapter 5 - The Siege at the Counter
By Friday night, the atmosphere in Chicago was thick with tension.
I had refused to stay locked up in Victor's mansion like a prisoner. A diner owner belongs behind his counter, especially on a Friday night. Victor, respecting my pride, compromised: he placed six covert, heavily armed security operators disguised as patrons inside The Midnight Spatula.
Old Pete sitting at the end of the counter? He was actually an ex-Spetsnaz marksman. The couple eating steak in the corner booth? Tactical operatives with concealed submachine guns beneath their heavy coats.
Outside, the rain had returned with a vengeance, sweeping across the dark asphalt. The neon sign flashed—OPEN—casting a red glow across the wet pavement.
It was 11:30 PM when the neon sign suddenly flickered and died.
Inside the kitchen, the lights plunged into total darkness. Emergency backup generators kicked in seconds later, illuminating the diner in a dim, amber haze.
"They're here," Dmitri's voice echoed through my earpiece. Victor had insisted I wear a small communication button in my ear.
"Leo, get behind the steel prep table in the back," Victor's voice commanded over the radio, calm and steady. "Do it now."
I didn't argue. I grabbed Dave by the apron and dragged him into the kitchen, ducking behind the heavy commercial stainless-steel prep tables just as the front windows of the diner shattered into ten thousand glittering pieces.
The sound was deafening. Automatic gunfire erupted, chewing through the wooden booths, shattering glass syrup bottles, and tearing through the vinyl seats. The disguised guards inside the diner reacted instantly, flipping heavy oak tables to create cover and returning fire with disciplined precision.
"Hold the line!" Dmitri roared over the gunfire.
The diner—my peaceful, warm diner—had turned into an active war zone. Glass, plaster, and spent bullet casings rained down on the floor. I hugged the cold floor, holding Dave down as he prayed frantically under his breath.
Through the shattered front frame, four men in heavy tactical gear pushed into the diner, led by a towering brute with a scarred face—Sergei, Nikolai’s chief lieutenant.
"Find the cook!" Sergei bellowed in Russian, racking the slide of his shotgun. "Nikolai wants his head!"
One of Victor’s guards rose from behind the counter to shoot, but Sergei caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back. Sergei strode toward the kitchen doors, his heavy combat boots crunching over shattered glass and spilled apple pie.
He kicked the double stainless-steel doors of the kitchen open.
"Come out, little chef," Sergei sneered, leveling his shotgun toward the prep counter where Dave and I were hiding. "Let's see if you cook as well as you bleed."
My lungs seized. I looked around wildly for anything—a knife, a cast-iron skillet. I grabbed a heavy, 12-inch cast-iron skillet off the stove rack, my knuckles turning white. I knew I couldn't beat a man with a shotgun, but I wasn't going down without a fight.
Sergei rounded the corner of the prep table, pointing the barrel straight at my forehead. "End of the line, grease-monkey."
Before his finger could squeeze the trigger, a sleek, black limousine slammed straight through the front wall of the diner at fifty miles per hour, smashing through the booths and pinning two of Sergei's gunmen against the counter in a cloud of dust, bricks, and flying timber.
The driver's side door flew open. Victor Volkov stepped out of the wreckage, holding a sleek black assault rifle.
Without missing a beat, Victor fired three precise shots through the kitchen window. Sergei took two rounds to the chest armor, stumbling backward violently, dropping his shotgun.
May you like
Victor stepped through the ruined kitchen frame, stepping over the debris, his face an absolute mask of vengeful fury. He stood over Sergei, racked his rifle, and pointed it at the lieutenant's head.
"Tell Nikolai," Victor hissed, his voice echoing in the ruined kitchen, "that Chicago belongs to me. And Leo Vance is untouchable."
