Page 120 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits
There’s a TV suspended from the ceiling at an angle that most of the patrons can at least partially see, and it’s on.
“Turn that up!” someone shouts.
The redheaded waitress turns the volume up.
“We’re here at the scene of the aftermath of a Valentine’s Day gang war with over twenty victims, including, tragically,a teenage girl who seems to have stumbled upon the night’s events. Earlier tonight, firefighters were called to what appeared to be a house fire at the isolated Nolan Estate, only to find an even more grizzly and shocking scene. Cole Nolan, CEO of Nolan Tactical, a mid-sized handgun manufacturer has long been suspected to be the leader of one of the Phoenix area’s most notorious criminal organizations...”
My muscles go rigid. The absolute last thing I need right now is for Mina to be reminded of that shit—not like she can forget it, but still, having it shoved in our faces every five minutes isn’t exactly conducive to our continued relationship.
Dottie returns with our coffee. She glances up at the TV news report and shakes her head as though she’s disappointed more than shocked by all the evil in this world. I’m sure she wouldn’t be calmly pouring my coffee right now if she knew I was the one who killed that girl.
“Such a shame,” she says. “And why did it have to be on Valentine’s Day of all days? These psychopaths can’t just let us have one good day of love and candy hearts?”
I smile tightly at her and thank her for the coffee. She leaves our table and turns the TV off to groans from some of the patrons.
“We’ve had a nice day today,” she says, “And we aren’t spoiling it with the news.”
A few minutes later she returns and sets a plate of fluffy blueberry pancakes in front of Mina. “Yours will take a little longer,” she says to me, before darting back to the kitchen.
No honey, darlin’, doll, or sweetheart for me, I guess.
Mina digs into her pancakes and I take a sip of my coffee and continue to people watch. I tense as two black cars pull up right in front of the double doors. I take a long slow breath.
Stop being paranoid, Brian. Nobody’s out to get you. Nobody knows we’re here.
And yet, I can’t help the way my body seems to coil like a viper ready to strike as car doors open and shut in tandem.
The cars are still running. The headlights shine through the diner’s front doors. I look again frantically for that emergency exit, when four men dressed in black and strapped down with weapons burst into the diner. The waitresses scream as a bullet tears through the old guy. He falls face first into his soup. Before I can pull my gun or say a word to Mina, his blood is splattered all over her pancakes and shocked face.
She reaches for her gun, and turns and stands and then… just like that, a bullet rips through her. She stumbles and falls.
Everything around me seems to slow, mere seconds stretching into infinity before me, and I have the closest thing I have ever felt to an out-of-body experience. The Tower card from the tarot spread on Christmas Eve flashes in my mind along with Benjamin Barker’s warning… “Tell her before it’s too late.”
And I suddenly know exactly what he meant. I never told Mina I loved her. Not once. I had a million opportunities. I knew she wanted to hear it back at the motel and still I couldn’t make those fucking words come out of my worthless mouth.
“Mina! Mina!” I shout, choking back sobs that already threaten to overwhelm me. I don’t recognize my own voice. I sound like a dying animal. I’m completely oblivious to my own safety and how I’m leaving myself open to attack. I stare, frozen as her hand falls open, lax, the fork with a bite of blueberry pancake rolling out onto the floor.
She doesn’t move.
The diner is pandemonium now. One of the gunmen has gone to the kitchen. Another is taking out the redhead and Dottie. I don’t know where the third one is, but the one that shot Mina is now focused on me. He releases his magazine, and it clatters on the black and white checkered floor. And suddenlymy instincts re-engage. By the time he’s slammed the next one in, I’ve already pulled my gun and started shooting.
I keep walking as I unload the gun into him. When it’s empty, I drop it and pull a second one from a holster at my back and just keep firing. He’s dead, but I keep shooting until I’m out of ammo on that one, too.
“Dominic!” one of the gunmen shouts, frantic… echoing the way I said Mina’s name only a few moments ago. And I know someone else besides me now has a vendetta. Well, play stupid games, win stupid prizes. I pick up the corpse and spin around, planning to use him to absorb gunfire, but the other gunman hesitates, not wanting to put more bullets in someone he obviously cares about.
“You motherfucker!” He shouts. He starts to rush me, but I pull another gun from a holster at Dominic’s waist and fire it over the dead guy’s shoulder, taking out probably his only mourner.
Now we’re down to two. The third gunman just shot the truckers, and as he turns his focus to me, I lift a coffee pot filled with hot coffee and fling it at him. He screams as the searing liquid hits him, drops his gun, and I grab it and shoot him in the back of the head before he can regroup. Mack is dead but Floyd is still with us… just barely.
“Help… me…” he coughs out. But the blood is already coming out of his mouth. There’s no help for him. I put two bullets cleanly in his head, then I look for the last shooter.
He comes out of the kitchen, covered in blood. I vaguely recall hearing the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. Hank fought back, valiantly, it appears. But it wasn’t enough. We are the only two living souls left in this diner. And I need answers right the fuck now!
I’m keenly aware that I can’t just shoot this motherfucker or I won’t get what I need. Instead, I start flinging throwing stars athim. When I run out of those, I start throwing plates of hot food, then flinging forks. I pick up a full napkin dispenser and chuck it at him. The sharp edge clips him on the shoulder, causing him to let out a howl of pain. If that hurt him, he’d better brace himself for what’s coming next.
He tries shooting at me, but his shots keep missing and going wildly off course as he tries to shoot and avoid the endless cascade of shit I’m throwing at him at the same time. Finally I’m out of small things and start throwing chairs.
He drops the gun and decides to join me in a grown-up fight. We swing punches and throw kicks, and grapple.
