Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

No—not cowers. Her legs are curled under her and she’s
bent close to the floor, but she’s looking around, her
expression alert and watchful, not terrified.
She catches my eye. Then she tilts her head to the left and
lifts two fingers, indicating how many armed men we’re
dealing with and where they are.
She’s got balls on her, this one.
No wonder she and Natalie are friends.
I nod, letting her know I understand. Then I turn back and
go the other way down the hallway.
Across from the restrooms, there’s an exit to the outside. It
leads to a patio, deserted except for a scattering of dry leaves
over a thin layer of snow. I run across the patio to the other
side of the restaurant, enter through another back door into the
kitchen, and lift a finger to my lips to the three frightened
employees huddled together under a stainless steel prep table.
One of them clutches her cross necklace. All of them stare
silently at me with wide, horrified eyes.
Moving past them, I head to the swinging kitchen doors.
They’re the kind with round glass windows at eye level so
waitstaff can see as they exit with hands full of plated food. I
lean my shoulder against the wall and look out into the dining
room.
The two Irishmen crouch just outside the doors.
They’re concealed from the dining room by a low wall that
runs around the perimeter of the restaurant, the top of which is
decorated with dozens of fake ferns. Gripping weapons,
they’re in intense discussions about what to do next, arguing
back and forth in hissed Gaelic.
I’ve spent some time learning the language, so I get that
they’re soldiers. Not high ranking. Not used to calling the
shots.
They need someone to do it for them, so I oblige.
I push through the doors, point my gun at the one closest,
and say, “Hey.”