THE RAIN OUTSIDE THE DINER WINDOW WASHED AWAY MORE THAN JUST THE DUST OF THE CITY STREETS

Heavy combat boots crunched over the shattered glass carpeting the diner entrance as two shadowy figures in dark raincoats stepped through the broken front window frame.

The beam of a high-intensity tactical flashlight cut through the darkness, sweeping methodically across the empty booths, searching for movement.

Arthur held his breath, pressing Marcus flat against the sticky floor behind the heavy wooden partition of their corner booth.

"Clear," a low, gravelly voice muttered from near the front counter, followed by the metallic click of a slide being pulled back on an automatic rifle.

"They couldn't have gone far. The old man can barely walk."

"Check the kitchen," the second intruder ordered sharply.

"The stream was broadcasting our position for ten minutes before the transformer blew. Someone’s watching every move we make."

Arthur nudged Marcus with his elbow, signaling toward the narrow hallway leading to the back service exit twenty feet away.

Marcus nodded, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his hands shaking as he gripped the folded letters of his brother Thomas in his jacket pocket.

With agonizing slowness, Arthur rose to a crouch, his old joints popping softly in the quiet room.

He raised his Colt .45, aligning the barrel with the corner partition just as the flashlight beam flickered toward their booth.

Bang.

Arthur fired a single warning shot into the acoustic ceiling tiles, bringing down a shower of plaster dust and insulation right on top of the intruders.

"Move!" Arthur roared, shoving Marcus hard toward the kitchen doors.

Marcus scrambled forward on all fours, bursting through the swinging double doors of the kitchen just as a hail of submachine gun fire splintered the wooden frames behind them.

Inside the industrial kitchen, Chloe was huddled beneath a stainless-steel prep table, her hands clamped tightly over her ears while the kid with the camera frantically kept rolling, his lens catching the muzzle flashes dancing through the dining room doorway.

"Out the back alley!" Arthur commanded, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet from a hanging rack and hurling it backward through the swinging doors as a makeshift distraction.

It hit the floor with a deafening clang, drawing a burst of blind gunfire into the stainless-steel prep counters.

Marcus scrambled to the heavy metal back door, throwing the crash bar down with all his weight.

The door popped open, revealing the dark, rain-drenched alleyway behind the diner where a rusted pickup truck idled with its headlights off.

Standing beside the truck in a heavy fisherman’s slicker was an elderly man with a shock of white hair and a deeply scarred face, holding the passenger door wide open.

"Get in, you fools," the old man shouted over the roar of the rain, his voice a gravelly twin to Arthur’s.

"Before the whole county sheriff's department arrives to clean up this mess."

Marcus froze on the threshold, staring at the driver’s face in the dim dashboard light, recognizing the emerald ring flashing on the driver's left hand.