The Breaker

out."



Searching the sidewalk, Peter walked around the table and took the seat next to June, his back against the building's brick. Old habits weren't always bad habits.



The weird-looking dude was a quarter-block away. His baseball cap was pulled down tight over mirrored sunglasses and a heavy beard. The black strap of some kind of bag, probably a backpack, showed over his right shoulder.



Peter couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, either. But June was right, there was definitely something strange. Maybe it was the way he walked? Fast, but without swinging his arms, his elbows tight at his sides.



The guy wasn't clocking them at all. He stared across St. Paul toward the glass-walled Public Market with its rows of sidewalk benches and umbrella tables packed with office workers soaking up the autumn sun on their lunch break.



As the guy got closer, Peter could see the Cardinals logo on his cap and across the chest of his jacket, two birds on a baseball bat. The day was sunny and warm, so the hat and sunglasses made sense. But the baggy jacket didn't, especially zipped to the neck. It was hard to tell the size of him underneath it, but Peter could see some bulk in the torso. Maybe he was a gym rat, trying to sweat off some weight.



The ball cap and razor shades told Peter something else. Some of his Marines had worn that look overseas, and many more after they mustered out. It was a way to project toughness, to make yourself unreadable, and also a way to hide the rawness of your emotions, even from yourself.



As traffic slowed for the light, the guy left the sidewalk to angle across the street. He jogged a few steps, as if eager for an appointment. The backpack bounced on his shoulder and his jacket rode up on his left side. Forty feet away, Peter saw something slim and dark poke out beneath it.



The black barrel of a rifle. The jacket hem had snagged on the front sight. Nothing else it could be. Peter had seen enough of them