Blown Read Free

to Tropical Shirt's table. Kaplan overheard the old man ask for the check and her phone number. The young waitress handled Tropical Shirt as if she'd done it dozens of times. She smiled, shook her finger at him as if playfully scolding, and said something Kaplan couldn't hear. Whatever it was made both men laugh.
    At that moment, he saw one of the Italian thugs nod and all three men reach a hand inside their jackets. A bulge in Scarface’s jacket revealed the outline of a handgun. Kaplan was right. This was a takedown and the old man in the tropical print shirt was the only logical target.
    As he watched the scene unfold before his eyes, he knew staying off the grid was no longer an option and blowback from tonight's events might very well drag him back on the radar, something he desperately wanted to avoid.
    Kaplan felt a tingle shoot down his spine. It's happening now .
    There wasn't enough time to make anything more than a cursory initial assessment and now he must engage based on gut instinct.
    By the time the Italians turned around and pulled their weapons from underneath their jackets, Kaplan had already pushed his waitress to the floor and charged Tropical Shirt's table. If Tropical Shirt's companion was indeed a LEO he might perceive Kaplan as the threat, not the men across the room, and open fire on Kaplan. A risk he had to take.
    In his peripheral vision he saw the Italians raise their weapons. He was cutting it close. He dove at the space between the young waitress and the old man, snagged one with each arm, and bulldozed them toward the floor.
    Bullets flew before they hit the hardwood floor. Kaplan managed a glance at Tropical Shirt's companion. The man had already pulled his weapon, a standard law enforcement issue Glock, and taken a firing stance toward the Italian thugs. Attached to his belt was a badge.
    Kaplan was right—a LEO.
    Within seconds, the dining room erupted in pandemonium. Patrons screamed. Some ran for exits while others ducked behind tables and chairs. Although the Italians paid no attention to them, three were still mowed down in the crossfire. The thugs' true quarry was lying on the floor and Kaplan was on top of him. The old man was smaller than Kaplan, perhaps five-ten, a hundred-eighty pounds with some extra padding in the middle. He was in good shape for a man his age but a little soft. Probably spent most of his day behind a desk.
    Kaplan flipped a table on its side and instructed the young waitress to lie face down on the floor. "Cover your head with your hands, turn away from the gunfire, and don't move until I tell you it's safe."
    She nodded.
    He flipped over another table and shoved Tropical Shirt behind it. "Is this about you?"
    Tropical Shirt hesitated. His hands were trembling. Finally, he gave Kaplan a nod.
    "Stay down and out of sight," Kaplan said. "I'll deal with you later… if we get out of here alive."
    "Who are you?" Tropical Shirt asked.
    "The guy who is trying to save your ass. Now stay down and shut up."
    Bullets pierced the side of the table. Kaplan ducked, instinctively aware of all the firearms in the room and from which direction they were being fired. In the LEO's hand, a Glock. Across the room, the unmistakable muzzle blasts of two Smith and Wesson M & P .45 caliber handguns and what sounded like a Beretta Px4 Storm .45—just like the one locked under the seat of his black Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. What he wouldn't give to have it in his hand right now. Instead, all he had was the pocketknife hidden inside the customized pouch in his boot. He didn't like traveling on his motorcycle without locking his handguns under his seat. Too much explaining in the event he got pulled over and searched. A lesson he'd learned the hard way on one of his yearly pilgrimages to Sturgis, South Dakota.
    Long shot odds—three against one. How long could the lone LEO hold off the assault?
    Then he heard one Italian grunt followed by the distinct clunking sound of the