Carlisle stepped onto the sunlit pavement, his right hand sliding behind his back, slipping under his crisp blue manager’s shirt.
“Step away from him, Mia,” Carlisle ordered, his voice terrifyingly deadpan. “He’s dangerous.”
Mia’s pulse roared in her ears. She looked at the blood on the concrete, then at the heavy metallic drive the tattooed stranger had just pressed into her trembling palm.
“I said move!” Carlisle snapped, drawing a sleek, suppressed pistol from his waistband.
Mia shielded the injured man, bracing for the gunshot. But the man didn’t cower. Instead, a low, bloody chuckle rumbled in his chest. His sudden weakness evaporated. He leaned comfortably against the red brick wall, took a swig from the water bottle Mia had brought him, and raised his black smartphone.
“She did what no one else would,” the man said smoothly into the receiver.
“Not my problem,” Carlisle sneered, aiming the gun right at them. “You’re both dead.”
The tattooed man ignored the barrel. His eyes hardened. “Yeah. I’m at Café Bellmont. Spring the trap.”
Instantly, the five apathetic “bystanders” who had been recording the scene lowered their smartphones. In terrifying unison, they reached under their jackets and drew matte-black firearms, forming a flawless, deadly perimeter around Carlisle. Half a dozen red laser sights painted a glowing constellation across the manager’s chest.
Carlisle’s gun clattered to the sidewalk. All the color drained from his face.
The injured man slowly stood up, brushing the dirt from his torn biker vest. His eyes were as sharp as shattered glass. “Did you really think I wouldn’t bait out the mole, Carl?”
He turned to Mia, flashing a dangerous, million-dollar smile. “You’re fired from this dump, Mia. Good thing my cartel just bought it. How does General Manager sound?”