Mortimer sat outside of the small French Cafe, pretending to read a newspaper. He didn’t bother overdoing it. He knew the twelve men inside the cafe knew he was a DCRI agent. He knew that as soon as he left the cafe, they would all follow, at “irregular” intervals, at different distances, hoping he wouldn’t feel their presence following him.

He also knew that in about 5 seconds he was going to put the newspaper down, and shoot the hell out of the cafe. These thugs had made one mistake. Nobody else was in the cafe. When they saw a big group of punks walk in, all the pedestrians had dispersed.

Mortimer put the newspaper down.

Then in a flurry, he pulled two Heckler & Koch MP5’s out of his black leather trench coat, one for each hand, and unloaded. With each bullet came an agonized scream. One man managed to pull a gun, but never had enough time to fire.

Mortimer threw the guns into the cafe, lit a cigarette and inhaled. He flipped out his cell phone and sent a text.

The job is done