Anissa pushes open the heavy glass doors of the upscale D. C. bistro. The warm air and the rich smell of roasted garlic wash over her cold face.
The hostess eyes their damp, casual hoodies with obvious disdain. But after Anissa drops a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the podium, the woman wordlessly seats them in a dimly lit corner booth.
Anissa slumps into the deep leather booth. She rubs her throbbing temples. She desperately tries to push the haunting sound of Bowen's voice out of her mind.
Ashanti sits opposite her. Ashanti's posture is rigid. Her hyper-vigilant eyes scan the room. Her right hand rests casually near the hidden knife at her waist.
A waiter approaches nervously. Anissa orders two rare steaks and the strongest black coffee they have. She needs the grounding, heavy reality of food to stop her hands from shaking.
While waiting, Anissa looks around the dining room. She notices a large circular table in the center. It is occupied by six loud, heavily built men.
The men are wearing civilian clothes, but their identical tactical boots, thick necks, and military haircuts scream private security.
One of the men laughs uproariously. He slams his empty beer glass onto the wooden table with brutal force. A nearby couple flinches and quickly asks for their check.
Anissa frowns. Her headache flares again. The obnoxious, aggressive noise grates against her already frayed nerves.
The waiter arrives with their coffee. His hands shake slightly as he sets the mugs down. He carefully avoids making eye contact with the loud table in the center.
Anissa takes a sip of the bitter, scalding coffee. The heat burns her tongue, but it helps settle the lingering adrenaline from the alleyway.
At the center table, a man with a jagged, ugly scar across his cheek stands up. He sways slightly from the alcohol.
He spots Anissa in the dim corner booth. His bloodshot eyes linger uncomfortably on her exotic features and sharp jawline.
The scarred man nudges his buddy. He points a thick, calloused finger toward Anissa. He mutters something filthy that makes the whole table erupt into laughter.
Ashanti's posture instantly stiffens. Her eyes lock onto the scarred man with dead, shark-like intensity.
Anissa places a calming hand on Ashanti's wrist under the table. "Stand down," Anissa whispers. "Ignore the drunks."
The scarred man grabs a fresh, unopened bottle of wine from his table. He staggers over to Anissa's booth. A predatory, arrogant smirk stretches across his face.
He slams the heavy bottle onto Anissa's table. He leans his thick body heavily against the edge of the booth, invading their space completely.
"Hey, sweethearts," he slurs, his crude pickup line dripping with entitlement. "I'll pour you a real drink if you come sit on my lap over there."
Anissa looks up at him. Her face shows absolute zero emotion.
"Walk away," Anissa says. Her voice drips with pure ice.
The man's smirk falters. His fragile ego is instantly bruised by her immediate, fearless rejection in front of his laughing friends.
He leans closer. His foul, alcohol-soaked breath washes over Anissa's face.
"You don't know who you're messing with in this city, little girl," he threatens.
He reaches out with his thick hand. He attempts to grab the hood of Anissa's sweatshirt to physically pull her out of the booth.
Before his dirty fingers can even brush the fabric, Ashanti moves with terrifying, explosive speed.
Ashanti grabs the man's extended wrist with her left hand. She twists it sharply, forcing the back of his hand flat against the hard wooden table.
With her right hand, Ashanti grabs the heavy, serrated steak knife the waiter had just set down.
She drives the steak knife downward with brutal, calculated force. She buries the steel blade halfway into the thick oak table. She traps the man's hand perfectly between the sharp blade and his own fingers.
The scarred man lets out a blood-curdling scream of pure terror. He drops to his knees, realizing how close he came to being impaled.
The entire bistro falls dead silent. The sound of dropping silverware echoes sharply in the tense air.
The five other men at the center table instantly kick their chairs back. They reach beneath their jackets for concealed weapons.
