Jura stepped out of the car, leaving behind the smell of leather and walnut the old Rolls Royce Phantom II enveloped you in for the duration of any trip, the door swung shut with a definitive clunk, nobody had ever felt the need to check if that door was properly shut, it had just told you, I’m shut, the 1930’s is in here and we will wait, go about your business, Jura did.
As she walked the cinder path she reached over her back grabbing the pistol grip of the Spas-12, not the most reliable shotgun in her arsenal, but with its fold-over stock and sparse design, it rocked for looks, swinging it over in an arc, while thumbing the safety off, she blew the flimsy lock right out of the door, her boot a split second later accelerating the remains off its hinges, she swept in.
The pale green spotty youth at Formica table was frozen with a spoon of cereal mid-way from bowl to mouth, Jura cocked her head to one side.
“Knock, knock”