Page 72 of High Treason
“Good afternoon.” His accent indicated Spanish, but a little high-pitched.
“Sir, we’re closed until four thirty for a private party.” Her words sounded into the ears of agents and operatives.
“All I need is a table for one.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I can make reservations for later on this afternoon?”
He reached inside his suit coat. She tensed, then slowly relaxed. A wallet. He presented her with a bill. Benjamin Franklin smiled at her. “Will this help?”
“I’m afraid not. I must ask you to leave.”
He swore in Spanish, then stiffened. “The door’s unlocked for anyone to enter. Which means open for business.”
“I’ll take care of the oversight once you’ve left.”
“Allow me to speak to your manager.”
“He’s with the private party.”
“I’d like to use your men’s room.”
“I’m sorry. Do I need to call someone to escort you out?”
“Your rudeness will cost your job. I’ll stay until I can speak to the manager.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m calling security.” Monica touched her weapon with her left hand, habit.
The man whipped out a firearm and aimed it at her face. “I know Prince Omar is here. Take me to him now.”
“Stop.” A male agent moved into the hostess area.
The intruder swung his attention to the agent, and Monica drew her weapon.
“Don’t move,” the intruder said. “Drop your weapons, or one of you is dead.”
“We’re not budging,” she said.
He felt for the door behind him and backed through. A woman with two teenage girls stood outside the restaurant doors, crowding the entrance and limiting a potential rooftop shot.
The man took off running toward the mall area, and Monica chased after him with the agent on her heels. The intruder dashed around a few pedestrians crossing the street.
Not a clear shot for her or anyone.
She sprinted after him as he whipped down the street and intoa parking area. Her warnings didn’t deter him. She itched to take a shot but not with the mass of people.
He pushed through some teens and ducked behind a car, then aimed his firearm her way. She knelt beside a car, and his shot went wild. Kids screamed.
She had a clear shot and fired as he twisted around a pickup truck. She followed to where the man lay facedown on the pavement, a puddle of red gathering from the right side of his head.
The agent hurried toward her.
“Call 911,” she said and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s alive.”
The shot had knocked a wig askew.
Monica reached for the hairpiece.
The killer was a woman.
