He walks out smiling, applause washing over him like he’s earned it. He shakes hands with the woman who announced him, exchanges a brief word, then steps behind the podium. Confident. Comfortable. Centered in the cone of light.
I count automatically.
One minute. Maybe two if the introduction runs long.
I drag my gaze away and scan again, faster now, my eyes skipping between shadows and structural lines and dead spaces. I move too quickly at first, have to force myself to slow down, to look properly. I check the same locations twice because panic lies about certainty.
Then movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
Across the hall.
High. Recessed.
I find him.
He’s positioned almost directly opposite me, tucked into a pocket of shadow where the architecture folds inward. The angle is clean. Too clean. He’s no longer wearing the uniform from earlier but another waiter’s jacket, tailored enough to disappear under stage lighting. From the floor, he would be invisible.
From here, he is unmistakable.
Alejandro looks up.
Not scanning. Not searching.
Looking directly at me.
We lock eyes across the distance, the moment stretchingthin and electric. The crowd below has no idea two rifles are about to decide the tone of history.
Then he breaks the stare and turns back to the stage.
His rifle is already assembled.
Still.
Leveled directly at Hartley.
I swivel my rifle toward him, the stand adjusting smoothly beneath my hands. I settle behind the scope, breath steady, movements precise. The crosshairs find him easily, frame his shoulder, then his head.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his stance. One eye closes. The other presses to the scope. He pulls back for a fraction of a second, checks the stage with his naked eye, then leans in again.
Professional.
Focused.
I stay on him, tracking every micro-movement. I adjust my aim higher, compensating instinctively. I don’t want a body shot. I don’t want time. I don’t want chaos spilling outward in the wrong direction.
A clean headshot.
End it before it begins.
I draw in a slow breath and let it out just as slowly, settling myself into the pocket where the world narrows and nothing exists except distance and consequence. My finger rests against the trigger, pressure building but not breaking.
My heartbeat seems to pause.
Everything slows.
Alejandro inhales.
Hartley leans forward, hands braced on the podium, readyto speak.
