Chapter 7 - The Spill on Linoleum
The heavy glass tumbler shattered against the hard floor, sending shards of clear glass and ice cubes skittering across the checkered linoleum.
"Jesus Christ!" Richard yelled from behind the register, dropping his pen. "Artie, get out here with a broom! The drifter’s destroying the place!"
Maya didn't hear him. The sight of the man in the black suit had sent a surge of pure adrenaline into her bloodstream, bypassing her exhaustion entirely. Her mind screamed a single, hysterical word: RUN.
She scrambled out of the booth, her bare feet almost slipping on the ice and water. She didn't head for the front double doors—she knew that was where they would be waiting. Instead, she bolted toward the narrow hallway near the back, past the restrooms, heading straight for the illuminated red EXIT sign above the kitchen service door.
Arthur emerged from the kitchen swinging door, holding a string mop and a plastic bucket.
"Hey! Kid, wait!" Arthur called out, seeing her frantic dash. "Watch out for the glass!"
Maya didn't stop. She shoved past Arthur, her shoulder striking his broad chest. "They're here!" she screamed, her voice cracking into a terrifying shriek. "They're inside!"
Arthur stumbled back, turning just in time to see the man in the black suit stand up from the back booth.
Vance moved with terrifying grace. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. He didn't run; he glided forward, his right hand slipping smoothly into the left lapel of his jacket.
"Sir! You can't go back there!" Richard barked, stepping out from behind the register to block the hallway. "That's an employee-only area—"
Vance didn't even slow down. As he reached Richard, his left arm whipped out in a tight, short arc. His palm struck the manager's open throat with devastating precision.
Richard let out a sickening, wet gagging sound, his eyes bulging as his windpipe partially collapsed. He crumpled to the floor like a sack of wet laundry, clutching his throat, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
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Arthur dropped his mop. The wooden handle clattered loudly against the floor. His old, faded blue eyes narrowed, his survival instincts from his years in the Infantry thirty years ago kicking back into gear.
"Hold on right there, pal," Arthur grunted, stepping into the narrow hallway, setting his broad frame to block the exit door.
