The way we scattered might seem an overreaction to a reporter finding us, but there was more to it than that. The man wasn’t carrying a BlackBerry this time and he wasn’t alone. He stepped into the diner lifting a compact Uzi submachine gun. His three friends following him in were as heavily armed.

I went one way while Rink and Harvey went the other. It suited me: these men were after me, not my friends, and I preferred that their attention focused only on me.

“Get down,” I yelled at the barista at the espresso machine. I went over the serving counter in a dive, knocking the young man to the floor just as the bogus reporter let loose a hail of bullets at us. The machine was cut to shreds and scalding hot coffee splashed all around our bodies. The young man tried to claw his way from under me, but I pressed him down, even as with my other hand I went for my SIG. More Uzi chatter filled the room, joined by the screams and shouts of the customers trying to flee the chaos. Glass shattered and tinkled. Someone yelped in pain. Then I heard the crack of a handgun; either Rink or Harvey firing back.

I scrambled away, using the serving counter as cover. I made it all the way to the cashier’s till and found the young girl crouching under the counter. A minimum wage she would put up with, but not this. She looked at me, the gun in my hand, and screamed in terror.

I bobbed up. Got a snapshot image of the place and didn’t like it one bit.

There were people clambering over tables in an attempt to escape, while three of the attackers laid down an indiscriminate barrage of bullets. One old man caught a cross-stitch pattern of bullets across his lower back and went down. A woman was huddled over, cradling her bleeding face in her hands. I could see neither of my friends. Then there was no more time for looking.

The fake reporter spun my way.

He pulled on the trigger of his submachine gun, letting out a wordless roar. The rounds blasted chunks from the counter and I rolled away. Suddenly the cashier went silent.

Bastard, I thought. That was all, but it was all the galvanizing I needed. I bobbed up again and fired a single shot.

The round hit the “reporter” in his open mouth. Must have severed his spine, the way he dropped like a stone. It was too clean a death for the murderous son of a bitch.