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Viktor, ever the strategist, turns to me with a report. "Our teams have established a wide perimeter. El Diablo's forces are alert, likely anticipating our approach, yet there's noticeable caution among their ranks."
I process this, nodding. "They're probably bracing for a move against Don Angelo. It doesn't change our approach; we always proceed with the utmost care." My thoughts drift to Pia, her safety constantly echoing in my heart. I pull my focus back, aware that the stakes extend beyond my personal concerns. "What's the expected headcount at the president's event?"
Viktor details the operational specifics, including the intel gathered from the president's security detail. Spurred by a unified desire to thwart a national tragedy, our infiltration underscores the significance of what we aim to prevent.
As I contribute to the conversation, offering input and refining our strategy, part of my consciousness remains tethered to Pia. The thought of her in danger stirs a fury within me, a silent vow that any harm brought upon her will be met with a reckoning heretofore unmatched.
Our convoy speeds towards the heart of the crisis, a delicate balance of focus and resolve to guide our path. The mission ahead is twofold: ensure the safety of a nation's leader and safeguard the woman who holds my heart. Failure in either case is not an option.
The strain within me escalates as the convoy decelerates, a physical force that tightens around my chest. Joshua and Darrel cast concerned glances my way, their worry for my well-being evident in their eyes. "I'm fine," I state, my voice a practiced calm to dispel their fears. Internally, I engage in a silent battle, summoning the techniques I've learned to confront the specter of PTSD that looms at the edges of my consciousness. I close my eyes, drawing in deep, grounding breaths, each inhalation a mantra of the present over the past. This is now, not then. The danger is real, but so is my control. I trust my training. I trust my team.
Viktor's voice snaps me back, the mission demanding immediate focus. "We're splitting up. Three vehicles will proceed independently; one stays with us." I nod, my hands moving with deliberate intention to my gun. Ensuring the safety is off, I rehearse the action, a tactile ritual of readiness and resolve.
With the vehicle threading through the masses, we edge as close as possible to the president's expected location. The driver's announcement, "This is as close as I can get you," is the cue for our deployment. Viktor signals, and we disembark, cohesion and purpose in every step.
Amid the crowd, my height makes me an undeniable beacon for any seeking to disrupt our mission. Joshua and Darrel, sensing my unease, flank me, their presence a physical shield as much as a psychological one. Whether by Gabriel's design or the agency's foresight, their matching stature provides anonymity in the sea of faces.
The way parts before us, the crowd's curiosity tinged with apprehension as we advance. The sensation of being on display prickles at the back of my mind, but I suppress it, channeling my focus towards the stage. The president has yet to arrive, but our vigilance cannot afford to waver.
Every step and every movement are charged with the importance of what lies ahead. The weight of our responsibility—to protect, to serve—anchors me. In this moment, I am more than my fears, more than my past. I am the shield in the shadows, ready to confront whatever threat.
Under the scant protection of the large tent, a momentary shield from the open scrutiny and the sweltering sun, we edge closer to the nexus of today's conflict—the stage. Viktor suddenly stops, signaling for us to do the same as he steps closer to share the latest update. "The president has just arrived. He'll be on stage in five minutes. We're moving there." He gestures towards a secluded spot behind the towering speakers, a strategic vantage point. "Our coverage is solid, but we're not the only ones playing this game. El Diablo's presence is everywhere. I feel him."
Acknowledging with a firm nod, I signal for us to press on. The speakers, massive sentinels of sound, now serve as a temporary bastion as we maneuver into position.
It's then, amidst the throng of faces—each lost in their own anticipation of the event—that I feel it. The unmistakable pressure of a gaze that cuts through the crowd aimed directly at me. Turning to meet this unspoken challenge, my eyes find his. They are deep, dark wells of malice, set into a face where every line speaks of ruthlessness. The contrast of his dark skin against the light blue of his rolled-up sleeves and the salt-and-pepper hair that seems to dance with the breeze does little to soften his intimidating presence. Though our paths have never crossed until this moment, the very air around him whispers his identity. El Diablo.
The recognition sends a chill down my spine, not of fear but readiness. The hunter and the hunted, our roles momentarily amorphous, locked in a gaze that transcends the bustle around us. This man stands at the heart of the web we seek to dismantle, his presence verifying the gravity of our mission.
In this electric moment, every sense is heightened, and every training scenario and strategic planning session converge into a single focus point. The dance of danger is about to begin, and I stand ready. The fate of many rests on the actions of the few.
As Viktor urgently informs me of the president's movement onto the stage, my immediate reaction is a sharp pivot, only to find that El Diablo has vanished into the ether. "Fuck!" The curse escapes my lips before I can reel it in, Viktor catching the direction of my alarmed gaze. "What happened?" he probes, his voice a mix of concern and readiness.
"I just saw El Diablo," I admit, my breath catching as the realization hits me hard. Joshua and Darrel, ever vigilant, position themselves strategically, scanning the crowd for any sign of the threat.
The crowd's applause erupts, starkly contrasting the stress coiling within me as the president, flanked by his Presidential Security Group, steps into the limelight. The politicians trail just a beat behind, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger swirling beneath the surface.
Viktor's glance back at me carries an unspoken command—it's time. Before another word can be exchanged, the sound of gunfire shatters the air, punctuating the moment with terror and turmoil. Instinctively, we duck for cover, but my gaze locks on the president, inexplicably still, a statue amidst the pandemonium. Two of his security detail collapse, the stark red of their blood a jarring splash against the backdrop of fear.
A suffocating wave of panic threatens to engulf me, the ghosts of past traumas clawing to the surface. My chest tightens, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, a telltale sign of the onset of a panic attack. Yet, amidst the turbulence, a part of me refuses to succumb, clinging to the thread of duty that defines me.
"The president!" The urgency of the situation wrenches the words from me, propelling me into action. With the precision of someone who has danced this deadly ballet before, I ascend the stage steps, a shield of flesh and determination between the president and the lethal intent of our unseen adversaries.
As I shield him with my body, returning fire, a stray bullet grazes the president's leg. "Are you all right?" I shout over the din; my concern is genuine despite the chaos.
"Yes, keep going," he urges, grim determination heavy in his voice. With the president in tow, we make our desperate descent from the stage, my team forming a protective cordon around us.
"Viktor," I call out, our eyes meeting in a brief moment of acknowledgment, his smile a reward for the success of our immediate mission. "What's next?" I ask, even as the president, now fully aware of his precarious situation, seeks answers.
"We're here to save you," I assure him, my words a promise of safety in the storm. His hesitancy is palpable, but the situation leaves little room for doubt. "El Diablo is behind this," I confirm when he interrupts, his fear momentarily overtaken by the need for understanding.
As gunfire continues to pepper the air, the intensity wanes, signaling our control over the situation. "Trust me, we need to get you to safety," I press, the urgency clear.
He nods, silently acquiescing to our protection. "Pangulo," one of the Águilas addresses him respectfully, guiding him to safety with reassuring professionalism.
And then, in the following brief respite, my gaze finds El Diablo again. Our eyes lock across the distance, a silent nod to the high-stakes game we're both part of. He's been watching and calculating, but so have we. Every move counts in this chessboard of shadows and light, and I'm ready for whatever comes next.
With the moment pressing down on us, I signal for Viktor to draw near, my voice steady but dire with the proclamation. "El Diablo does not leave this place alive. Even if it means risking my own life." The potential cost of this decision isn't lost on me—the impact it would have on my family and Pia. Yet, the necessity to permanently end this threat overshadows my personal fears.
