The storm outside continued, its howling winds battering against the windows of the back office, rattling the panes like angry spirits of those killed in the other room. Thunder growled in the distance, a low, menacing sound that matched the turmoil in Zara's chest.
She sat on the cold floor, cradling Leo in her arms. Her torn shirt did little to shield her from the chill creeping in through the cracks. Her breaths came shallow and quick, every nerve in her body still alight with the terror of what had just happened. The metallic tang of blood—her own and others'—lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder.
Her mind replayed the attack in jagged fragments: the leering faces, the rough hands tearing at her clothes, Leo's terrified cries piercing through her screams. Then Winter had come in, guns blazing as always, and saved her—again.
