From where I stand, I can’t see it yet, only the glare of sunlight reflecting off glass and steel, but the tension that rolls off Niko the second he reaches the window tells me everything I need to know.
He looks down once, his expression hardening in a way that sends a quiet ripple of unease through the room before he speaks.
“My men already reported it.” His Russian accent is thicker now, more pronounced beneath the weight of what he’s seeing. “They’ve formed a gathering.”
A chill skates down my spine.
“Who?” Logan demands, already pushing to his feet.
Niko doesn’t look away from the window.
“The Children of the Cross.”
The words land like a detonation.
A sharp curse tears from Logan as he drags a hand through his hair, already moving toward the television mounted against the wall, grabbing the remote and flicking it on with none of his usual ease.
“Fuck this.”
The screen flares to life, the volume rising just enough to fill the silence that’s settled over us, and within seconds the image shifts to a live broadcast.
A news banner stretches across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING: RELIGIOUS GROUP GATHERS OUTSIDE LUXURY STRIP HOTEL
The camera cuts to street level, and suddenly we’re seeing it—really seeing it—for the first time.
Crowds.
Dozens at first glance, but as the camera pulls wider it becomes clear it’s far more than that, bodies packed tightly together behind makeshift barriers, spilling out onto the pavement, signs raised high into the air, white and red and black scrawled across them in aggressive, unyielding strokes.
REPENT THE FALLENTHE CORRUPTED VESSEL MUST BE CLEANSEDTHE DESTROYER WALKS AMONG US
My stomach drops.
Some of them are on their knees.
Praying.
Others are shouting, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus that bleeds through the television speakers, distorted but unmistakable, fragments of scripture twisted into something sharper.
“Bring her into the light!” “Cleanse the sin!” “She belongs to Him!”
The camera pans again, catching flashes of movement beyond the crowd—news vans lined along the street, reporters speaking urgently into microphones, their voices overlapping as they try to control the narrative in real time.
“…believed to be connected to the viral sermon released earlier this morning—”“…the group identifying themselves as the Children of the Cross—”“…no official statement yet from hotel security—”
Sam is already on his cell, his thumb moving rapidly across the screen as clip after clip plays in quick succession, his expression darkening with each one.
More movement at the door draws my attention as additional security filters into the suite, their presence immediate and imposing as they take position without needing to be told,some moving to the entrance, others stationing themselves just outside, voices low as they speak into comms, relaying instructions, tightening the perimeter.
The room feels smaller now.
Tighter.
Like the walls have inched closer without anyone noticing.
I don’t realize I’ve moved until I’m closer to the window, my steps slow, almost reluctant, as though some part of me already knows what I’m about to see will change something I can’t undo.
