Chapter 2 - THE DROP
“I’m not your people,” Harper repeated, the words tasting like copper and adrenaline. Roman took a half-step forward, his hand reaching not for his wallet, but for her jaw. The movement was meant to be degrading, a physical assertion of power. He never saw the heavy, industrial-grade glass coffee pot coming. Harper didn't think; she just swung. The solid glass connected with the side of his skull with a sickening crack. The carafe didn't break, but Roman did. He went down hard, his expensive charcoal suit sliding across the wet, mop-streaked linoleum. The two mountains of muscle behind him reached for their holsters, the metallic click of safeties disengaging echoing through the diner. Harper gripped the handle of the pot, her knuckles white, ready to swing again. But then, a wet, rattling sound stopped the guards dead in their tracks. Roman was laughing. He lay on the filthy floor, blood welling from a deep gash on his cheekbone, laughing as if she had just told the greatest joke in the world.
