Running With Ghosts

The bullets didn’t stop after the first spray.

They came in bursts—targeted, controlled. These weren’t amateurs. They weren’t trying to rob the café.

They came for her.

My mother.

Adrian fired back from the far side of the room, crouched behind a flipped table. “Two shooters, northwest entrance!” he yelled.

I grabbed my mother by the wrist. “Stay low. Move when I move.”

She didn’t argue.

Old instincts kicked in, hers and mine.

We crawled toward the kitchen door, shattered glass crunching beneath us.

Another bullet struck the counter behind us. My mother flinched, but I pulled her through the swing doors.

Adrian covered us, shouting, “Out back! There’s a service alley!”

The kitchen was dark, narrow, and filled with the scent of old grease and gas burners.

I kicked open the back door.

Sunlight blasted our eyes—and another figure appeared.

Gun drawn.

Black coat.

Eyes locked on mine.

It was her.

Eva.

We both froze.

Three seconds.

That’s all it was.

But in those three seconds, I saw it—the