Dough and Detonation

The kitchen of "The Bullet & Bagel" smelled of two distinct things: high-grade gunpowder and cinnamon yeast.

Lena liked the combination. It reminded her that life was about balance. One hand on the rolling pin, the other on the Glock 19 taped beneath the butcher block island.

At 2:00 AM, however, Lena wasn’t reaching for the gun. She was punching a mound of sourdough with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for interrogating enemy combatants.

*Thump.* Her fist sank into the dough.

*Thump.* She folded it over.

*Thump.* She pictured Jax’s stupid, charming, symmetrical face.

"Three days," she hissed to the empty bakery, her voice echoing off the stainless steel ovens. "Three days, you absolute moron."

She grabbed a handful of flour and dusted the counter aggressively. Outside, the streets of Berlin were quiet, a wet cobblestone maze of shadows. Inside, Lena was a tightly coiled spring.

A faint scrape sounded from the alleyway.

Lena froze. Her hands hovered over the dough. She didn't look at the back door. She looked at the reflection in the espresso machine.

A shadow moved across the frosted glass of the delivery window.

It wasn't a normal burglar. A normal burglar would try the lock. This intruder was using a diamond-tipped glass cutter. A faint, high-pitched scratching noise vibrated through the room.

Lena wiped her floury hands on her apron. She didn't go for the Glock. That would be too quick. Too merciful.

Instead, she reached for the bread basket on the cooling rack. She pulled out a "rustic artisan baguette" she had baked three days ago. It was now harder than Kevlar and roughly the density of a police baton.

The window pane popped out with a soft *clink*.

A black boot appeared on the sill. Then a leg. Then a torso clad in tactical gear.

Jax dropped into the kitchen. He landed in a crouch, silent as a cat, scanning the room for threats. He stood up, shaking rain from his hair, a grin spreading across his face as he spotted her.

"Target acquired," he whispered, opening his arms. "Hey, Le—"

Lena moved.

She didn't run; she blurred. She crossed the three meters between them and slammed Jax against the industrial refrigerator.

*Clang.*

Before he could react, she shoved the stale baguette against his windpipe, pinning him to the steel door.

Jax’s eyes widened. He choked, grabbing her wrist, but he didn't fight back. He knew better than to fight Lena in close quarters.

"Easy!" he wheezed, eyeing the bread. "Is that... whole wheat?"

"It’s stale, Jax," Lena snarled, leaning her weight into the crust. "Just like your promises."

"Whoa, okay, hostility," Jax tapped her arm, the universal signal for *I yield*. "I thought you’d be happy. I brought souvenirs."

"Happy?" Lena laughed. It was a terrifying sound, sharp and cold. "You think I'm happy?"

"Well, yeah," Jax wheezed. "I’m here. I’m alive. And I didn't even trigger the silent alarm. That’s got to be worth a muffin."

Lena didn't release the pressure. She leaned in close, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and heartbreak.

"Check the date, Jax."

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