"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 maître 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.
