Page 83 of The Bodyguard

“Coop,” Mitch said. “What’s Faulkner’s location now?”

“Approaching the perimeter. Too fast. Too hot. Langdon, we’ve got movement.”

Then the explosion hit.

Not a big one—more of a shock grenade, concussive rather than deadly—but enough to create panic. A pop, a flash, and the first three rows of the crowd screamed and scattered like birds under gunfire.

Mitch didn’t blink. He moved.

“Lock it down,” he barked into comms. “Lock the whole goddamn perimeter. Pull Andi. Evac protocol Delta.”

“She’s not evacuating,” came Maya’s voice. “She’s already halfway to the mic.”

Goddammit.

Mitch bolted across the floorboards, dodging a panicked cameraman, sprinting up the backstage ramp. His eyes locked on Andi—standing tall at center stage, hair pulled back, voice cutting through the chaos.

“They don’t get to scare us into silence!” she said in a defiant voice.

Mitch reached her just as the second pop flared behind the south tower scaffolding. He threw his arm around her waist, pivoted hard, and took them both down behind the stage’s reinforced support.

Shots rang out. Not crowd fire—targeted. Suppressed. Clean.

Cerberus returned immediately.

“Shooter on the south flank!” Reyna called. “We’ve got visuals!”

Mitch pulled Andi against his chest, one hand braced against the back of her head, shielding her. “Are you hit?”

“No. I’m fine. You?”

“Perfect,” he grunted. “Stay down.”

Cerberus agents surged toward the shooter’s location, two more moving to intercept the Escalade which had mounted the curb and was attempting to flee down the blocked maintenance lane. Bad move.

“Faulkner’s in the wind!” Coop’s voice was tight. “He’s trying to run.”

“Don’t let him.”

Mitch stood, eyes scanning, calculating. He saw the shooter—mid-thirties, tall, tactical gear. Already subdued and face down under Nick’s boot.

But Faulkner? The sleek, black Escalade slammed into the bright orange barricade, tearing it apart as it careened wildly onto the sidewalk. It obliterated two metal bike racks with a deafening crash that reverberated through the street. “Southwest exit!” Mitch barked, his voice crackling with urgency. “He’s heading for the river!”

Mitch bolted into a full sprint, adrenaline surging through his veins, gun drawn and primed for action. He vaulted over a barricade with fluid grace, darted through the narrow alley like a predator on the hunt, and locked eyes on the SUV, its doors flung open like a gaping maw. Faulkner was bolting away, his suit jacket whipping violently in the wind, a briefcase clenched in his grip, sheer terror etched across his features—a colossal mistake.

“Freeze!” Mitch roared, his voice booming off the surrounding buildings. Faulkner ignored the command, an even bigger mistake.

Mitch hurled himself at the fleeing man, slamming him into the unforgiving concrete with brutal efficiency—as natural to him as breathing. They collided with a bone-rattling impact, sending the briefcase skidding across the rough asphalt, its contents exploding into disarray. Cash fluttered like frantic moths, documents scattered like storm-tossed leaves, and amidst the wreckage lay a burner phone and a small flash drive, glinting menacingly.

Mitch drove his knee into Faulkner’s spine, wrenching his arms back with lethal precision. “You were going to kill her,” he snarled, his voice a blade of ice. “You orchestrated the entire operation.”

“I… I didn’t…” Faulkner gasped, the words strangled in his throat. “It was just supposed to scare her. To silence her.”

“You issued a kill order on a public official,” Mitch growled, fury blazing beneath his steely calm. “You financed a hit squad. You framed her with blackmail and exposed her location.”

“It wasn’t personal!” Faulkner begged, desperation threading through his voice.

“It was to me,” Mitch replied, his voice a glacial whisper. “You made it personal the instant you laid a finger on her.”

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