Hayden ducked and rolled, his chair flying out beneath him as he shoved the table down as a shield against bullets and broken glass. Screams and footsteps thudded into his earshot as he ignored the puddle of spilled coffee and shards of broken ceramics next to him, his pulse surprisingly slow.

This felt like old hat. Their conversation, on the other hand, had felt like unfamiliar territory. Even as his muscles strained and groaned from long periods of disuse, his mind was sharp, focused, made even clearer by the pain.

As patrons cried out, ducking under tables and hiding behind the counter, he scanned the shop. Though the window next to where he and Vihaan had been sitting was broken, and bullet holes riddled the wall across from their table, everyone appeared unharmed.

The shooter was gone.

He spied Vihaan sitting on the floor next to the radiator, cross-legged and appearing so calm he might have been mistaken for a man in meditative thought. When he felt Hayden's gaze on him, he stiffened.

Almost as though he had expected the event of terror.

Police sirens shrieked as cars screeched to a lurch next to the cafe. Hayden sensed a mild blanket of security and carefully maneuvered from his crouching position to shuffle towards the door.

He listened for police chatter as they got out of their cars, doors creaking open and slamming shut again. "The gangs have never been this bold before."

"No, to attack an establishment frequented by these people? The creme de la creme of Washington? What's next, Old Ebbitt Grill?"

Their gossip ceased as they entered the cafe.

"Officers," Hayden greeted them, an old habit that refused to give its last croak of life.

One of them recognized him from his FBI days. Oliver James clapped him on the back. "Song! It's been a while. What are you doing here?"

"I was just getting coffee when I ran into a friend," he said, feeling as though he'd be caught in a lie even though his words were true.

Officer James' partner, a petite Asian woman with a nametag reading TANG and her hair tied back into a knot, tapped him on the shoulder. "According to the surveillance footage, it appears the shooter fired off two rounds through that window and escaped in an unmarked vehicle."

He could have told them that, but he didn't say the words. "Mind if I assist in the investigation?"

The woman looked askance at him. "You're a civilian."

"Former FBI, actually," he said.

"Reese," Oliver interrupted them. "I don't mind if Hayden joins. He's always been great at his job."

He found himself straightening a tad at the approving tone that Oliver used. "I understand if you would prefer that I not involve myself in this case."

After all, he had seemed to be a prime target for its suspects.

"You witnessed the incident?" Officer Tang–Reese–asked, folding her arms over her chest.

Behind him, a man cleared his throat. Vihaan. Of course. "I was also an eyewitness to this shooting. In fact, Mr. Song and I were sitting at the table right by the window where it happened."

He gestured toward the overturned table.

If Vihaan hadn't coordinated the attack, why didn't he look the least bit distraught? Even his hair was still coiffed, his suit still unrumpled from sitting on the floor. Either he had an excellent tailor or something wasn't quite right.

"And you are?" Oliver asked.

"Vihaan Bakshi." The other man extended a hand for Oliver to shake with the unshakeable confidence of a man who knew his name would be recognized and responded to with respect, and just the right amount of fear. "It's a pleasure, Officers."

"We'll be in touch. For now, I think we have to get going," Oliver said. "Hayden, I'll call you with updates."

He could have told them it seemed like a clear-cut drive-by shooting, gangs and organized crime leading to a senseless act of violence. He could have told them that, but he didn't.

Because as logical as it was, it didn't feel like the truth.

#

Oliver's updates had turned up little. They merely confirmed Hayden's initial suspicions; that this was gang-related, yes, but that there was something more to it.

After all, a drive-by shooting usually ended in more casualties and more bullets than two being fired.

A suspect was detained, the owner of a gun with the serial numbers filed off and the same make and model of ammunition that had rammed through the window of the coffee shop. This person was linked to gang violence; a young male in his mid-twenties with a sleeve of tattoos and a criminal record longer than his tattooed arm. The perfect suspect for this supposedly quotidian crime.

Yet something felt off. Why only two shots? Why was the vehicle surprisingly expensive even if it had no license plate? Why was the vehicle registered to a shockingly wealthy man–Senator Jacob Underwood?

Was the vehicle stolen? Underwood had reported a break-in a few weeks ago, on the night of the blackout. It was likely that a car had been stolen then, the BMW that the suspect had used to commit the drive-by, firing blindly out of the window. Yet this wasn't the neighbourhood where these things happened.

Had someone known he would be there? Known Vihaan would be there?

The more possibilities to consider, the less he found himself able to follow any of them to their conclusions.

"Mr. Song?" the nurse repeated. "Mr. Hayden Song, correct?"

He blinked twice before registering his name. "Yes, that's me."

"Dr. Kreviazuk will see you now."

He stood from the squeaky chair in the waiting room and followed the nurse down a long, white hall tiled with linoleum. Hayden was here for his check-up. Nothing special. Routine, really.

Yet he couldn't fight the bile crawling up his throat and the acid roiling in his stomach. The scars on his body had healed in hideous patterns, gruesome lines of raised skins that he traced an idle finger over in the shower, wondering that they no longer hurt. He'd been in pain for so long that he couldn't fathom the notion of being out of it.

Of being healed.

As he walked down the hall, he heard snippets of a news segment from doors cracked ajar in patients' rooms.

"Senator Underwood's son implicated in sex scandal..."

"Senator Underwood's teenage son is found to have committed a crime..."

"Senator Jacob Underwood helped his son cover up this criminal act..."

Intrigued, he quashed his curiosity and continued following the nurse down the hall to Dr. Kreviazuk's examination room.

As he prepared himself for the usual regimen of tests, questioning, and other manner of indignities, he couldn't help but wonder.

What did Jacob Underwood do?