Chapter 2 #2
He stumbles back, his legs hitting a velvet armchair, nearly sending him sprawling. The folder in his hands shakes violently, papers fluttering at the edges.
“Hands.” I step into the light. “Show me your hands.”
“Please!” Tears stream down his face, mixing with the sweat. “I’m a journalist! I’m here for the truth! You have to listen!”
“Drop the file.”
I close the distance.
Ten feet.
Seven.
Elias shoves the folder toward me, gripping it like a flimsy shield.
“Wait! Don’t shoot! This folder—it proves the lie! It proves everything!”
The Lie.
It’s always a lie. Every radical thinks they are fighting a lie. They think blowing up a gala full of innocent people is a political statement. They justify the slaughter of civilians by claiming they are cleansing the system.
Same shit, different day.
I’ve heard it before. I usually hear it right before I end them.
“I don’t care about your manifesto,” I say, my finger tightening on the trigger as my eyes flick to the open case and the blinking timer.
“It’s not a manifesto!” Elias is sobbing now, shaking the papers in the air. “Look at it! Just look at it! It’s a setup! The targets are marked! He’s going to bring it all down!”
Targets.
The intel was right. He has the locations.
I reach out with my free hand and snatch the folder from his trembling grip. I keep the gun trained on his chest, my aim unwavering.
I flip the folder open with a snap.
My eyes scan the documents in a fraction of a second.
They are architectural drawings of the Waldorf Museum. And there, marked in thick, angry red marker, are Xs.
Over the HVAC intake valves. Over the main support pillars in the Archives below. Over the VIP Study—the very room we are standing in.
Elias is babbling, his voice rising in hysteria. “See? See? It’s the proof! He’s going to destroy it all! We have to stop him!”
He thinks he’s showing me proof of a conspiracy.
I see a blast radius. I see structural weaknesses targeted for maximum collapse, burying the guests in rubble. I see the air intake valves marked for chemical dispersal to choke the life out of the ballroom.
He’s not just a bomber, I realize, a cold fury settling in my gut. He’s planning to bring the whole building down on top of the Senator. The “Lie” he’s screaming about is a delusion to justify the body count. He’s a madman holding the instructions for mass murder, and the device to make it real.
I examine him, taking in the sweat on his upper lip, the frantic, dilated pupils. I see a pathetic man who has convinced himself he’s a hero.
“You’re sick,” I say.
He blinks, hope sparking in his eyes because I lowered the folder. He misreads the moment completely. “Yes! The system is sick! We have to stop him! I can prove...”
He thinks we’re on the same side.
I close the folder.
“I’ve seen enough.”
He opens his mouth to speak. Maybe to thank me. Maybe to beg.
I raise the SIG.
Phut. Phut.
The suppressor coughs twice—a sharp, mechanical sneeze in the quiet room.
The first round takes him in the center of the chest, punching through his sternum. The second lands in his head, snapping his neck back with force.
The light goes out of his eyes instantly. He drops to the floor with a heavy, wet thud.
I look down at the body, waiting for the adrenaline spike or the tremor in my hands.
Nothing comes.
I stopped a massacre. I did the dirty work so the city could sleep safely.
I tuck the folder, the “evidence”, into the inside pocket of my jacket. I’ll burn it later.
Job complete.
I verify the room is clear, keeping the weapon loose in my hand, muzzle low. I need to call the cleanup crew. This man must disappear before the museum staff arrives in the morning.
I turn back to the table to secure the detonator.
CRASH.
Shattering glass explodes behind me.
I spin on my heel, the gun snapping up, seeking the threat. I run the variables instantly. There was no audible perimeter alarm. No sensor shriek, no strobing lights. How did someone get in?
Water is spreading across the white marble floor. White hydrangeas are scatter amongst shards of glass.
Standing in the doorway, frozen in a tableau of shock, is an unarmed girl.
Soaked to the bone, her hair lies plastered to her skull. She’s wearing a cashmere sweater and leggings, looking nothing like a soldier. She looks like a civilian. She looks... terrified.
Her focus is fixed on the body before cutting to the gun in my hand, and finally, my eyes. She goes completely still, like a prey animal hoping the predator won’t see her. Her eyes—wide, blue, and startlingly intelligent—lock onto mine.
Witness.
The word flashes in my mind like a neon warning sign.
Loose end.
The Code says no innocents. But she’s seen my face. She’s seen the body.
If she walks out of here, she goes to the police. A high-profile museum homicide draws the FBI. If the Feds start digging, the Judge is exposed. And if the Judge is exposed, my life is over.
I have two seconds to make a decision that will destroy one of us.
I holster the gun and lunge.