Bret Sanders sat at the bar, watching the room. Couples were laughing, one guy was trying way too hard to impressed the clearly uninterested blind date he had found on the Internet the previous night, and there was a girl in the corner reading the latest John Grisham novel and sipping on a dirty martini. Do people still drink those? he pondered as he continued to trace the room with a growing bit of uneasiness in his gut.
His contact was late. His contact was never late and tonight he was precisely five minutes and thirty-seven seconds late. The second hand on his Rolex ever kept ticking forward, despite its owner's growing annoyance and apprehension. He normally did these jobs sober, but if his contact was going to continue to delay him, he may have to buckle and at least order a beer. After all, the bartender was already cocking an eyebrow at him for sipping on his ice water. No need to draw any attention to himself if he didn't have to. Nothing good could ever come from being remembered.
A shrill, tinny pseudo-orchestra erupted next to him and the woman sitting next to him quickly snapped up her phone, making that annoying tone cease. The bartender shot her a look and he took the brief opportunity to examine the beers on tap. Coor's. Budweiser. Sam Adams. All standard fare. His eyes found Guinness and he gestured to the bartender for a pint. The man grunted and filled his order. That's okay. I"m not here to make friends. The sooner she gets here, the sooner I can get out of this sorry excuse for a watering hole.
His burner cell buzzed once again his hip. He flipped it open and the text message contained one word: Made. Suddenly the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees and his eyes scoured each face and body movement. No red flags. He turned to the bartender and shot him a look. He returned it with utmost surprise, and, before he could respond further, a bullet took a subsonic path from one temple through the other. The woman with the rancid ringtone screamed as he dropped to the floor. She almost immediately joined him, with a matching mortal wound where her right eye should have been. He glanced over and saw Book Girl was not where she was sitting. Even amiss the now chaos of people fleeing for their lives, he could see she was not among them.
Knowing if he remained there a second longer, he would also wind up a chalk outline, he rolled out from his position and under the nearest table. Glass shattered above him from a high powered projectile. He reached behind his back and dislodged the 9mm that he had taped to his back earlier that night. The shooter, whoever it was, had to be in the room, somewhere. And since the guy took out two innocents almost immediately, he must be close. Before he had a chance to peek out and assess the situation, there was more gunfire, but this time to is right.
Shots were now being exchanged above his head. If he didn't act now, he would only have himself to blame for his own demise. He kicked out the chair in front of him and it struck a running target. Whoever it was collapsed after taking two rounds from two different shooters. He aimed his Glock at the now revealed shooter at the far end of bar. His first shot hit the bar and the second hit his target in the gut. He fired off a third and fourth, which struck his target in the chest, emitting a stray of red.
A hand above him knocked the table out from above him and he saw Book Girl pointing an identical Glock at him. "Don't shoot! You've been made!"
"Who are you?!" He shouted at her, still pointing his pistol at her chest.
"I'm the one who just saved your ass. Go take a look at who you just shot. That was your contact. You've been made, and if you don't get out now, you'll have the same fate as your bartender friend."
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