When the police finally came through the front, the string quartet had stopped, the civilians were on the floor, and five professional operators were unconscious or writhing among the broken crystal. Detective Morrison’s voice came low and gravelly. “I need you to place the weapon on the floor. Slowly.” Kate complied without a word, smoothly crouching to set the pistol on the polished wood before standing back up, her hands visible and open. Morrison’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than was professional. It was a look of faint, troubled recognition, as if he were trying to place a face from a file he had read a long time ago. “You the one who did all this?” “They were a threat to the civilians,” Kate stated simply. It was an explanation, not an excuse.
Before Morrison could press further, Alistair Finch, having been quickly checked over by a paramedic, stumbled forward. His Tom Ford suit was ruined, stained with his own blood and a splash of Nikolai’s. His face was pale. His hands still trembled, but his eyes were locked on Kate with a burning intensity. “She saved us,” Finch said, his voice hoarse. “She saved everyone. They were going to kill me. She took them all down. All five of them.” Morrison raised an eyebrow, looking from the diminutive waitress to the five unconscious or writhing professional operators. The story seemed ludicrous, but the evidence was scattered all around them. “We’ll need your statement, Miss,” Morrison said to Kate. “And yours, Mr. Finch.”
“She doesn’t need to give you a statement,” Finch declared, a flicker of his old command returning, but this time directed in her defense. “She needs a medal. Whatever she needs, whatever she wants, it’s hers. I’ll have my legal team handle this.” Kate finally spoke, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I don’t have a legal team. I’ll give a statement.” She looked at Finch, her eyes cold. “I don’t want anything from you.” The finality in her tone struck Finch harder than any of the violence he had just witnessed. He, a man to whom everyone in the world wanted something, was being summarily dismissed by the woman who had just single-handedly saved his life. It was a concept so foreign his brain struggled to compute it. “But I owe you,” he stammered. “My life. I owe you my life.” “The debt is paid,” Kate replied, turning her attention back to Detective Morrison. “They attacked. I defended. End of story.”
She spent the next two hours in a quiet corner of the restaurant, giving a carefully curated statement to Morrison. She was Catherine Pierce, a waitress. The men had attacked the restaurant. In the chaos, she had gotten lucky. She had used what was available. She omitted every detail that spoke of her training, every piece of jargon, every hint that she had done this before. She painted a picture of a terrified woman acting on pure adrenaline, a series of lucky shots and desperate swings. Morrison listened patiently, his pen scratching against his notepad. But his eyes told a different story. He was not buying it. Not completely.