You duck and cover your face with your hands. There's a sickening crunching sound, and a collective gasp of horror from the other customers of the coffeeshop.
You risk a look. Bald Guy has tucked the box under his arm and is fishing something out of his vest pocket. Brockner's face is a bloody, pulpy mess.
An impulse to do something grips you. What if you threw your laptop?