I take off the headset around my neck, fingers restless.
Addison’s already working, phone pressed to her ear, eyes sharp and focused in a way that tells me she’s switched gears completely. This is where she comes alive—when information starts bleeding through the cracks and everyone else is still pretending it’s fine.
I watch her pace a few steps away, murmuring into the phone, nodding once, twice. Something tightens in my chest.
I check the time again, just as a notification buzzes on my phone. Then another. Then several more, rapid-fire, stacking up so quickly my screen lights up like it’s panicking. I open the first alert, breath catching halfway through the headline.
BREAKING: Yusuf Aden Barre reported dead in Mogadishu.
The name hits me like a punch. I know that name.
I heard it yesterday during the talks, being spoken carefully, like everyone was afraid the walls might hear it too. I remember the way the room shifted when it came up, the collective tightening, unspoken acknowledgment of just how dangerous that man was.
My fingers go numb around my phone, and another alert slides in beneath the first.
Sources confirm targeted killing. Details are still emerging.
A ripple moves through the delegates like a wave breaking—voices rising, security suddenly very present. I hear gasps, sharp intakes of breath, hurried whispers in half a dozen languages. Phones are held up, screens shared, eyes wide with disbelief.
Addison’s head snaps up from her call. “Kate,” she calls, already moving toward me. “You seeing this?”
I nod mutely, throat too tight to form words.
Her expression shifts instantly, professional focus sharpening into something harder, more alert. “Holy shit,” she breathes. “This is—this changes everything.”
An announcement finally crackles over the speakers, the voice tight, carefully controlled.All delegates are asked to remain seated. Please stay calm and await further instructions.
Addison leans in close. “We’re okay. Let’s stay put and wait for more details.” Her hand squeezes my arm, grounding me. “You’re with me.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Just then, the doors at the far end of the room swing open abruptly, security flooding in with a sense of urgency that leaves no room for doubt. Their posture is different now—no pretense of ease, weapons visible, movements sharp.
“This is bad,” I whisper.
Addison doesn’t disagree.
Before she can respond, a sound cracks through the air. It’s the loud, unmistakable rasp of gunfire.
The room erupts instantly—people scream, chairs overturn, and someone shouts in a language I don’t understand. Panic is raw and contagious. Security reacts in a blur of motion, shouting orders, bodies moving to shield and contain.
Someone stumbles into me from behind, knocking the breath from my lungs. Addison swears, dragging me lower as bodies surge toward the exits in a blind, panicked rush.
“Down,” she snaps, voice cutting through the noise. “Stay down.”
I obey on instinct, knees slamming into the floor as we duck behind the overturned table. My hands shake violently as I press them flat against the carpet, trying to anchor myself to something solid. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break free of my chest.
Addison’s hand is tight around my wrist. She’s breathing fast too, but her eyes are clear, already scanning for exits.
Then I see a familiar figure. He emerges from the chaos like he’s been carved out of it. He’s wearing a balaclava, hiding his whole face except his eyes, but that build, those eyes—there is no question that it’s him.
James.
There is no camera in his hands, or hesitation in his movements. He’s not scrambling, shouting, or reacting like everyone else in the room. He’s moving with purpose—body low, controlled, eyes tracking something I can’t see yet.
I freeze.
He’s definitely not a bystander. He pivots sharply, grabs a weapon from a fallen guard with practiced ease, and in the same fluid motion, fires. The sound is deafening, impossibly loud, and I flinch hard, a gasp tearing out of me.
The gunman goes down.
