“Where is Jack Kelly? I know he’s here.”

If the man with the gun hadn’t yelled, Elizabeth wouldn’t have heard him; her ears were still ringing. His gravelly voice managed to break her trance on the weapon he held.  He was wearing a black hoodie with a ski mask, burgundy gloves, black track pants, and beat-up, formerly white sneakers. His partner was shorter but wore similar garb to his companion, except for brown gloves and shoes. He held a larger gun, longer and with a wooden grip. A shotgun, she assumed.

“JACK KELLY,” the tall man yelled again. This time, he pointed the gun around the room at the diners. The shorter one did the same. Patrons screamed as the guns swept the room.

Elizabeth looked around the diner, turning her head as little as she could so as not to draw the ire of the shooters. Everyone she could see was cowering, everyone except the old man at the counter. He was standing now. He wasn’t particularly tall; she had three or four inches on him. She noticed his thumb would rub the black ring every once in a while.

Behind the old man was skater-boy, curled up on the ground like the rest of the customers, his face pale. The tall man pointed his gun at Jenny behind the counter. Elizabeth desperately hoped the old man was an off-duty cop, or a veteran, or something.

“WHERE IS JACK KELLY?” he screamed.

Jenny sobbed with her hands stretched high above her head. The tears made Elizabeth realize she was crying too and hadn’t noticed. “I don’t know. He didn’t work today,” Jenny choked out.

The man didn’t buy it. “I saw him in here minutes ago. Where did he go? JACK! COME OUT JACK! “He moved around the counter.

“There you are, you little shit.” He’d found skater-boy, still cowered on the ground. “You think I wouldn’t notice you selling me cut product? Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” the tall man asked. Jack didn’t make a sound to defend himself. He sat there, hands held above his head as he sobbed. Then, another voice spoke. Not skater-boy’s and not either of the shooters.

“Sold you bad snow, did he? Shame on you, kid.” The old man’s smooth, low voice didn’t waver. While he spoke, he made his way between the tall man and Jack. He was directly next to Elizabeth’s booth. With a closer look at him, she realized that she had misjudged his age. He wasn’t in his mid-fifties; he was late sixties, early seventies. His face was more than lined; it was worn and wrinkled. And his eyes, brown in color, looked older than he was.

“Get the fuck out of my way, grandpa, or you’re catching a bullet too,” the man snarled.

“Now, now. What if, instead of killing this poor idiot who probably didn’t know the coke was mixed, I pay you the damages? I’ll refund whatever it is you paid him for, plus a fee for the dishonesty, of course, and we can all go on our merry ways?” the old man said. The gunman didn’t seem to notice, but he moved closer to him with every sentence. He gestured with his right hand as he spoke, all the while his left hand gently brushed against his jacket. The ring glowed faintly as he spoke.

“This little prick cost me more than money. I have a reputation.” Though he rejected the offer, his right arm slacked slightly, and he stopped moving as much. He was no longer screaming, at least. The old man’s attempt to de-escalate was working.

“How much is that loss of reputation worth? I assure you I can cover it,” the old man said with confidence. Elizabeth saw the tall man tense up. His arm went rigid again, and he fixed the grip he had on his gun. He shuffled his stance, making sure his left foot was behind him.

“You think you can buy me? Fuck you.” He raised the gun slightly higher, so it pointed at the center of the old man’s chest.

He had moved next to Elizabeth’s booth. His friend was a few paces behind, but faced away. The old man continued to thumb at his ring. The gunman was going to shoot. Someone had to do something.

She darted her eyes around the diner at the other patrons, all of them terrified, many of them in tears. She glanced back at Jules. Jules looked at her, and her eyes went wider than they already were. She mouthed, “Don’t.”

Elizabeth did.

Everything moved slowly for the next few seconds. She pushed off with both feet and launched herself out of the booth, positioned to tackle the gun out of his hands. How to deal with his partner didn’t cross her mind. She focused only on disarming him before he could kill the old man.

She hit his hand just before he pulled the trigger. The gun went off as she pushed it up and to the right. The bullet careened into the ceiling somewhere. A spray of plaster rained down from the impact. The noise of the blast startled her. She closed her eyes and jumped. When she opened them again, she realized she’d made a huge mistake. To her dismay, the tall man hadn’t dropped his weapon. Instead, his arm swung towards her.

The butt of the gun smashed against her right cheek. Her vision went blurry. Her ears were already ringing. She didn’t realize that she was falling backwards until the checkered tile greeted her with an abrupt embrace. She looked up to see the gun pointed at her. He was screaming something, but she couldn’t hear it. She stared down the barrel and knew that she’d failed. At least she’d tried. Elizabeth didn’t close her eyes as the man’s arm tensed; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her scared. She hoped that he wouldn’t hurt her friends.

She didn’t hear the gun go off. Out of the corner of her eye, there was a bright flash. As she looked up at the tall man, she watched his wrist explode. The bullet passed cleanly through it, spraying fragments of bone, muscle, and blood out the other side. The man with the larger weapon spun to face the noise, but not fast enough. Another flash. His kneecap imploded, viscera spouting out behind him as he collapsed on one knee.

The first man’s wrist went limp, and his pistol fell from his fingers. The shorter man dropped his shotgun and screamed while holding his eviscerated, bloody knee.

She couldn’t look away. Unable to hear anything and head spinning, she sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t until the old man bent down close to her head that she felt herself breathe. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

His mouth moved, but no words came out. He repeated something to her, but she couldn’t understand it. He stood above her but didn’t take his eyes off the two bleeding men. In his left hand, he held a pistol, the barrel smoking from the two shots he had fired. With his right, he made a pushing motion. That, she understood.

She shook her head but didn’t move to stand. Instead, she sat up and dragged herself backwards over to the booth, where she felt all three of her friends grab onto some part of her.

The most blood Elizabeth had ever seen was when her friend had jumped off the swings in elementary school and landed on her arm, which broke and popped through the skin. She thought she was okay with gore because that hadn’t made her feel anything other than sympathy. But the amount of blood splattered across the tiles now made her nauseous. She felt something on her face. She knew it had to be blood, but she was unsure if it was hers or the shooters’. That didn’t help her stomach.

The old man gestured as he stood with his gun in his hand, a smaller one than the tall man had held. It was silver instead of black. Her friends were talking to her, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She could feel only the nausea and the cold, wet tiles beneath her hands.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t pull her attention from the old man. The black ring still glowed.

Editor: Shannon Hensley