Paul fell into a crouch behind the bar, while fragments of colored glass rained around him. He had no idea how the Enforcer had learned about this meeting, but that didn't matter. What was important was that the bastard was here now, and Paul had no idea how he was going to get out of this one. Escaping the Crusaders? Nothing to it. Eluding the Templars? More difficult, but doable. Slipping away from the fastest man in the world? Virtually impossible.
Paul was an athletic black man who appeared to be about twenty five years old, with tightly corded muscles along every inch of his six foot, two inch frame. More tightly corded than was physically possible for any normal human, but Paul had an advantage. He could mentally control the tone and shape of every part of his body. He was a shifter, though that was unlikely to be enough to save him in this case. The Enforcer was on a completely different level. Paul could easily outdistance Olympic sprinters, but compared to his current foe, he would appear to be moving in slow motion.
He was just stalling and he knew it. He had no escape. His only solace was the knowledge that his friends had made it out. If he could hold off the advancing squad for a few more moments, Tracy and Henry would be safe. He needed a way to make his foes believe they were facing more than just him, a single shifter. If they knew he was the only one left, they would send half the team in pursuit of his friends. As the gunfire stopped, he looked around for an answer. It came in the form of a pair of wooden planks that were left over from when the proprietor of this bar put in the new hardwood floor he was crouched on.
He grabbed three bottles of the strongest booze that were still left intact and popped the tops. Ripping shreds from a bar towel, he fashioned a trio of Molotov cocktails. Using a couple other bottles as impromptu fulcrums, he set the boards down, end to end, like makeshift seesaws. Lighting the wicks of his new weapons, he placed one at either end and took up a position in the middle, holding the third. Saying a silent prayer to whichever deity might be listening, he simultaneously kicked out his feet while throwing the bomb in his hands, hoping it would look like they were coming from three places at once.
He hunched down lower as he waited for a raging inferno to erupt. Five seconds passed and he raised his head to find out why he hadn't heard the crashing of glass and the shouts of terrified Crusaders. The Enforcer might have been able to keep his cool in such a situation, but the little guys should have panicked. As he looked up, he came face to face with the Elder he feared the most. Three hundred pounds of solid muscle wrapped around a skeleton almost seven feet tall stared down at him. In his cinder block sized fists were three lit bottles of the barkeep's finest moonshine.
“I saw these flying through the air and thought you might want them back,” the massive man growled.
Paul put up his hands, suppressing a smile. He may be caught, but he had bought his companions enough time to disappear.