Chapter 3
FITZ
The resort's main dining room is a study in luxury and paranoia.
Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over tables draped in white linen, each one set with more silverware than any reasonable meal requires.
A string quartet plays something classical and soothing in the corner—Vivaldi, maybe, or one of those other dead composers Jordan would know by name.
Wealthy guests in designer evening wear laugh and drink champagne, completely oblivious to the fact that coordinated terrorist attacks are happening across Europe.
I hate every second of it.
Not the luxury. I've earned the right to enjoy fine things. But the vulnerability. The exposure. The fact that we're sitting in a glass box with minimal exits and maximum visibility, surrounded by soft targets who'd panic at the first sign of real danger.
Jordan sits across from me, breathtaking in that red dress, the collar gleaming at her throat.
To anyone watching, we're just another couple enjoying a romantic holiday dinner.
They can't see the knife strapped to her thigh or the way her eyes are cataloging every exit and potential threat just like mine are.
They don't notice how she's positioned herself with a clear line to the door, or how her posture says "ready to move" despite the relaxed smile on her face.
My wife. My partner. My beautiful, reckless liability.
"Stop glaring at me," she murmurs, not looking up from her menu. "We're supposed to be on holiday, remember?"
"I'm not glaring."
"You have that look. The one that says you're planning which corner to stash me in when the shooting starts." She turns a page, casual as anything. "For the record, I vote against any corners. I'm armed and dangerous, remember?"
I lean back, forcing my shoulders to relax even though every instinct is screaming that something's wrong. "I was actually planning to throw you over my shoulder and run. Saves time."
"So romantic." But she's smiling now, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders. "Fair warning—these heels make excellent weapons. I'm not leaving them behind."
"Noted." I flag down a waiter—young, nervous, clearly new to this level of service. "We'll start with the foie gras, then the venison for me and the fish for the lady."
"Excellent choice, sir. And for wine?"
"The Bordeaux. The 2015."
As the waiter scurries off, I take the opportunity to scan the room more carefully.
Approximately sixty guests, maybe sixty-five.
Three exits—main entrance through the lobby, kitchen doors to the right, and what looks like a service corridor to the left.
Windows overlook a two-story drop to snow-covered grounds.
Six waitstaff visible, plus the ma?tre d' hovering near the entrance and a sommelier making rounds.
The quartet's positioned on a small raised platform near the windows, blocking that exit if we needed it.
Not ideal. But workable if it comes to that.
"Fitz," Jordan says softly. "The woman at the table with her back to the wall. Don't look directly."
I shift my gaze casually, using the reflection in the window to my left.
Table twelve holds a striking Black woman in her thirties, dining alone, her posture military-straight despite the elegant evening gown.
She's not eating, just pushing food around her plate while her eyes track the room with the systematic precision of someone running their own threat assessment.
"Security?" Jordan asks, taking a sip of wine.
"Possibly. Or another paranoid professional trying to enjoy some time off." But something about the woman nags at me. The way she holds herself. The economical movements. The fact that she's dining alone in a couples-oriented resort. "She looks familiar."
"She keeps looking at me," Jordan says. "Well, at my collar specifically. Then away, like she's trying not to stare."
"Maybe she's just admiring the craftsmanship." I study the woman more carefully. Late thirties, expensive dress but not designer, jewelry minimal and practical. Wedding ring but no husband visible. "Could be personal security for one of the other guests."
"Or she's like us. Trying to enjoy a holiday while being fundamentally incapable of relaxing."
"That too."
Before I can pursue the thought, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I slip it out below table level, where only I can see it.
Sawyer: Another attack. Paris. Opera house during Christmas performance. 47 dead so far. Pattern suggests coordinated cell activation.
"Fuck," I mutter.
Jordan's eyes snap to mine, all pretense of relaxation gone. "How bad?"
"Paris. Opera house. During a performance." I type rapidly with my thumb.
Status on our location?
The response comes quickly.
Sawyer: Local authorities on alert but slow response due to weather. Roads into resort cut off by avalanche risk. Helicopter access limited. You're essentially isolated until morning at earliest.
Perfect. We're trapped on a mountain with potential targets and no backup for at least twelve hours.
"We should leave," Jordan says, reading my expression. "Now. Before—"
The lights go out.
Not flickering. Not dimming. Complete and total darkness, the kind that only happens when someone cuts main power deliberately. The quartet stops mid-note. Gasps and nervous laughter ripple through the room, that nervous sound of people who've never faced real danger.
All my instincts scream danger. My hand finds Jordan's across the table in the darkness, and I pull her from her chair. "Stay close."
"Emergency lighting should kick in any second," someone says loudly—male, American, used to being the authority in any room. "Everyone remain calm. I'm sure it's just—"
But the emergency lights don't come on. And in the darkness, I hear something that makes my blood run cold—the distinctive sound of ammo being chambered in automatic weapons. Multiple weapons. Multiple locations.
"Down!" I shout, throwing Jordan to the floor and covering her body with mine just as the first shots ring out.
The dining room erupts in chaos. Screams. Breaking glass.
Running footsteps. The sharp crack of rifles firing into the ceiling, warning shots designed to terrify rather than kill.
I count at least four shooters from the muzzle flashes, positioned at different entrances.
Professional spacing. Overlapping fields of fire. This isn't amateur hour.
"This is a robbery," a heavily accented voice announces over the screaming. East African, educated. "Everyone on the floor. Hands visible. No heroes. We only want your valuables and cooperation."
Bullshit. This isn't a robbery. The timing is too perfect, too coordinated with the other attacks across Europe. The power cut too precise. The positioning too tactical.
Jordan tenses beneath me, her breathing controlled despite the chaos around us. "Fitz," she whispers. "I'm armed."
"Ye don't bring a knife to a gun fight. Don't move." I assess angles, count hostiles, and plan our exit. But with Jordan in a dress and heels, fighting our way out through armed professionals seems like suicide. Better to comply, gather intel, wait for an opening. "We play along. For now."
"But—"
"Trust me."
Emergency lighting finally flickers on, dim and reddish, casting everything in hellish shadows.
I can see now—multiple gunmen, all in black tactical gear and ski masks, spreading through the room with military precision.
Well-trained. Disciplined. Each covering a sector with practiced ease, weapons held properly, trigger discipline evident.
Not Boko Haram. At least not their usual fighters. These are professionals—hired guns carrying out someone else's agenda.
"Phones on the tables!" another gunman shouts, this one with a British accent. "Jewelry off. Watches. Everything. You cooperate, nobody dies."
Around us, guests are fumbling with their phones and jewelry, hands shaking. A woman near us is crying silently, mascara running down her face. Her husband fumbles with his watch, fingers trembling.
The woman from table twelve hasn't moved. She's still in her seat, hands visible on the table, but her body language has changed completely. Every muscle is ready. Definitely not a civilian.
"Everyone up! Single file! Move toward the ballroom!" The gunmen are herding guests out of the dining room, likely to consolidate control in a single location.
I help Jordan to her feet, keeping her behind me. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, we have an entire conversation without words.
Play along? she asks with her expression.
For now, I answer with the slightest nod.
Trust me, I add silently.
She nods once, sharp, and falls into step behind me.
We join the stream of terrified guests being pushed toward the ballroom.
I catch glimpses of the gunmen as we move—professional gear, good discipline, clearly military-trained.
They're not waving their weapons around or shouting unnecessarily.
They're efficient. Controlled. Which makes them far more dangerous than amateurs.
The ballroom is massive, two stories high with a vaulted ceiling and crystal chandeliers.
A Christmas tree towers in one corner, decorated with gold and white ornaments, absurdly festive under the circumstances.
I do a quick count—looks like most of the resort's guests are being gathered here. Maybe eighty people total.
"Sit!" one of the gunmen orders. "Groups of ten. Spread out. Anyone tries to be a hero, we start shooting."
Jordan and I find a spot along the side wall with about eight other people—an elderly couple, a family with two teenagers, and a young honeymooning couple who look like they're about to pass out from fear.
I make sure we're at the edge of the group, giving us options to move if needed.
The wall at my back is solid stone, good cover if shooting starts.
Clear line to the nearest door, about twenty meters.