Before I can respond, a new figure enters the ballroom—clearly the leader, judging by the way the other gunmen defer to him, stepping aside as he walks through. He's tall, military bearing evident in every movement, and when he speaks, his accent is educated British, not what I'd expect from a terrorist group.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says almost pleasantly, like he's welcoming us to a cocktail party, "welcome to your Christmas Eve celebration. I apologize for the disruption, but we need your cooperation for just a short while."
"What do you want?" a man near the front demands—the American who was playing authority figure in the dining room. "Money? We can get you money. Whatever you need."
"How kind. But no, we don't want your money." The leader's gaze sweeps the room methodically, and I see the exact moment it lands on Amara Okafor. His posture changes, sharpens with satisfaction. "We want something much more valuable. We want justice."
He walks toward the Okafors, his men following in formation. Grace's mother stands immediately, placing herself between her daughter and the gunmen.
"Minister Okafor," the leader says. "How delightful to finally meet you. And young Grace. I've heard so much about your... recovery."
"Leave her alone," Amara says, her voice steady despite the gun barrel now pointed at her chest. "Take me. Let everyone else go. I'm who you want."
"Actually, no. You're just leverage." He gestures, and two of his men grab Grace, yanking her away from her mother. The girl doesn't resist, just freezes. "The girl is the message. Nigeria will learn that stolen property must be returned."
Grace doesn't scream. She locks up, her eyes wide with a terror I recognize—the terror of someone reliving their worst nightmare. She's been here before. In the hands of men with guns who see her as property, not a person.
Jordan starts to rise, and I grip her arm hard enough to leave bruises.
"Don't," I hiss in her ear. "Not yet."
"They're going to kill her, Fitz." Her voice is shaking with rage and helplessness, with the same fury I heard the day she told me about her parents' murders. "They're going to kill her, and we're just sitting here?—"
"If you move now, they'll shoot you and still take the girl." I force her to look at me, to see the truth in my eyes. "We wait for an opening. Be smart. We survive so we can actually help her."
The war plays out in her eyes. Every instinct she has is screaming to act, to protect, to rescue. It's what she does—what she's been doing since her parents were murdered by a suicide bomber. She saves people. Especially women. Especially women from Chibok.
But rushing in now would be suicide. And Jordan dead helps no one.
"Trust me," I whisper. "Please, Jordan. Trust me."
She sinks back down, trembling with suppressed fury. "I can't let them take her again. Fitz, I can't."
"You won't have to." I'm already planning, already calculating odds and angles. Multiple hostiles visible, possibly more outside. Automatic weapons, combat experience. But they're spread out now, focused on Grace and her mother. "But you only brought the knife. I've got one Glock and another smaller weapon strapped to my ankle. They have automatic weapons and body armor. We wait for the right moment."
The leader has Grace now, one hand gripping her arm, the gun pressed to her temple. "Now, Minister, here's what'sgoing to happen. You're going to call your president. You're going to tell him that unless Nigeria ceases all cooperation with Western powers in hunting Boko Haram, unless they release the prisoners Boko Haram wants freed, this girl dies. As will every other girl you've 'rescued.' They will find them all."
"You're insane," Amara breathes. "Nigeria will never negotiate with terrorists."
"Then Grace dies. And tomorrow, another girl dies. And another. Until your government learns that some things are more valuable than political posturing." He shoves Grace toward two of his men. "Take her. Keep her alive until we hear back from Lagos."
As they drag Grace toward a side door, she finally breaks, screaming for her mother. The sound is raw, primal, the sound of absolute terror. It tears at something in my chest, reminds me of other screams I've heard in other places, screams I couldn't stop.
I feel Jordan go rigid beside me, feel the moment she decides to act regardless of the consequences.
"Jordan—" I start.
Too late.
4
JJ
I'm moving before conscious thought catches up with training. Years of running Baker Street, watching dominants control situations through pure presence, being Fitz's wife—it all crystallizes into one perfect moment of clarity.
I stand up.
"Wait," I say, my voice cutting through the chaos with a sharp British accent that makes heads turn. "You're making a mistake."
