From twenty feet away they had the killer dead in their sights. At least that’s the way it looked.

Plates, silverware, and entire tables went crashing as people scrambled for their lives to get out of the way of whatever might happen next.

The killer stopped, turning to the two men and their guns. Sunglasses blocked his eyes.

He said nothing. He barely moved.

“Put your hands up slowly!” the second man barked. They certainly sounded like cops.

The killer just smiled. It was a sick, twisted grin that seemed tailor-made to the crime he’d just committed. His hands, however, remained at his sides.

“Put your fuckin’ hands up!” came the second warning.

My eyes pinballed back and forth between the killer and the two men. It was a standoff so far. But something had to give. Or someone. And everything, including the barrels of two guns, was pointing at the killer.

Suddenly his hands jolted up, but not before first taking a detour. As fast as you can say Travis Bickle, the killer reached into his jacket, removing two guns of his own.

You talkin’ to me? Are you talkin’ to me?

Who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to?

Dwayne’s reflexes were still there, and he dove to the floor. I was right behind him, closing my eyes as sheer pandemonium broke out above our heads. There were countless gunshots. People screaming.

People dying.

Finally, when it all stopped, when all I could hear were the horrified sobs and gasps of everyone down on the floor around me, I opened my eyes again.

And I nearly threw up.

There, in a pool of blood on the polished hardwood floor of the restaurant, was one freshly carved-out eyeball staring up at me.

Chapter 11

MY LEGS WERE rubbery and my stomach rolled as I slowly stood, gazing at a sea of overturned tables and chairs, smashed plates, scattered silverware and food. Shocked and bewildered, everyone was asking everyone else the same question.