Excitement stirs inside me. Along with panic. Leo is about to hearmywords. Why does that terrify me?
It gets brighter with each step. Louder.
“Cortez! Cortez! Cortez!” the crowd chants.
At my side, Leo murmurs, “Holy shit.”
Even Omar, Tomas, and Larissa are shocked at the number of people packed into the stands. The rest of the staff climbs the steps to the stage but the National Police officers block Leo and me from following.
“VIP guests are not allowed on stage.” One of the officers points to several empty seats in the first row of the stands. “You can sit there.”
“The hell I will,” Leo grits out, but I rest my hand over his heart.
“You will only be a few meters away.” Leaning in, I brush my lips to his. “Ten, fifteen steps. I will be fine.”
He wraps his arms around me, pressing a kiss to the curve of my neck. “Theminutehe’s done, get back down here, okay?”
Goosebumps race over my skin, and I hold on tight. “I promise.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Leo
“The people of Panama deserve better!”From the stage set up in the center of the pitch, Cortez pounds his fist on the podium. The crowd lets out a roar of applause. His wife and two adult children sit to his left, and to his right, Domina and her coworkers.
She’s beaming. Cortez’s Chief of Staff, Omar, leans over to whisper something in her ear. I’d give anything to be up there with her. Tofeelthe joy radiating off of her.
Every word, every line, every pause for dramatic effect…they’re all perfect. Cortez may be good at his job—and genuine—but it takes more than noble intentions to stir a crowd like this.
I’ve never been one for politics—the CIA doesn’t care how you vote, only that you can follow orders—but even I’m moved.
Focus. You’re not here to watch Domina. You’re here to observe.
Sitting in the first row of the home team seats doesn’t give me the greatest view of the rest of the stadium. Every few minutes, I twist around, feigning a sore back—not much of a stretch—so I can scan to my right.
Situation normal. So far.
Another burst of raucous applause, and something catches my eye. Across the pitch, a small group of people in the stands shove at one another. Security swarms the area.
From this far away, I can’t tell who’s winning the fight. Until the uniformed National Police officers start muscling people down the steps and out of the stadium.
I don’t like this. By my count, at least fifteen arrests. No one on stage notices. A quick check of my phone tells me Cortez has been speaking for almost thirty minutes. He has to be almost done.
Pushing to my feet, the weight of the gun in my chest harness familiar and reassuring, I grab the railing while I take one last look around.
A flash of light from the top of the scoreboard sends ice flooding my veins. What I wouldn’t give for binoculars. Was I imagining it? Most of the time, my limited depth perception and field of vision isn’t a problem. But now?
Fuck!
There it is again. Only one thing flashes like that.
I vault over the railing. Landing hard, my knees buckle, and my palms scrape over the concrete.
Move! Get up and move!
Sharp, jagged pain surges through my right leg, but I force myself up and sprint for the stage.
“Sniper! Get down!” Waving my arms, I shout louder. “Get. Down. Now!”
