The Palestinian gunman came out of nowhere, blazing away with an automatic weapon Yakov could not make out.
“Get down,” Yakov screamed as panicked super market customers scattered, two of them already hit and on the floor.
Yakov cursed for having done the unpardonable: forgetting his pistol in the car.
The gunman was now shooting up the fresh fruit section. Two women cowering at the foot of the counter were caught in the fusillade, the first dying pinned against the wooden paneling, the second expiring as she tried to crawl away.
“Yakov, Yakov..!” he heard a voice calling from behind him.
“Here, catch…!”
Yakov caught the old double-barreled shotgun in midair, went to his knees, and looked over the barrel as the gunman pivoted to bring his arm to bear on the developing threat.
“You die, you cursed son of a sewer!” Yakov whispered between his teeth as he pulled both triggers.
This was no movie. The gunman did not fly in an arc. He just dropped.
Yakov, bleeding from the neck, sat on crushed oranges and grapes.