Methodical. Quiet.
My handgun comes apart in practiced motions, hands moving without hesitation. Components slot together with soft clicks, metal kissing metal. It converts cleanly, smoothly, until what rests in front of me is no longer a close-quarters weapon but something built for distance and intention.
My stand locks into place, anchoring the rifle when I need it steady. When the time comes, it won’t shake. Neither will I.
Alejandro will be somewhere high.
I don’t need proof to know that. It’s instinct. Pattern recognition. He prefers elevation. Control. Distance. The ability to see everything before anyone else realizes they’ve been seen. If he’s going to make a statement tonight, he’ll want the cleanest line possible.
I scan the upper structures, the architectural flourishes that double as concealment. Catwalks. Service levels. Shadowed cutouts meant for maintenance crews and never meant to be noticed by guests sipping cocktails below.
To my left, a long stretch of windows runs along the upper wall. Beyond them, a pre-summit happy hour is in full swing. The space is bright and loud, all clinking glasses and curated laughter. People mingle like they’re at a wedding instead of the opening of a global monument. Suits and dresses blur together, bodies leaning close in the universal language of networking.
I watch them through the glass, my reflection faintly superimposed over theirs. Two worlds occupying the same space and never touching.
I finish assembling the rifle and settle it into the stand, checking alignment, testing resistance. Everything feels right. Too right. The kind of calm that comes just before something breaks.
Below, movement catches my eye.
Hartley arrives.
Security tightens instantly, the shift subtle but unmistakable once you know what to look for. Morebodies. Shorter distances between them. Hands closer to earpieces. Hartley himself looks unchanged, still wearing that relaxed confidence like armor. He moves through the space as if it belongs to him by default.
He reaches for a drink as a server passes, taking the last blue martini on the tray.
He snatches it without asking, nods at something someone says beside him, and takes a sip. His eyebrows lift slightly as he looks over the rim of the glass, already scanning the room for his next opportunity. Always looking for someone to bump elbows with. Always hunting advantage, even in moments meant to be ceremonial.
I track him, noting his position, his rhythm, the way his security rotates just enough to keep him covered without caging him in. He’s comfortable. No clue his life could be over tonight.
I glance back to the audience below. The stage. Somewhere in this building, Alejandro is moving too. I can feel it in the way my focus sharpens, in the way the night seems to pull taut around me.
He thinks tonight belongs to him.
It doesn’t.
I settle in, breath steady, eyes sweeping high to low, left to right, over and over again. I catalog everything. Angles. Distances. The places a person could hide and the places they couldn’t. I am not looking for Hartley.
I am looking for the ghost who thinks he owns the ending.
When I find him, my heart stutters for a single, traitorous beat.
Not because he’s here. I expected that.
Not because I found him. I’ve been hunting him since the moment I climbed up here.
It’s where he is that stops me cold. And the look on his face. And the fact that he isn’t moving at all.
Alejandro stands half-shadowed in a service doorway, dressed in a waiter’s uniform that isn’t the one from this morning. Different cut. Different venue. Same effect. He blends seamlessly into the architecture of the event, just another piece of staff framed by light and glass and bodies that never think to look twice.
His eyes are wide. Locked.
Not scanning. Not calculating.
Fixed on Hartley.
I flick my gaze down to the stage again. Hartley lifts the martini, what’s left of it, and takes another sip. The glass is nearly empty now, probably more nerves than thirst driving him to drain it. He smiles at something said just out of frame, unaware that the room has begun to tilt.
I look back at Alejandro.
