“Don’t move,” I command.
Elias spins around.
He’s standing by the mahogany table, drenched in sweat that stains his shirt. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, and erratic. He isn’t holding a detonator, but the table in front of him is a disaster: an open hard-shell case, copper wires splayed like veins, and a rectangular block wrapped in thick black electrical tape. A digital display is blinking red digits next to it.
His right hand is hovering above it, shaking as if he were about to connect something he can’t disconnect before I kicked the door in.
It’s crude. It’s ugly. But I know what I’m looking at. The block is the power source. The display is the receiver. He’s rigging a remote detonation.
In his left hand, he grips a thick file folder so hard that the cardstock crinkles.
When he sees the gun, he screams. “Wait! No! I’m not who you think I am!”
He stumbles back, his legs hitting a velvet armchair, nearly sending him sprawling. The folder in his hands shakes violently, papers fluttering at the edges.
“Hands.” I step into the light. “Show me your hands.”
“Please!” Tears stream down his face, mixing with the sweat. “I’m a journalist! I’m here for the truth! You have to listen!”
“Drop the file.”
I close the distance.
Ten feet.
Seven.
Elias shoves the folder toward me, gripping it like a flimsy shield.
“Wait! Don’t shoot! This folder—it proves the lie! It proves everything!”
The Lie.
It’s always a lie. Every radical thinks they are fighting a lie. They think blowing up a gala full of innocent people is a politicalstatement. They justify the slaughter of civilians by claiming they are cleansing the system.
Same shit, different day.
I’ve heard it before. I usually hear it right before I end them.
“I don’t care about your manifesto,” I say, my finger tightening on the trigger as my eyes flick to the open case and the blinking timer.
“It’s not a manifesto!” Elias is sobbing now, shaking the papers in the air. “Look at it! Just look at it! It’s a setup! The targets are marked! He’s going to bring it all down!”
Targets.
The intel was right. He has the locations.
I reach out with my free hand and snatch the folder from his trembling grip. I keep the gun trained on his chest, my aim unwavering.
I flip the folder open with a snap.
My eyes scan the documents in a fraction of a second.
They are architectural drawings of the Waldorf Museum. And there, marked in thick, angry red marker, are Xs.
Over the HVAC intake valves. Over the main support pillars in the Archives below. Over the VIP Study—the very room we are standing in.
Elias is babbling, his voice rising in hysteria. “See? See? It’s the proof! He’s going to destroy it all! We have to stop him!”
