Three IPS agents converge on me, weapons drawn.
“Sniper! On the scoreboard!” I have to get them to understand. Have to get to Domina. Up on the stage, no one notices me. They’re all focused on the Vice President.
“Together, we will build a better Panama! For us! For our children!” The cheers are deafening. The agents shout at me, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Shit.
I could die for this, but I yank open my jacket so they see the gun under my right arm.
Someone slams into me from behind, sending me sprawling onto the pitch. My arms are pinned, wrenched behind my back. A zip tie binds my wrists. “No. Get to Cortez!” I manage. “Domina! Get down!”
Dammit. I can’tsee. The stage is to my right. I twist, kicking at the agent straddling me.
“Sniper, you dumbfuck! On the scoreboard!” This gets their attention. The weight pinning me down lifts, but before I can react, I’m flipped over.
A dark-haired man in a black suit snarls at me, “You are going to regret the day you were born, American.” He wrenches the gun from the holster and slams it across my cheek.
Stars burst all around me. I blink, hard, and see agents racing to the stage, heading straight for the Vice President.
A hush falls over the crowd. Domina screams my name. The terror in her voice gives me the strength to push up on one elbow. Cortez stumbles back, blood staining his bicep, and the agents take him to the ground.
Someone kicks me in the ribs. “Search him,” one of the agents shouts. When they find the knife in my pocket, fists rain down on me. Jaw. Stomach. The side of my head. Restrained, I can’t defend myself. Can’t even turn over with how they’re on me. I taste blood.
“Leo! I have to get—” Domina cries. Where is she? Why can’t I see her?
Two sets of hands haul me up by my arms. My legs won’t hold me. They drag me, my shoes scuffing on grass, then concrete. We’re moving away from the stage. Away from Domina.
Shaking my head, I try to focus. A group of agents hustles the Vice President off the stage and back down the tunnel. The National Police surround the rest of the staff. Where is she?
“Domina! Call...Zephyr! I need—” I manage before another punch to the gut makes me retch.
“Shut up, American,” one of the agents barks at me. “You are under arrest.”
We’re moving faster now. They’re not taking me down the tunnel. One of the tall, black gates looms in front of us. “No. I’m…with Domina Sanchez. Cortez. Is he all right? Please—”
“You ask fornothing, asshole.” An SUV idles just outside the fence. If they get me into that thing, I’ll disappear.
With the last of my strength, I plant my feet and twist as hard as I can. The man on my right stumbles, but the other agent tightens his grip on my arm.
Pain explodes across the back of my neck. It’s like a black cloud blocks out the sun. Everything slows. The screams and shouts from the terrified crowd deepen, and the world turns soft.
Domina’s safe. She has to be safe.
It doesn’t matter what happens to me. I did my job. Cortez is alive. I hope. The wound…where was the wound? His arm. High up. He’ll live.
I land half on the back seat of the SUV, half on the floor. My head spins. A door slams. The car speeds away from the stadium, and I hope to God I live long enough to see Domina again.
* * *
Domina
For half an hour, my life was perfect. Thousands of people cheering for Manuel,mywords inspiring them. I could see Leo in the stands, and though he spent most of his time scanning the crowd, our gazes locked more than once. He smiled—that adorable, lopsided grin—and my heart skipped a beat every time.
“Manuel!” He’s ten meters ahead of me. So many IPS agents surround him, all I can see is the top of his head. The white hair, now mussed. And every few steps, a light tinge of red high up on his arm.
Two National Police officers flank me. We’re halfway down the tunnel when I realize the rest of the staff is ahead of us. Together. Omar has his arm around Larissa’s shoulders. Rafael and Tomas are side by side.
Manuel and his detail rush off to the right, down another tunnel that I think leads to a back exit. The staff follow, but one of the police officers takes my arm. “You will come with us,” he says sharply.
I stop—or try to—but he pulls me to the left. “No. Where is Leo Basher? He is my guest. My boyfriend. I need to find him.”
