It doesn’t matter that we have a plan. That Zephyr’s tracing the call. That we have five people in Seattle trying to match the view behind Domina to a location if the trace fails. That Dax worked a goddamn miracle with his contacts. Or that there’s no fucking way I’m going to murder the future President of Panama when I know I could lose Domina anyway.
The lump in my throat is the size of the moon, and tears burn my eyes. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go. I’d do anything to be able to hold you right now, but I can’t.”
On screen, she sobs so hard I’m terrified she’s going to fall. If it weren’t for that asshole holding her, she’d already be dead.
“I love you, Domina. What we had…it was real. It was everything.”
“L-love…you…too.” Someone yanks the phone away, and she screams, “Leo!”
A second later, a man snaps, “Shut up before I let you go.”
The idiot holding her is American.
Daniel Pinzon’s face fills the screen, and I want to punch all his teeth out for his gleeful smile. “If you or your friends eventryto get to her, she dies.” He turns the camera to show me the street below. They’re so high, she’d never survive a fall. Panning back up, he focuses on Domina’s feet. Her scuffed heels. The narrow window ledge. The zip tie around her ankles. How much she’s shaking.
“This building is empty. We will know if anyone tries to break in. And then she will fall.”
“Listen, shithead—I know that’s your boss’s name, but it fits you too—if she dies, you better run as far and as fast as you can, because I have friends. Friends who willneverstop looking for you. And when they find you, they’ll have a contest to see which one of them can carve you into the smallest pieces possible, and how long they can keep you alive while they do it.”
“Watch it,” Austin warns. “Don’t give that idiot an excuse to drop her.”
Pinzon just laughs. “Better work fast. Time is running out.” He flips the camera once more to show a full body shot of Domina on the ledge. The American hides behind the wall, forcing Domina a few inches from the side of the window. Her entire body shakes. A zip tie binds her wrists. She’s completely helpless up there. Nowhere she can go but down.
Before I can say “I love you” one last time, the call drops.
“Shithead gave us everything,” I hiss. “Tell me you have her location.” Dropping the Bluetooth on the ground, I crush it with my boot. The less tech on me thatdidn’tcome from my team, the better.
“Two blocks south, one block east,” Trev answers. “Got eyes on her from the bell tower. The door’s blocked. There’s a third man in the room with an AR-15 trained on her. But he’s in my sights. The other two…”
Ryker McCabe cuts in to our comms channel. “Pinzon—fucking coward— is hiding behind a tool chest, and the other one—some former CIA pissant named Charles Thomas—is pressed so tight against the wall, the only part of him exposed is his arm. Not even Inara could guarantee kills with how they’re positioned.”
And if we try, Domina could fall. Will fall.
He doesn’t have to say the words. We all know the deal.
“Plan A or Plan B?” Austin asks.
I turn in a slow circle, scanning the crowds, clocking each member of the National Police, the IPS agents standing just inside the open double doors of the meeting space, and Domina. She’s only a flash of dark hair over a white blouse and crimson skirt from this far away, but I know she’s there. And she can see everything.
My watch buzzes. On the screen, a pulsing blue blip hovers over a map of the city. Moving south at a fast clip.
“Plan C. We’re going rogue.”
Zephyr activates the signal jammers as I push my way through the crowd. If Austin doesn’t move his ass, we’re all in deep shit. But thirty seconds later, I hear, “On my way to the roof.”
Running my fingers over the det cord in my pocket, I pray to all that’s holy in this world he can get there in time. We only have one shot at this, and if we’re off by even a few seconds, Domina will pay the price.
Four black SUVs pull up next to the church’s meeting space. I pass my fake ID to a poll worker, and he scans a thick stack of printouts to match my name and address to this district. “Enter to the left, Mr. Cameron,” he says, exhaustion evident in his voice. “Keep the line moving.”
“Cortez is being escorted into the building now,” Zephyr says. “Through the back. And you’ve got a tail. Sergio Munoz. The candidate’s son. Eight o’clock.”
Perfect. Mr. Smooth Talker had to come see the spectacle firsthand.
“I can’t wait to knock that little shit on his ass and tell him daddy lost because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” I mutter.
In the voting booth, I pull the det cord from my pocket and drape it along the edges of the table. Leaving the timer under the ballot, I finger the switch.
Cortez waves to the crowd with both hands, his fingers forming twinVsin the air. The IPS agent at his side leads him to a booth twenty feet away.
