Page 82 of The Bodyguard

“I’ll need time to write it,” she said.

Mitch smiled. “You already have.”

Andi tilted her head.

“You’ve been writing it with every step you’ve taken since the crash,” he said. “Now it’s just time to say it out loud.”

She looked at him differently then. Like something in her shifted.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Mitch said. “Just finish this your way.”

He didn’t say it out loud—but he didn’t need to. Finish it while you’re still standing. Because if Faulkner wanted war, they were bringing it straight to his doorstep—with her words, not his bullets.

And Mitch? Mitch and the Cerberus team would watch from the shadows. Eyes sharp. Gun loaded. Every exit covered.

It was time to end this. One speech. One bullet if necessary. One last stand.

And this time, Andi wasn’t the explosive device itself. She was the fuse.

* * *

The day broke gray and tense. Chicago’s skyline sat like a line of sharpened teeth against the horizon, the cold bite of early spring cutting through the air with surgical precision. Mitch stood at the edge of the secured staging lot behind the atrium, headset snug, comms live, gun holstered at the small of his back. The museum immediately adjacent was already filling with bodies—press, supporters, volunteers—none of them aware they were walking into what could easily become a killing field.

Andi’s final speech was set to start in forty-three minutes. Cerberus had swept the site four times. Drones. Thermal. Sniffers. Reyna and Miley were posted and keeping a close eye out for anyone from the opposition that might pose a threat. Body doubles had been prepped as decoys, and Andi had been briefed to within an inch of her patience.

Still, something was wrong. Mitch could feel it. Not nerves. Not pre-game adrenaline. This was something deeper. A silence in his gut that didn’t belong. The kind that came right before the trigger got pulled.

“Langdon, come in.” Coop’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Go.”

“We’ve got eyes on the developer. Faulkner. He’s not at his usual location. He just slipped into a black Escalade two blocks east of the venue. Plates match Paragon’s fleet.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “What’s he doing this close to Andi’s rally?”

“No clue. He’s not in campaign attire. No press. No meetings. We think he’s running logistics.”

Or pulling the pin.

“Get eyes inside the SUV,” Mitch said. “Thermal, infrared, I don’t care. I want a headcount, fast.”

He tapped his earpiece and moved, one hand brushing his jacket aside to rest on the Glock at the small of his back. The crowd noise was growing—a sea of cheers and cameras and chants of her name. And somewhere in that chaos, Mitch knew, was the last piece of this sick little game.

He climbed the stairs to the second level of the staging structure. Maya met him at the landing, earpiece in, clipboard forgotten in her hand.

“She’s ready,” Maya said. “She’s asking for you.”

“Delay her.”

“Not a chance. She said—and I quote—‘I’m walking on stage regardless of what they find—sniper or squirrel—it doesn’t matter.’”

Mitch cursed under his breath but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Do me a favor?” Maya nodded. “Tell her I love her.”

Maya shook her head. “Oh hell no, big guy. You’re on your own for that one.” She smiled at him. “But for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about you.”

With that, Maya turned and walked away, leaving Mitch to scan the perimeter, glad that the rest of the team couldn’t see the goofy grin on his face. Cerberus had already cleared the nearest rooftop. Crowd pathways were marked. But the south service lane… that was blind.

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