Page 6 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

He locks onto me.

Dead certainty radiates through the narrow slits of the balaclava. He isn't here to rob the venue. He isn't here to take hostages.

He's here for me.

Why?

The question is a useless pulse in my brain. I'm nobody. A dancer. I have nothing of value. No secrets, no wealth, no political advantage.

The attacker marches toward us. His movements are economical. He closes the distance in three strides.

Andrea screams, scrambling backward and trying to drag me with her.

The attacker drops his submachine gun to its sling. He reaches out with massive, gloved hands, lunging to drag me off the stage.

My heart hammers, erratic. I scramble backward, my pointe shoes slipping on the slick wood. I refuse to let him touch me. I refuse to be a victim.

I wait for his hands to close around my throat.

I wait for the reality of abduction.

It doesn't come.

Instead, a wet thud sounds in front of me.

Something hot splashes across my face.

My eyes snap open.

The lead attacker is no longer reaching for me. A massive exit wound tears through his balaclava, painting the white tulle of my skirt with a spray of crimson.

For a fraction of a second, the man remains standing.

Then, the sound arrives.

A low, rolling boom. A thunderclap that vibrates through the foundation of the building. Nothing like the snapping pop of the submachine guns. It sounds like the wrath of God.

The attacker crumples, collapsing onto the stage like a puppet with severed strings. His body hits the oak floorboards with a bone-breaking crunch.

A zip-tie cuff spills from his tactical rig, skitters across the stage, and slides to a stop inches from my trembling hands.

Dead. He was dead before the sound even arrived.

Dark blood expands across the pristine floorboards. The copper scent of it hits the back of my throat, thick and cloying in the humid air. My stomach heaves.

I wipe my hand across my cheek. It comes away red.

"Man down." A shout tears up from the floor below, muffled behind a balaclava, cracking on the last word. "Sniper. They have a goddamn sniper."

The remaining three attackers on the floor abandon their sweeping patterns. Their discipline fractures. They scramble for cover, diving behind the marble pillars and overturning the mahogany cocktail tables.

They look up. Searching the vaulted glass ceiling of the solarium. Searching for the ghost that just dropped their leader.

"Grab the package and move." The man behind the pillar stabs a hand toward the stage, his voice climbing to a shriek. "Move."

Two of the attackers break cover. They sprint toward the steps, their boots pounding against the wood.

They're coming.