Page 186 of Invisible Bars
Chi sat in the passenger seat, chewing gum like it was disrespectful.
“Yo,” Chi said, stretching. “So I been thinking. Are we going in loud or quiet? I got a few ideas if you’re open to hearing them. Option one,” he began without waiting for my response. “We bust in with gas masks, spray up the whole spot with roach killer, then, while they’re choking, we set roaches loose. Death by infestation.”
I didn’t answer… just listen and continue watching the building.
“Okay. Option two,” Chi continued, “we pretend to be the health department. Make ’em eat every bar of soap they sell. Mint eucalyptus, and battery acid flavor. Watch they intestines peel.”
Still no response.
“Option three: Hang the owner up by the ceiling fan, cut the power, then turn it back on mid-spin. Let God decide which direction he fly.”
I smirked… just a little.
“Option four is personal fav—shove his face into the espresso machine. Ain’t nothing like third-degree latte scars.”
I finally spoke.
“What’s option five?”
Chi’s grin stretched wider. “Lock the door behind us. Slice ‘em open. Pull out their intestines, drag ‘em across the floor, and mop the blood up with their aprons. Make ‘em clean up their own mess before they die.”
I turned slowly toward him with a savage grin etched onto my face.
“That one.”
Chi’s laughter was pure chaos. “Knew it. Let’s get surgical.”
We stepped out of one of the loaner cars we used for missions like that—off the books, no plates, no questions. We crossed thestreet low and quiet, shadows moving in sync. No front entrance. We slipped around back, where the café’s rear door creaked open just enough.
I went in first, gun drawn, silent as smoke. Chi followed close behind—hood up, blade in hand, eyes sharp like he was already deciding where to cut first.
The cashier—a skinny dude in a café-branded beanie—spotted us first. He froze where he was wiping the counter.
“Wh-What?—”
Crack!
I pistol-whipped him clean across the face. He collapsed to the floor with a grunt.
The owner—mid-50s, thick around the middle—emerged from the back and stopped short, eyes wide.
“Who—Who are you?!”
I stepped forward and pointed the barrel of my gun right between his eyes.
“W-Wait—wait! Please—” he pleaded, hands trembling in the air.
“You remember my wife?” I asked, calm as a coffin.
“Y-Your… your wife?”
“Oh. I see… maybe you got a little amnesia. No problem. Let me jog your memory. She’s about this tall.” I raised my hand flat in the air, marking the height. “Brown skin. Shy… real shy, but sweet, smart, has big, soft eyes that twitch when she’s nervous and a voice like wind through the trees—except when her Tourette’s kicks in. Then, she stutters and blurts out words she can’t control… kind of like yo’ ass is doing now.”
I let that sink in for a beat.
“Most important… she’smine. As in, married to me. As in, the only person in this whole damn world who could probably calm me down on a day I feel likethis.”
His breath caught. “It’s you… Imanio Kors.”
