Page 13 of Beyond Protection
I saw it that day.
And I didn't act fast enough.
Late afternoon in October. Autumn light turning everything gold and deceptive. We were leaving the courthouse—Kyra had testified before the grand jury. Clean exit. I'd walked the route that morning, identifying potential approach vectors, cataloguing faces, and noting anyone who didn't belong.
Nothing should have gone wrong.
The courthouse steps were wide, marble, worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. People everywhere—lawyers, defendants, civilians. Normal courthouse chaos.
Kyra was beside me, talking about dinner plans. Where we should go to celebrate. Thai food, maybe. Or that Italian place her editor had recommended.
I was scanning, constantly scanning.
That's when I saw him.
Middle-aged man. Glasses. Carrying papers. Dressed like a lawyer—suit jacket, briefcase, the whole costume. I'd seen him inside the courthouse earlier, sitting in the back of the gallery during Kyra's testimony.
He approached from the left, angling toward us through the crowd. My gut clenched.
Everything about him was wrong. His movements were too focused, too direct. His gaze locked on Kyra with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
Wrong wrong wrong.
But my training said he'd been cleared. I'd seen him inside, and he'd passed through security. He was just a lawyer. Court staff. Someone who belonged. If I needed to worry, backup would have notified.
I hesitated. One second. Maybe two.
His right hand moved, and the papers scattered.
A knife appeared.
I moved, but it was too late.
I shoved Kyra sideways, reaching for his wrist, but the blade was already in motion. It punched through her jacket, through her blouse—through skin and muscle and everything beneath.
She made a sound—not a scream, just a sharp exhalation. Surprise more than pain, like she couldn't understand what had just happened.
I caught his wrist. Twisted until he dropped the knife and ran.
She looked down at the blade protruding from her chest, three inches below her collarbone. The confusion in her eyes was worse than fear.
I caught her as she fell. My knees hit the concrete. Her blood was hot against my hands, and there was so much of it.
"Stay with me," I demanded. "Kyra, stay with me."
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes were already losing focus.
The blood kept coming.
"Help!" I screamed. "Someone call 911!"
People were running toward us. Someone was shouting. A siren wailed in the distance.
But Kyra's eyes had already gone vacant.
Three years later, I could still feel her blood on my hands.
I heard what she'd said that morning, before the courthouse. Before everything.
