I tear my eyes away, forcing myself to focus on the job.
Scan the exits. Check the guests. Look for anything out of place.
That's when I seehim.
Third row, left side.
Dark suit, forgettable face.
He's been watching the runway like everyone else, but something's off.
His posture. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hand keeps drifting toward his jacket.
I've seen that movement before. A hundred times.
He's armed.
My body goes cold and hot at the same time.
Training taking over.
I'm already moving before I've made the conscious decision, cutting through the crowd at an angle that won't draw attention.
Dalla's still by the runway.
Exposed.
Fifteen meters from the threat.
Too far.
The man's hand slides into his jacket.
Twelve meters.
Dalla turns, laughing at something someone said, her back to the danger.
Eight meters.
He pulls the weapon.
I don't think.
I launch myself at her, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other coming up to shield her head as I take her down.
We hit the floor hard—my shoulder absorbing most of the impact, her body pressed tight against mine.
The first shot cracks through the air.
Screaming. Glass shattering. Chaos erupts around us.
I roll, putting myself between her and the shooter, and draw my own weapon in one smooth motion.
The Sig feels like an extension of my hand.
Second shot. This one is closer.
I return fire without hesitation. Two rounds, center mass. The man staggers. Falls.
