Chapter 2: The Floorboards
Chapter 2: The Floorboards
We arrived at Carter’s Table just as the morning rain began to lash against the neon sign. I locked the front door, flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed,' and drew the heavy red blinds. The diner was silent, smelling of stale grease, cinnamon, and the comforting aroma of a simple life. I guided Hannah to the back office, sat her on the worn leather sofa, and handed her an ice pack.
"Lock the door behind me," I instructed.
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I walked behind the counter, bypassing the cash register, and knelt beside the old industrial Hobart mixer. Beneath a loose linoleum tile lay a hidden compartment untouched since the day Hannah’s father died. I pried the board up, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside rested a heavy steel lockbox.
I keyed the combination. The lid popped open, revealing a matte-black Sig Sauer P226, three loaded magazines, a stack of encrypted passports, and a satellite phone. The flour dust on my hands transferred to the cold steel of the weapon. Evelyn the baker was dead. Evelyn the operative had just clocked in.
