She kisses my cheek, and I watch her go, equal parts amused and resigned. The bar feels different alone. Louder and quieter at the same time. I finish my drink slowly, the buzz creeping in just enough to soften the edges of my thoughts. When the room starts to spin slightly, I decide that fresh air is the responsible choice.
I’m not ready to leave yet, so I find myself on the stairwell leading to the rooftop. I push through the door, stepping out into the night. I unsteadily walk up to the railing. Cold air rushes over me, the city stretches out below, lights blinking like constellations that have forgotten where they belong. The wind carries the faint hum of traffic and distant laughter from below.
I turn, and that’s when I see him—the long-haired, bearded, handsome musician from the elevator, hiding in the shadows. A startled gasp escapes my lips, catching him leaning against therailing, back to me, guitar case resting beside him. The city lights catch in his hair, outlining his broad frame in silver and shadow.
He’s been up here the whole time? Wow, it’s been hours. Or has it?
His dark eyes are already on me, unwelcoming and icy. For a moment, I consider retreating. Then I remember it’s my birthday, so I can do whatever I want. Maybe even indulge a little bit. He straightens slightly, like he’s been waiting for something, though I can’t imagine it was me.
“Hi,” I wave awkwardly and step towards him, looking forward to seeing where the night will take me.
Under him, I hope.
2
RYDER
Big cities make my skin crawl. They always have. It’s not the noise, though that’s part of it—the lights, or the way everything feels stacked too close together, like one wrong move could send the whole place collapsing in on itself. It’s the people—the density of them. Too many lives overlapping, intersecting, brushing past one another without ever really seeing.
The holidays make cities even worse. There’s something obscene about the way Christmas dresses everything up in twinkling lights wrapped around steel and concrete like they can soften what this place really is—fake warmth layered over rot.
Music drifts up from somewhere below, muffled but unmistakable, cheerful in a way that grates instead of comforts.I scoff internally and shift my weight, adjusting my position on the rooftop. The cold air cuts across my face as I take a deep breath and force my attention back to the job.
The rifle rests against my shoulder, the weight grounding me in a way nothing else ever has. The stock fits me perfectly, the way it always has. Some things, no matter how much time passes, never feel foreign.
I slow my breathing deliberately—in through my nose, out through my mouth—letting everything else fall away. The city noise fades to a dull hum at the edges of my awareness as I look through the scope, the world narrowing to clean lines and measured distances.
My target, Yusuf Aden Barre, steps into view. I track him through the scope, following without conscious effort as he moves near the private terminal gate, surrounded by security that looks competent but complacent. Yusuf is shorter than the images suggested, thicker around the middle, his confidence bloated by the belief that airports are sanctuaries. He hasn’t left LAX in days, convinced that if death comes for him, it won’t do so under fluorescent lights and TSA signage.
He’s wrong.
I know exactly who he is. I’ve read the files, watched the footage, and studied the aftermath he left behind. He’s one of al-Shabaab’s most visible leaders, a name that comes up again and again in intelligence briefings, always attached to blood. Entire villages erased. Families torn apart. Bodies piled up in thename of something he never even truly believed in—just power dressed up as righteousness.
I don’t feel guilty that I’m about to take his life. I used to think that was something I should interrogate, that the absence of it meant something was broken in me. But years ago, I learned the difference between killing and murder. This man crossed that line so long ago it’s laughable to pretend he deserves mercy now.
Millions of people will be safer without him, and that’s justification enough.
The crosshairs settle at the center of his chest as he pauses, checking his watch, impatience flickering across his face.He’s close to boarding.This is my window, so my finger takes up the slack on the trigger.
I exhale slowly, steadying for the shot. And then—
The rooftop door opens. My body reacts before my mind does. I pull back instantly, the rifle lowering as I break the line of sight, muscles moving on instinct honed by years on the job. I don’t look toward the door yet. I don’t need to. My ears are sharp enough to pick up on the footsteps that follow—light, uneven, and female. Whoever she is, is not security or a threat, but still a complication.
I begin breaking the rifle down in silence, each piece sliding into the foam-lined interior of the guitar case at my feet. The metal disappears, the weapon reduced to nothing more than an idea before the woman ever reaches the railing.
Through naked eyes now, I watch my target board the plane. The engines spin, the lights blink, and the aircraft pulls away from the gate and taxis toward the runway.
I’ve missed. Not because I hesitated, but because of someone who shouldn’t be here. I turn slowly, irritation coiling tight in my chest, already cataloging the failure, adjusting timelines and contingencies in my head. The contract will adapt; there’s always another window, but still, this one was clean. I don’t like losing clean. Matter of fact, Idon’tlose clean.
When she finally steps into my line of sight, I recognize her as the woman from the elevator earlier, as I was coming up. The one with the curious eyes. She stands a few feet away now, completely unaware that she has just ruined my mission.
She shifts, and that’s when she notices me hidden in the shadows. She looks startled at first, but recovers quickly once recognition sets in her eyes.
“Hi.” She waves a bit shyly.
She’s a whole foot shorter than I am, bundled in a coat that doesn’t quite hide the curves beneath it. Her eyes are bright,too bright,reflecting city lights and something unguarded. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and alcohol, lips slightly parted.
She smells faintly of citrus—sharp and bright, like she belongs in daylight instead of shadows. She looks at me like she expects an answer, but I give her nothing.
