Chapter 3 - THE CROSSFIRE
The window shattered a millisecond later. A high-caliber bullet tore through the space where Cain’s head had been, burying itself into the drywall.
Chaos erupted. Volkov’s men reached for their weapons, but Cain’s guards were faster. Gunfire deafened the small bar. Hunter hit the floor, sliding behind the reinforced oak of the overturned booth. She didn't scream. She didn't panic. The muscle memory of Belgrade kicked in.
A Russian thug flanked the booth, raising a Glock toward Cain, who was busy returning fire at Volkov. Hunter didn't think. She snatched a fallen glass ashtray and hurled it at the Russian's face, disrupting his aim just as the gun went off. The bullet missed Cain's shoulder by an inch. Cain spun, putting two rounds into the man's chest.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Volkov had already fled through the back alley, leaving his dead behind.
Cain looked down at Hunter, who was wiping shattered glass from her jeans. His men flanked him, breathless, guns still drawn.
"Who the hell are you?" Cain demanded, his voice a lethal whisper.
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"Just a waitress," Hunter said, standing up.
"Waitresses don't speak perfect Italian, understand Russian street slang, and stay calm under sniper fire," Cain said, grabbing her arm. "You're coming with us."
