The waitress stared at the faded photograph, her hands trembling so violently she nearly dropped it.
It wasn’t a nostalgic family portrait. It was a crumpled, five-year-old Interpol Red Notice. And the face staring back—despite her current brown hair dye and innocent demeanor—was undeniably hers.
“And you…” the homeless man continued. His hunched posture completely evaporated. The gravelly weakness in his voice vanished, replaced by the sharp, authoritative clip of law enforcement. “…have the right to remain silent.”
The manager, still hyperventilating from being abruptly fired, backed away in utter bewilderment. “What the hell is going on?”
The old man ignored him, reaching up to casually peel away a layer of prosthetic grime from his jawline. “Agent Miller, FBI. We’ve been tracking you since the cartel accounts were drained in Miami, ‘Sarah.’”
Instantly, the waitress’s tears dried up. Her sweet, victimized facade flatlined into a dead-eyed, predatory glare. Her hand slowly slid toward the deep pocket of her apron.
“I wouldn’t,” Miller warned softly. He glanced down at the ruined meal on the checkered floor. Amidst the shattered porcelain and sausages, a faint chemical hiss was audible. A tiny, cracked capsule was rapidly dissolving into the spilled food, literally burning a small, acidic hole through the linoleum tile.
The manager looked down, his pale face turning a nauseating shade of green.
“I wasn’t lying. The Bureau bought this diner three days ago to run this sting,” Miller told the trembling manager, never taking his eyes off the waitress. “So yes, you’re still fired. But mostly because you just inadvertently ruined her assassination attempt.”
Before ‘Sarah’ could bolt for the back door, five other customers in the diner stood up in absolute unison, drawing concealed sidearms.
Miller smiled grimly. “Looks like your shift is over.”