Page 3 of The Witness

I spun to a younger man who was prepping veggies with a modicum of skill and snapped my fingers. “A mesh strainer and an egg from the walk-in. Now.”

“Yes, chef,” he replied and dropped a paring knife to do my bidding. It was all about the tone of voice.

The chef exhaled a groan of annoyance but didn’t move away. He was willing to at least watch my demonstration.

I checked the temperature of the water in my saucier pan. Perfect. I tried to return my thermometer to the chest pocket of my chef’s jacket, only to remember I wasn’t wearing it. Instead, I hooked it in the V-neck of my tee shirt and took the strainer and cold egg from the prep cook.

“Now, crack the egg into the strainer.” I demonstrated holding the strainer over a stainless bowl. “Then gently swirl it until all the excess white drained off. It leaves you with a nice, tight egg ready to poach.”

I lowered the strainer with the egg into the saucier pan, moving it back and forth before I carefully rolled the egg out into the water. “No need to swirl the water or—”

“Run!” A busboy slammed through the swinging doors from the dining room, not pausing to see if anyone listened. He was out the back door before the first gunshot.

“Go. Now!” shouted the chef.

After a moment’s hesitation, everyone surged toward the exit. Screams from out front, the sound of breaking glass and more gunshots fed the panic. The chef, prep cook, and the rest of the kitchen staff crowded between me and the way out. No way I would get to the back door before whoever was out there came in here.

Debilitating panic rooted me to the spot for a split second. A trickle of sweat slid down my spine. Worst-case scenarios that all ended with me dead filled my head. The egg in the saucier pan was almost ready to plate and in an action that was pure reflex, I slid the pan off the heat in a futile attempt to preserve the gooey yolk.

A fresh round of gunfire broke my momentary trance. I spun, looking for another way out of the kitchen. Nothing.

The walk-in cooler.

I grabbed one of the thick jackets hanging on the wall and raced inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind me. I dragged on the jacket and crawled into the darkest corner, hiding behind stacked cases of milk, pallets of eggs, and bins of produce. Cowering in the shadows, I drew my legs up. Curled in a tight ball, I gripped my knees to my chest so hard my arm musclesshook. For once, being the smallest person in the kitchen was an asset.

From inside the musty cooler, the gunfire sounded harmless, like the cells of a sheet of bubble wrap being popped in the next room. I closed my eyes and came the closest I had to praying in a very long time.

“Please, please,” I whispered on every icy inhale and exhale. Not sure if I was begging for my own life or that of everyone in the Oceanfront Diner.

After the shooting stopped, I stayed huddled on the ground of the cooler until the sweat coating my body turned cold. Unwinding my trembling limbs, I stood, feeling light-headed.

I put my hand on the door handle, but my fingers refused to work the latch. Beyond my cold, dark cave was a reality I didn’t want to face. On an inhale, I closed my eyes and, with a million fears breathing down my neck, forced open the door.

The first thing I saw in the empty kitchen was the chef sprawled face down a few steps from the back door. Blood soaked the back of his white shirt and trickled over the concrete floor. I kneeled, careful to stay away from the blood, and pressed my trembling fingers to his limp wrist. No pulse.

The edges of my vision grew dark, and I shook my head to clear the light-headedness. No man deserved to be shot in the back.

I staggered up and out into the main room. People cried huddling together under tables and on the floor. The smell of blood and gunpowder mixed with stale coffee and sticky sweet pancake syrup. I fought back the desire to retch.

At our table, Lewis was on the floor, his back propped against the side of the booth. Blood streamed from his shoulder, and he gripped a second wound in his upper thigh. More blood seeped from between his fingers. His eyes were closed against the pain.

God, so much blood. The heavy iron scent filled my nose. I could almost taste it. This was infinitely worse than the scene on the yacht.

“What can I do for you?” I snatched a handful of paper napkins from the table and fell to my knees next to him, pressing the wad to his bleeding shoulder. Red immediately soaked through the napkins and stained my hands.

“Jesus, how are you alive? Get the hell out of here.” His dark eyes blazed as he searched me for injury. “Sandoval sent them for you. You need to get away. Now. No cops. No FBI.” His tone was harsh, almost an accusation.

Of all the things Lewis could have said, that was what I feared most.

This was all my fault; I shouldn’t have told anyone what I saw on that boat. The dead cook. Lewis’s injuries. All my fault. More guilt.

“What about the witness protection people?” I twisted, looking around like I expected them to suddenly appear dressed in head-to-toe body armor and save me. But there was only shattered glass, bullet casings, and victims.

“Someone sold us out. You can’t trust anyone.” He gasped.

Over the bad Muzak version ofJingle Bells, I heard the faint whine of police sirens.

“In my pocket, get my wallet.” Lewis tipped his head toward his left side.

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