The Game Never Ends. Zaire Crown
to trigger her anxiety. In the past, her obsessive compulsive disorder manifested as a need for neatness and order that was mostly restricted to her condo. The rooms had to be spotless and sometimes she would remake her bed six or seven times before it was just right. At her worst it never reared its ugly head in public. Plus there was nothing messy or unsanitary about Dominic’s. The dining area was immaculate. The oddity was that they refused to serve food.
Tuesday fought to get control of her breathing. The oxygen helped to beat back the rising tide of panic cresting within. She maintained her cool because she didn’t want to bug out over something that might be as simple as a slow night for the kitchen staff. She chalked up the phantom fear to just nervousness over speaking to Marcus about the job.
He was still consumed with his new watch, turning his wrist this way and that way when she grabbed his attention. “Bae, don’t you think it’s kinda weird that ain’t nobody got served yet? Come to think of it, I don’t even smell no food cookin’.”
Marcus slowly surveyed the restaurant using his peripheral vision then flagged down one of the waiters.
“Hey, is it gonna be much longer? We’ve been waiting a while for appetizers.”
The young Latino server was humble and apologetic. He confessed there was some problem in the kitchen causing the delay but promised it was being resolved. To make up for the inconvenience, he announced to the room that everyone’s dinner would be free and this earned applause from all the other diners.
This explanation put Tuesday at ease. She felt silly for letting herself get so paranoid. It may have been a residual effect from all her years in the stick-up game.
As the waiter left, Marcus slowly scanned the restaurant again. He threw his head back for a laugh before he leaned in for another kiss.
Marcus was still wearing a broad smile but his voice was deadly serious when he whispered: “We gotta get the fuck up outta here right now.”
Chapter Eight
We gotta get the fuck up outta here right now.
Tuesday knew Marcus had a sense of humor but nothing in his eyes hinted that he might be joking. Instead of giving some type of explanation, he just mouthed the words: “Get ready.”
He was still smiling when he called the friendly waiter back over. “I have a question about the costoletta di vitello.”
Before the server could respond, Marcus stood and leveled a. 45 at the side of his head. The blast sent blood and brain matter exploding from his skull.
Marcus then turned and starting shooting in the direction of the second waiter at the rear of the dining area, who had already pulled his own pistol. There was no chance to return fire. He dove headlong into an empty booth as the .45 punched holes through the cushion right over his head.
When he told Tuesday to “get ready,” she wasn’t expecting this but didn’t hesitate to react. She was already on her feet with the Heckler freed from her Hermes clutch.
Marcus guided her towards the front door. He kept an eye and his pistol turned to the kitchen as if waiting for someone else to come out the rear.
Then he suddenly stopped and Tuesday didn’t know why until she saw the valet. The same dude who had parked their Rolls Royce had crept up on them and had an AR-15 aimed at Marcus’s head.
“Please sir. I need you and your wife to drop the guns.” He was just as cordial as when he had taken the keys to the Wraith.
Marcus let the .45 slip from his fingers and Tuesday followed by throwing down the Heckler. The second waiter Marcus shot at promptly came to collect both weapons.
They marched the couple back to their table and made them sit.
Tuesday was fucked up. She looked around the restaurant wondering why all the customers were just sitting there calmly. It started to make sense when many of them began to pull out assault rifles that were concealed under the white linen tablecloths. They sprang to their feet, barking orders to the rest of the diners. They forced them all to the floor and made them place their hands behind their heads.
Tuesday only then realized what Marcus had already peeped: they had walked right into a trap. None of the other diners had complained about the food because nobody was waiting to eat. Half had been waiting for them; the other half were just hostages to make the scene look realistic.
The valet called out “Lock it up!” and some of the gunmen started to shut down the restaurant before any more real customers could intrude. They scrambled around to lock doors, pull the blinds, and dim the interior lights. A second valet came in carrying an M-11 and locked the front entrance then flipped the sign to CLOSED.
They ordered Tuesday and Marcus to keep their hands on the table.
“So what the fuck up wit’ this man?” he asked. “Y’all act like a nigga wasn’t gone leave a tip or something.”
“Mr. Caine, I think you know this is about a little more than a gratuity.”
Hearing them call Marcus by his real name scared the hell out of Tuesday. The way they set up this ambush marked them as professionals, but anyone who would knowingly ambush Sebastian Caine was either well-connected or suicidal. Dangerous either way.
The valet slung the AR over his shoulder and sat at the table with them. “Mr. Caine, seriously, I’m a longtime fan. I’m trying hard not to be on some groupie shit and ask for your autograph.
“I hate to finally meet you like this, but our employer wants to have a conversation and thought this was the best way to make sure it happened in a neutral environment where you both felt safe.”
If Marcus was afraid he didn’t show it. “Nigga, miss me wit’ all that fake ass James Bond shit. My employer. Bitch, I know who you work for and knew it the minute I peeped this whole play. Where the fuck is Guapa?”
Guapa? Tuesday had never heard him mention that name before.
Even though her heart was in her throat, she wanted to show that she wasn’t scared either. “All this for a conversation? Next time tell yo’ boss just hit us up on Twitter.”
The henchman got a text then checked his phone. “La Guapa just pulled in so you can tell her yourself, smart ass. I’d love to see that.”
Her? Tuesday wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.
Marcus looked at her. “Bae, I need you to listen and do exactly what I say. When she comes in here—no matter what she says, no matter what she does—you stay quiet. Don’t say shit.”
Tuesday felt like Marcus was trying to check her. “I don’t care who dis bitch s’posed to be. As long as she respect me—”
He cut her off. “Tuesday, I know you not some scared chick but trust me, it’s not the time to play tough. Not now, not here, and definitely not with this bitch. Don’t smile at her, don’t frown at her, don’t even roll yo’ eyes. Please just do what I said.”
The fake valet smiled at her. “If I were you, I’d listen to your man.”
It wasn’t what Marcus said that convinced Tuesday. It was the look on his face. For the first time since she had known him, she saw genuine fear in his eyes.
The lead henchman stood. “La Guapa is at that door, let’s go. Clear it out!”
The gunmen along with the fake busboys rounded up the real diners who were still face down on the floor. The hostages were ushered into the kitchen single file. Some with sniffles and sobs, some with delusions of being released. Seconds later, a few short staccato bursts of automatic gunfire quelled all their hopes and fears.
Tuesday imagined the innocent diners were lying dead next to the kitchen staff, the real waiters and busboys, every employee at Dominic’s who had the misfortune of having a shift on this night.
The fake waiter went to