This is the part no one ever sees. The thing that makes men like him so dangerous. He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks like the help. He moves the way they move. Stands where they stand. Exists inside the negative space of importance.
No one clocks him because no one ever thinks to.
Movement keeps you alive in rooms like this. Purposeful motion. Small adjustments. The illusion of task.
Alejandro isn’t doing any of that.
He’s too still.
The hairs along the back of my neck rise in warning, every instinct I have lighting up at once.Predators don’t freeze unless something has gone wrong, unless the picture in their head no longer matches the one in front of them.
Then he blinks.
Once. Twice. Hard.
He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to clear water from his ears, and whatever trance he was locked in breaks. His eyes start moving immediately. Fast. Sharp. He scans left, then right, then up.
He’s checking elevation.
Vantage points.
He looks almost frantic now, searching the architecture instead of the man he was seconds away from burning into memory. His breathing changes. I can see it even from here, the way his chest lifts too quickly beneath the uniform.
Something is wrong.
Not later. Not hypothetically.
Now.
Plans don’t unravel quietly. They fracture, and when they do, the people holding weapons adjust fast or they die. Alejandro is adjusting, which means the version of tonight he prepared for is already slipping out of reach.
And when plans change this close to execution, people get sloppy.
People get desperate.
I tighten my grip on the rifle, pulse steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Whatever he thought was going to happen is no longer under his control.
That makes him dangerous in a new way.
And it means I don’t have much time left before everything goes very, very wrong.
The lights dim.
Not abruptly. Gradually, like the room is being eased into obedience. The constant, unfocused roar of hundreds of conversations softens, then thins, then fades into a low expectant hum. People turn toward the stage without realizing they’ve done it. Bodies orient. Attention collects.
Light begins to move.
Sweeping arcs of illumination skate across the stage as music swells, polished and hopeful. The announcer’s voice rises over it all, practiced and warm, wrapping the crowd in language about innovation and vision and progress.
I search.
In two minutes, the mark will be on that stage. Alejandro knows that. Which means he has less than that to settle into position if he hasn’t already. Less than that to decide how this ends.
The announcer builds momentum, praising the newest jewel of the desert, the miracle of sustainability, the promise of a future powered clean and bright. Applause blooms oncue. It sounds enormous from up here, like surf breaking against glass.
Then Hartley’s name rings out.
My head snaps to the stage.
