The gunfire came from the next street over.
Half the illuminated sign outside the restaurant had been shot away. Only the words "Open" still glowed.
Behind the door, a man knelt on the floor, bracing a table with his shoulder while freeing his hands to change his gun's magazine.
Someone beside him tugged at him.
"The back's clear. Fall back!"
"Everyone out?"
His companion glanced inside. Two stretchers remained in the kitchen. Several people were squeezing one through the narrow doorway, the wounded person's hand dangling beside the frame without so much as twitching as it scraped past.
"Two left."
"Then fucking carry them! What are you pulling me for?"
The man jerked his sleeve free, shoved the magazine home, and fired back through a gap beside the table. Harvey had sent him to defend this street. The restaurant belonged to Penguin, and so did the delivery van parked out back. Tonight, they were all being used to transport people.
He really missed the days when all he had to do was sell drugs, run hookers, fight, and collect protection money. But what could he do about the lousy job market? Finding work was hard enough. Whatever the boss told him to do, he would do.
After all, Harvey had even paid their five social insurance contributions and housing fund.
Fight for a better Gotham!
But the lunatics outside especially hated seeing them do this.
Earlier, a customer with a broken arm had tried to escape through the front door. They caught him and pinned him to the steps. The man had shouted through the door for them to let him go, and they actually had.
The customer had barely climbed to his feet before they shot him in the back.
They laughed and told him to keep crawling.
He