The ambulance sirens faded into the storm, leaving Noah alone in the pouring rain. His fingers trembled as he slipped a cold metal flash drive into his apron pocket.
Behind him, the café doors chimed.
Alden stepped onto the wet pavement. He was no longer the fussy, grandfatherly manager. His posture was rigid, his eyes dead. Two men in dark trench coats from the black SUVs stepped up beside him, their hands resting on concealed holsters.
“You always were a terrible listener, Noah,” Alden said, his voice stripped of its usual warmth. “Hand over the drive. Moretti is a dead man. Don’t make me add a busboy to the list.”
Noah backed away, rain stinging his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Search him,” Alden ordered the men.
As the suits lunged, the black smartphone Noah had taken from Moretti vibrated in his hand. Noah didn’t run. Instead, he swiped answer and put it on speaker.
“Is he outside?” a cold, metallic voice asked. The same voice from the phone call earlier.
Noah locked eyes with his manager. “Yeah. He took the bait.”
Alden froze. Confusion flickered across his face. He whipped his head around to look back into the warmly lit café.
The wealthy patrons in their designer suits—the ones who had been sipping champagne and complaining about water stains just minutes ago—were no longer sitting. They were standing in perfect unison. Coats unbuttoned. Suppressed weapons drawn and aimed straight through the glass at Alden.
They were never VIP guests. They were Moretti’s men. And they needed the traitor to step outside the security cameras’ view.
The color drained from Alden’s face as the café’s golden lights suddenly cut to pitch black.
Noah tossed his wet apron at Alden’s feet.
“Consider this my two weeks’ notice,” Noah said, and walked away into the dark street just as the glass behind him shattered.