“Or they abort,” I say. “Or they accelerate.”
She stops walking. Just long enough to make the pause feel intentional. “Reaction reveals truth.”
“Patience keeps people alive.”
We’re circling it now, the same argument dressed in different clothes. Saint believes pressure exposes shape. I believe stillness does. Neither of us is wrong. That’s the problem.
She opens her mouth to respond?—
—and then a cluster of staff in identical uniforms rounds the corner, moving fast and loose, talking quietly to one another. Trailing behind them is a short, plump woman with a clipboard and a permanent scowl, irritation radiating off her like heat.
She snaps her fingers. “You two. With the group.”
We hesitate half a second too long.
She stops walking and fixes us with a look that suggests she has ended careers for less. “I saidmove. You’re clocked in then you’re working. Not standing out here. Go.”
Saint falls into step without hesitation but she does give the woman a glare.
I don’t doubt for a second that if she weren’t currently prioritizing international stability, she would snap this woman in half and keep walking.
The woman follows for several paces, close enough to make sure we don’t peel off, her presence a physical barrier to conversation.
The argument of our plan dies unfinished.
We’re funneled through the kitchen doors into controlled chaos. Heat. Steam. The sharp clatter of trays. Someone presses a silver tray into my hands without looking atmy face.
A chilled bottle of champagne is thrust into Saint’s grip, condensation slick against glass.
“Careful,” someone mutters. “Don’t drop that.”
We’re pushed forward again, momentum doing the work of command. The manager’s voice cuts through the noise as she strides past.
“Keynotes are arriving any minute. Eyes up. Smile. Keep moving.”
The line of staff surges forward, carrying us with it.
Ahead, the banquet room opens like a stage.
And whatever plan we had is about to be tested by proximity.
Out on the floor, the brunch is already in motion. Linen-draped tables, polished silverware, soft music meant to suggest refinement without demanding attention. The kind of event designed to look harmless, like power doesn’t eat croissants and drink mimosas.
Hartley arrives five minutes later.
He’s smaller than he looks on screens, but tighter somehow, compressed into himself by the weight of expectation. His security detail is compact and disciplined, close enough to react without looking like a wall. I clock spacing first, then exits, then lines of sight. My brain runs the familiar calculations automatically.
My eyes do what they always do, sliding past faces and table settings to map the room the way a scope would. I mark distances without thinking, note elevations, sight lines, dead zones. It’s muscle memory, not strategy.
There are no clean angles.
No balconies with uninterrupted views. No high ground that wouldn’t immediately flag movement. Thewindows are decorative more than functional, glass broken up by structural beams that kill long shots before they start. Any elevated position here would be exposed, noisy, and slow.
A sniper would hate this room.
Close-range work is possible, technically. A blade in the crush of bodies. A syringe in a handshake. But that kind of kill sends a different message. Messy. Intimate. Improvised.
This won’t be that.
