THE CHRYSANTHEMUM CURSE

Vance stopped three feet from the cook. The bright overhead fluorescent lights reflected off his cold, dark eyes, making him look less like a man and more like an industrial machine designed for violence.

"Out of the way, old man," Vance said softly. His hand remained inside his jacket.

"You hit my manager," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous, low gravel. He didn't back down. He was sixty-two years old, his back hurt every morning, and his knees creaked when it rained, but he was standing between a predator and a terrified girl. "And you're chasing a kid who hasn't done a damn thing to you."

"She stole something that does not belong to her," Vance replied coldly. "Something that governs the lives of people far above your pay grade. Step aside, or I will put a bullet through your sub-clavian artery. You will bleed out on this floor in forty-five seconds."

Arthur looked down at Vance’s hand inside his jacket. He could see the distinct, heavy outline of a gun frame pressing against the dark cloth.

"I've seen men like you before," Arthur murmured. "In the valley near Danang. You talk real smooth until the blood starts coming out of your own mouth."

Vance didn't waste breath on a retort. He drew the weapon.

It was a custom Sig Sauer P226 fitted with a thick, matte-black suppressor. The steel glinted wickedly under the diner lights.

Before Vance could raise the sightline to Arthur’s chest, Arthur didn't try to dodge. He grabbed the heavy, industrial aluminum mop bucket sitting beside him and swung it with all the force in his broad shoulders, dumping three gallons of dirty, ammonia-laced water and a heavy string mop directly into Vance’s face.

The surge of soapy water hit Vance square in the eyes.

Pfft! Pfft!

The suppressed pistol coughed twice. The round lead bullets tore through the acoustic ceiling tiles above, sending a shower of white dust and insulation falling down into the hallway.