Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the Choir LoftSNAP.
The tiny sound of cutting copper echoed like a gunshot through the silent ballroom.
For a terrifying, agonizing second, the crimson digits on the casing flashed violently, turning from red to a blinding white. Vivienne buried her face in her hands, waiting for the blast to tear through her silk gown.
Then, the display went dead.
The low, electric hum beneath the table vanished.
Nia let out a slow, controlled breath through her nose, resting her forehead against the edge of the mahogany table for three seconds before sitting back on her heels. She wiped a bead of sweat from her eyebrow with the back of her sleeve, leaving a faint smudged streak of charcoal on her skin.
“The main charge is isolated,” Nia said, her voice completely devoid of drama. “It’s inert for now. But don't touch the box. There’s still two pounds of military-grade C-4 inside that casing, and if someone hits it with a heavy shock, it will still blow a hole through the floor structure.”
Julian stood up, brushing the dust from his knees. The fear that had briefly gripped his face was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that was far more dangerous.
He looked at Marco. “Clear the guests into the West Lounge. Hold them there under heavy guard. No phones, no calls to the press, no leaving the building until the Bomb Squad finishes scanning the perimeter.”
“Julian!” Vivienne cried out, stumbling toward him, her arms outstretched. “Julian, thank God! Please, tell your men to take me home! I’m shaking, I can’t breathe—”
Julian didn't hug her back. He caught her by the wrists, holding her at arm's length. His eyes were cold, inspecting his fiancée with a strange, detached curiosity.
“You were sitting right above it for twenty minutes before the ceremony started, Vivienne,” Julian said quietly. “Didn't you notice the smell of commercial adhesive? Didn't you feel the weight of the floor plate shifting?”
Vivienne blinked, her tears pausing for a fraction of a second. “What? No! I was focusing on my hair! On my dress! How could you ask me that? You think I had something to do with this?!”
“I think,” Julian replied, turning her toward his guards, “that someone knew exact measurements of this head table three days before the linen company delivered it. Marco, take Miss Sterling to the bridal suite. Put two men outside her door.”
“Julian!” she shrieked as two heavy-set bodyguards escorted her away, her veil trailing behind her like a discarded shroud.
The room cleared rapidly as Julian’s men herded the terrified aristocrats, mob bosses, and politicians toward the adjoining lounge. Within ten minutes, only three people remained near the head table: Julian Vance, Nia Harrison, and Marco.
Julian walked over to the bar, poured two glasses of twenty-year-old scotch, and walked back to where Nia was packing her simple tools back into her apron pocket. He offered her a crystal glass.
She looked at the amber liquid, then at him. “I’m still on the clock, Mr. Vance.”
“Consider your shift ended,” Julian said. “Drink it. You earned more than a glass of scotch today.”
Nia took the glass, setting it down on the table without drinking. “You shouldn't be standing near the center of the room, Mr. Vance. The bomb disarming was step one. If whoever planted this wanted to guarantee your death, they had a secondary plan.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“An EOD device of this caliber requires access to the venue at least six hours prior to the event,” Nia said, standing up and pointing toward the upper architectural features of the ballroom. “I was here at 5:00 AM laying down the floor runner. The stage was empty. At 8:00 AM, the catering team arrived. At 10:00 AM, the floral arrangers brought in the centerpieces. When I came back to vacuum at 1:00 PM, I noticed the stage wiring had been rerouted behind the orchestra pit.”
She walked toward the edge of the stage, pointing to a high, shadowed balcony near the ceiling—the old choir loft, long disused and covered in decorative dark curtains.
“The wireless signal that attempted to override my manual bypass didn't come from the floor,” Nia said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “It came from up there. Someone has been watching us from the rafters the entire time.”
Julian didn't hesitate. He pulled his own snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster, pointing it toward the dark balcony. “Marco! On me!”
Before Marco could move, a sudden, blinding flash erupted from the choir loft.
CRACK-CRACK!
Two high-velocity rifle rounds shattered the crystal chandelier directly above Julian’s head. Heavy glass rained down like a deadly waterfall.
Julian dove behind the overturned head table, grabbing Nia by her apron straps and pulling her down with him just as a third bullet tore through the plush velvet carpet where she had been standing half a second before.
“Overwatch!” Marco screamed into his radio, taking cover behind a marble column and firing blind shots up toward the darkness. “We have an active shooter in the loft! Team Two, breach the upper level now!”
Dust and plaster filled the air. The smell of cordite replaced the scent of expensive roses.
Nia lay flat on her stomach beside the mafia boss, glass splinters catching in her dark hair. She didn't scream. She didn't panic. She pulled a heavy brass candlestick off the floor, heavy enough to smash a skull, and looked at Julian.
“He’s using a suppressed 7.62,” Nia shouted over the gunfire. “He’s not shooting at the crowd! He’s trying to hit the bomb’s backup receiver on the floor plate to detonate it manually!”
Julian looked at the inert C-4 casing sitting three feet away. If a high-caliber round struck the secondary primer, the manual cut Nia had made wouldn't matter—kinetic impact would set off the charge instantly.
“We have to move that box!” Julian yelled.
May you like
“Are you insane?!” Nia hissed back. “It’s unstable!”
“If he hits it, we turn into ash anyway!” Julian spat, his teeth covered in white drywall dust. He looked at her, his eyes burning with an intense, strange admiration. “You take the left side, Sergeant. I’ll take the right. On three!”
