Only after Hattie had dealt with everyone did John finally take the elevator up at his leisure.
"You call this women's self-defense?"
The assassins lay on the floor, dead or alive. Hattie choked the last one unconscious with her legs.
John walked over to the Coffee Maker and pressed the power button.
As the Coffee Maker whirred, John said, "I remember seeing that on your résumé."
Hattie stood up and tore off her skirt, which had been ruined in the close-quarters fight, revealing two long, pale legs.
"I'm also a member of the Gun Association." Wiping the blood from her face, she walked over to the refrigerator and took out a chilled beer as if she were in her own home.
Clank.
She used her pistol as a bottle opener.
She opened the beer and took a sip, the bubbles bursting one by one in her mouth. Soon, she had finished the bottle.
By then, John's coffee was ready too.
He shrugged. "Perfectly reasonable."
He took out his phone and made a call. "Thirteen dinner reservations."
After hanging up, John leaned against the table. Hattie said, "They're not all dead."
"I know."
John unhurriedly took a wrapped tool bag from the cabinet above the Coffee Maker and opened it. Inside were strange cutting tools and potions.
His long fingers brushed over the coldly gleaming silver implements before stopping on a silver vial.
He took it out and walked over to one of the survivors.
Hattie stood beside the tool bag with her arms crossed and glanced inside.
Her brows drew together slightly.
"Come on, Da Lang. Time for your medicine."
John kindly helped an assassin up and supported him over to the steps.
He opened the silver vial with the elegance of a Sommelier and drew three drops of clear