00:06
You’re never wrong if you’re trusting in God for the outcome.
00:04
00:03
Dakota cut the blue wire.
00:02
00:01
He braced for the flash, the heat, the end of everything.
00:00
Nothing.
The timer went dark. The device fell silent. The toxin stayed contained.
Dakota let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His hands shook now, the adrenaline crash hitting him all at once.
Thank You, God.
Dakota scrambled out of the ventilation shaft, tearing skin on metal edges, not caring.
And then the comms crackled back to life.
“Anyone have eyes on the sniper? Lynx is out of comms range.”
No, no, she isn’t.
“Devices disarmed. Skeet—West—the sniper is on the boat?—”
Static. He thundered down the steps and ran for the terrace, for the view of the harbor.
A Secret Service officer yelled at him to stop, and when he didn’t, the man pulled his gun.
Dakota backed up, hands up—then, “I’m with Jones, Inc. There’s a shooter on that yacht—” He pointed out into the harbor.
“Stay here,” said the man, and spoke into his comms.
Aw, this would take forever. He took off, down the steps, around toward where he’d come from and back into the building.
The tour—he’d learned the inner workings of the Drama Theater, knew the inside passages. He ran. Up one set of stairs and more, all the way to the top. “West, c’mon, buddy, where are you?”
Static.
And then—as if God had heard him—West was there, standing near the windows of the upper terrace, holding his MacMillan TAC-300.
“What—”
“I need your weapon.” He reached for it before his conscious mind caught up.
West let it go, and Dakota hit the terrace railing and brought the scope to his eye.
“What—”
