He tried to get a shot off. The rifle discharged in the instant before my shoulder connected with his chest. I hit him hard enough to drive us both sideways into the brick wall.
The shot went high into the fly grid, hitting metal and ringing out above us. Pain tore through my left shoulder a half-breath later, hot and immediate, not the blunt force of collision but the clean, vicious line of a bullet that had passed through flesh on the way to its destination.
I pressed my right forearm across his throat and slammed him back into the wall before he could reorient himself. He fought fast and efficiently, stronger than he looked. He did not panic, and he still believed he had a chance to finish the task and bring Dominic down.
It wasn’t happening on my watch.
I drove my weight into him and trapped the rifle between our bodies and the wall. My left arm was functionally gone, with numbness slowly taking over. Blood ran down inside my jacket. I shifted my grip and used my hips instead of the shoulder. His right hand clawed for leverage. I pinned his wrist against the brick and felt the weapon slip from his control.
“Don’t,” I said into his ear. “Stop fighting.”
He tried to twist free.
A plainclothes NOPD officer came in from the corridor with his sidearm up and his badge visible. He had been Eamon’s local contact for the Devereaux intercept, moving under civilian cover through the building while the audience filled the house. He took one look at the rifle and the blood and stepped in without asking questions.
“Weapon,” he said.
“On the floor,” I answered.
He kicked it clear, got Micah’s hands, and finished what I had started with cuffs and a knee in the right place. Only then did I pull away.
The world tipped slightly.
I caught the edge of the brick wall with my right hand and stayed upright out of blunt refusal to fall with so many eyes on me.
In my earpiece, Eamon barked. “Devereaux is in custody. West service corridor. Henri is being taken now. Third row center. He didn’t run.”
I looked past the wing and onto the stage.
The orchestra had stopped. The sound collapsed into stunned silence. Beyond the edge of the proscenium, the audience held its breath. Heads turned. Some people stood. Ushers were moving in the side aisles.
Dominic remained standing with the baton still in his hand.
He had seen enough.
His head turned toward the wing, eyes on me against the wall with blood darkening the left side of my jacket. Our eyes met. I expected shock, fear, or anger at the situation. What I saw instead was recognition.
He turned back to the orchestra and conducted.
At first, only one trumpet played. It was the opening phrase of “Saints,” soft and steady, floating over a room that had forgotten how to breathe.
Another trumpet joined him. Then a trombone.
Then the snare at the back, light on the beat. The players knew what was needed.
Dominic continued, moving the baton with practiced calm. The orchestra watched him intently as it played.
I had spent ten days studying the man’s routes, habits, and preferences. None of that had prepared me for his grasp of authority at a moment that could have induced mass panic. He didn’t make a show of reclaiming the room. He simply carried on.
The full chorus of “Saints” filled the Orpheum.
Brass lifted. Strings answered. The harmony opened under it. The room, which had braced for violence, was suddenly holding music again.
Then the pain caught up with me. Adrenaline had done its work and was fading. My shoulder throbbed in brutal, distinct pulses. I looked down and saw blood running through my fingers where I’d clamped my hand against the wound. Not catastrophic, but deeper than I wanted it to be.
The officer who had taken Micah turned back toward me. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
