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.
That's when I see her—sitting with a group near the stage, trying to make herself invisible.
"Fitz," Jordan breathes, following my gaze. "Is that?—"
"Amara Okafor," I confirm quietly. "Nigerian Minister of Finance."
"And her daughter," Jordan adds, her voice going tight in that way that means she's about to do something reckless. "That's Grace Okafor. She was one of the Chibok girls."
My stomach drops. Of course. Of course Jordan would recognize her. The Orpheus Foundation has been working with rescued Chibok girls for years, helping with their recovery and reintegration. Jordan probably knows this girl's story by heart.
Grace Okafor is maybe twenty now, sitting close to her mother, both women trying to look small and insignificant. The intelligence in the girl's eyes is evident, the way she's cataloging everything just like we are. She's been through hell before. She knows what's coming.
"This isn't about money," Jordan whispers. "They know she's here."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" She grips my hand hard enough to hurt. "Boko Haram. It has to be. They've been threatening to retaliate for the girls Nigeria has recovered. What better target than a girl whoescaped and her mother, a high-ranking government official, isolated on a mountain in Europe?"
