Chapter 7 - The Hostage in the Warehouse
Inside Rose’s Diner, the smell of gunpowder and shattered glass hung thick in the air.
Sophia leaned her head back against the wooden chair, her wrists bound tightly behind her with thick plastic zip-ties. Beside her, Emma was tied up similarly, her tiny arms pinned to her sides.
“Mommy, I’m scared,” Emma whimpered softly, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
“Shh, baby, look at me,” Sophia whispered, keeping her voice as steady as she could despite the panic clawing at her throat. “Look right into my eyes. Don't look at them.”
One of the guards, a heavy-set man named Paul, dragged a chair over and sat directly in front of them, tossing a pocket knife repeatedly into the air.
“Your boyfriend isn't coming, lady,” Paul laughed cruelly. “Dominic’s fixing to put a bullet in his head down at the docks right about now.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sophia spat. “And he’s twice the man you’ll ever be.”
Paul’s face hardened. He stood up and raised his hand to slap Sophia.
“Don't you dare touch my mommy!” Emma screamed, her tiny voice echoing through the ruined diner.
Paul paused, looking down at the six-year-old girl with a sneer. “What are you gonna do about it, kid? Return another envelope?”
“My mommy told me that mean people always get what they deserve,” Emma said, staring straight into the killer’s eyes without flinching. “And Mr. Adrian is going to make you sorry.”
Paul laughed aloud, turning to his partner near the broken window. “You hear this kid? She thinks the big bad mob boss is gonna save her—”
BOOM!
A deafening explosion echoed from three miles away at Red Hook Pier, rattling the broken glass windows of the diner. A massive plume of orange fire illuminated the night sky in the distance.
Paul froze, his laughter dying in his throat. “What the hell was that?”
Before his partner could answer, the streetlights outside the diner suddenly went pitch black. The power to the entire block was cut.
Darkness enveloped Rose’s Diner.
“Get your night vision on!” Paul yelled, fumbling for his tactical flashlight.
From the shadows near the back kitchen door, a quiet, horrifying sound echoed through the room—the wet, metallic slide of a suppressed pistol bolt locking into place.
“Who’s there?!” Paul screamed, swinging his flashlight beam toward the kitchen.
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A whisper came out of the dark, cold as death itself:
“The man who’s going to make you sorry.”
