“The guard told us that he always heads for a booth in the back room.”Riley said.
“Through there,” Hayes replied, gesturing toward an opening on the other side of the room.They saw that the café extended deeper than the frontage suggested, with a corridor leading to additional seating areas arranged in themed sections.
They strolled past two rooms, each adorned with nostalgic decor inspired by classic films.A few patrons sat scattered at tables, immersed in quiet conversation, but no booths occupied these spaces.As they continued, they arrived at an impressive archway, above which a sign reading “The Director’s Cut” was elegantly suspended.
“This must be it,” Hayes muttered as he stepped inside.Riley and Ann Marie maintained a casual pace behind him.A server approached with menus, but Hayes declined with a polite smile and continued toward the rear section.
The Director’s Cut area was designed to evoke a vintage screening room.The lighting was dimmer here, the walls draped with heavy burgundy curtains reminiscent of theater hangings.Private booths were each separated by dividers that created the illusion of personal screening boxes.Directors’ chairs emblazoned with famous names hung on the walls, interspersed with black-and-white behind-the-scenes photographs from classic film sets.
In the farthest corner, a solitary figure sat hunched over a half-empty coffee cup.Malcolm Hartley.He hadn’t noticed them yet, his eyes had a faraway look, and his thoughts must have been elsewhere.
Riley observed him for a moment—a man in his mid-forties, with thinning dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a scholarly appearance.He looked more like a film historian than a security chief.
Hayes caught Riley’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly.They began moving toward Hartley’s booth, maintaining a casual pace that wouldn’t attract attention.They had closed half the distance when Malcolm glanced up.
His eyes darted from Hayes to Riley to Ann Marie, clearly assessing them as law enforcement rather than casual café patrons.His expression shifted from concentration to recognition, and then to alarm.
“Malcolm Hartley?”Hayes called, his voice carrying clearly across the remaining distance.“Atlanta Police.We need to ask you some questions.”
Malcolm’s response was immediate and unambiguous.He rose from his seat in a single fluid motion and moved rapidly toward a swinging door marked “Staff Only” at the rear of the room.
“Mr.Hartley, stop!”Riley called out, already in motion.“FBI!”
Several patrons turned at her words, conversations halting mid-sentence as the atmosphere in the café shifted from relaxed to tense in an instant.Malcolm ignored the command, pushing through the swinging door with his shoulder, disappearing from view.
Hayes accelerated into a controlled run, Riley and Ann Marie flanking him as they navigated between tables.Riley’s mind raced through possibilities.Was he armed?Did he have a vehicle waiting?Was there another exit through the kitchen?
They burst through the swinging doors into the brightly lit kitchen, the sudden shift from the dim café momentarily disorienting.Stainless steel surfaces reflected the overhead fluorescents, creating a harsh glare that Riley squinted against.The kitchen staff froze in their tasks, startled by the sudden intrusion.
“FBI and Atlanta PD,” Hayes announced, badge already extended.“Did a man just come through here?”
A young chef pointed wordlessly toward the back exit, a red emergency door that was now slowly closing.The three moved in tandem through the kitchen, navigating around a central island stacked with plates of half-prepared food.A pot boiled over on a stove, the water hissing as it hit the burner, but the staff remained frozen in place, watching the unusual scene unfold.
Riley reached the emergency exit first, shouldering it open to reveal a narrow alley behind the café.The contrast between the kitchen’s sterile brightness and the dim passage momentarily disoriented her.She blinked against the change, her vision adjusting in time to see Malcolm Hartley’s retreating figure about thirty yards ahead, running toward the street at the far end.
“Hayes!”she called, already moving in pursuit.“He’s heading east!”
Hayes emerged behind her, with Ann Marie close on his heels.They spread out slightly in the narrow alley—Hayes taking the center while Riley and Ann Marie moved to either side.The formation was instinctive, born of their training; it maximized their coverage while minimizing the risk of interfering with each other.
The alley was littered with the detritus of restaurant operations—stacked milk crates, recycling bins overflowing with cardboard, the occasional puddle of questionable origin.Riley navigated these obstacles without breaking stride, her focus locked on Hartley’s retreating form.
“Malcolm Hartley!”Hayes shouted, his voice bouncing off the brick walls of the surrounding buildings.“Stop now or we’ll add resisting arrest to your charges!”
Whether motivated by Hayes’ warning or simple exhaustion, Hartley slowed momentarily, glancing back over his shoulder.In that split second of divided attention, his foot caught on an uneven section of pavement, and he stumbled.
Riley seized the opportunity, accelerating her pace.Ann Marie mirrored her movement from the opposite side of the alley, both women converging on their target.
“Hands where I can see them!”Riley commanded, closing the final yards between them.
Hartley froze, his eyes darting between Riley approaching from his left and Ann Marie from his right.For a moment, Riley thought he might comply.Then his expression hardened, and he made a final desperate lunge toward the alley’s exit.
Hayes intercepted him with the precision of a linebacker, catching Hartley’s midsection in a controlled tackle that drove them both against the alley wall.The impact knocked the wind from Hartley, who slid to a sitting position, gasping for breath as Hayes maintained a firm grip on his shoulder.
“That’s enough,” Hayes said, his voice surprisingly calm despite the exertion.“You’re only making this worse for yourself.”
Riley approached cautiously, her hand hovering near her holster, though she hadn’t drawn her weapon.Hartley didn’t appear armed, but the desperation of his flight suggested a dangerous level of determination.
“Malcolm Hartley,” she said, maintaining a professional distance as Hayes pulled the man to his feet.“We need to talk about Veronica Slate.”
