His voice was almost pleasant when he spoke. “Mr. Strake, I believe your house has a rat.”
Damon’s right-hand man reached for his gun.
The lean bodyguard crossed the space between them so quickly Mira barely saw him move. There was a sharp crack as the man’s wrist bent the wrong way. The gun hit the carpet. Damon’s men shouted. Kaito’s large guard had his weapon out now, aimed but steady.
Mira stepped backward.
Too late.
The service boat outside flashed.
Not a light.
A muzzle.
“Down!” Mira shouted.
The window exploded inward.
Rain, glass, and gunfire tore through the Lantern Room.
Guests screamed. Tables overturned. Crystal shattered against marble. The pianist, who had been playing near the bar, dove behind the instrument as bullets punched holes through the polished wood.
Mira hit the floor hard.
A second later, Kaito Ren was beside her, one arm braced over her shoulders as glass rained across his suit. He had moved toward her, not away. That made no sense. Men like him preserved themselves first.
Damon roared orders from behind the table.
His men returned fire toward the window, but the angle was bad. Kaito’s lean bodyguard dragged Mr. Hoshino behind a pillar. The large one shielded Kaito with his body while firing measured shots through the shattered glass.
Tomas crawled from behind the bar, white-faced, clutching a bleeding cut on his forehead.
“Mira!”
“Stay down!”
The service boat’s engine growled outside.
Mira lifted her head just enough to see through the broken lower pane. The boat was backing away from the pilings, not fleeing yet, repositioning. A second shooter crouched near the bow with a rifle.
“They’re moving left!” she shouted. “Toward the kitchen windows!”
Kaito looked at her. “How many?”
“Two visible. Maybe one pilot.”
“You can see them?”
“I know water.”
A bullet struck the floor near her hand. Splinters jumped into her skin.
Kaito pulled her back.
“You should not be here,” he said.
Mira laughed once, breathless and bitter. “I was scheduled until closing.”
For the first time, something like amusement touched his face.
Then the room shook.
The kitchen windows blew inward.
Smoke rolled through the service hallway. Cooks shouted. The sprinkler system burst alive, soaking the restaurant in cold water. Fire alarms screamed. The air filled with steam, glass dust, and panic.
Damon grabbed his traitorous right-hand man by the collar and slammed him against the table.
“Who paid you?”
The man spit blood and smiled.
“Too late,” he said.
Mira heard a new sound beneath the alarm.
Ticking.
Not loud.
Not mechanical.
A small, fast clicking from under the service station.
Her heart dropped.
She turned.
There, half-hidden behind stacked linen baskets, was a black case no larger than a lunchbox. A red indicator blinked beneath the handle.
She had passed that service station twenty times tonight.
It had not been there before.
“Kaito,” she said.
He followed her eyes.
His face went still.
The kind of stillness that meant death had entered the room wearing a new mask.
“Everyone out!” he shouted.
Damon looked over. “What?”
“Bomb!”
The word did what bullets had not. It broke the room open.
Men who had been ready to kill one another suddenly moved in the same direction. Kaito barked orders in Japanese. Damon cursed in English. Staff crawled toward the emergency exit. Guests sobbed under tables. Tomas dragged the pianist by the collar toward the kitchen.
Mira should have run.
Instead, she crawled toward the black case.
Kaito caught her wrist. “No.”
“There are people trapped by the bar.”
“My men will take them.”
“There isn’t time.”
“You are not trained for this.”
She looked at him through smoke and sprinkler rain. “Are you?”
He did not answer.
The blinking light quickened.
Mira’s father had worked more than docks. Before he disappeared, he had inspected cargo, security seals, illegal modifications, hidden compartments. He had taught her strange things other fathers did not teach daughters: how to spot a false panel, how to smell burned copper, how to tell a timer from a pressure switch, how to stay calm when panic wanted to own your hands.
She reached the case.
Kaito crouched beside her despite the shouting men behind him.
“Go,” she said.
“No.”
“You are the target.”
“Not anymore.”
The words struck her strangely.
Mira swallowed and looked at the case. No wires outside. Cheap plastic shell. Commercial latch. Too obvious. Too theatrical.
A fear colder than the rain slid through her.
“It’s not the bomb,” she said.
Kaito’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“It is meant to make everyone run.”
She turned toward the emergency exits.
The staff exit led to the alley.
The guest exit led to the front drive.
The kitchen exit led to the lower dock.
Three exits.
Three perfect kill zones.