Page 32 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)
For the next ten minutes, they maintained their cover, engaging in polite conversation with the other attendees in their vicinity—a cultural attaché from France, a senior aide to the British Prime Minister, and a Swiss diplomat whose country maintained neutrality in most conflicts.
Sabrina marveled at Atticus’s ability to navigate these waters, matching the casual international references and policy discussions despite his focused attention remaining always on Mitchell.
“Diversion initiating in three minutes,” Cal advised through comms. “Nate and Max are in position with FBI assets. Eden has secured the secondary exit route. Jade has overwatch established.”
Atticus’s hand found Sabrina’s beneath the table, a brief, tight squeeze that communicated more than words could express.
“Two minutes,” Cal continued. “Atticus, the evidence package is ready for distribution on your command.”
Sabrina watched Mitchell work the room, stopping at each cluster of diplomats for brief conversations, his political instincts evident in the way he remembered names, referenced personal details, and made each person feel momentarily significant.
A master manipulator who had built his career on the appearance of integrity while dealing in death and corruption behind closed doors.
“One minute.”
Atticus rose smoothly from his chair, buttoning his tuxedo jacket with casual elegance. “Shall we, darling?” he asked, extending his hand to Sabrina.
She accepted it, allowing him to guide her toward Mitchell’s location. They timed their approach to intersect with the Senator as he moved between groups, maximizing the number of potential witnesses while minimizing his security’s ability to intervene discreetly.
“Thirty seconds.”
Mitchell was laughing at something the French Ambassador had said, his head thrown back in apparent delight, when the first notes of the diversion reached them—a commotion at the main entrance, raised voices, and the distinctive sound of security personnel moving rapidly in response.
“Sir, we have a situation,” one of Mitchell’s bodyguards murmured, leaning in close. “We should move you to a secure location.”
“Nonsense,” Mitchell replied, waving him off with the confidence of a man who’d never faced real consequences. “It’s nothing. Probably just an overzealous protestor. Handle it quietly.”
The bodyguard hesitated, torn between his employer’s command and his professional instincts, then reluctantly moved toward the disturbance, leaving Mitchell momentarily less protected than usual.
“Now,” Cal confirmed.
Atticus moved forward, Sabrina at his side, closing the remaining distance to Mitchell with measured strides.
The Senator turned at their approach, political smile already forming, ready to greet potential donors—until recognition dawned in his eyes, the affability giving way to momentary shock before his mask reasserted itself.
“Mr. Cameron,” he said, recovery impressively swift. “What an unexpected pleasure. I don’t believe you were on the guest list.”
“Hello, Warren,” Atticus replied, his voice carrying the lethal calm of a predator who had finally cornered its prey. “Interesting timing for a diplomatic appearance, wouldn’t you say?”
Mitchell’s gaze shifted to Sabrina, recognition flickering in his eyes. “Dr. Wells. I’m surprised to see you in this context. Quite a leap from trauma surgery to whatever this is.” His dismissive gesture encompassed both of them, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his growing concern.
“Less of a leap than you might think,” she replied, chin lifting slightly. “Neutralizing threats is part of my expertise, whether they’re bioweapons or the men who create them. Your demonstration in Texas didn’t quite go as planned, did it?”
Mitchell’s expression hardened, though his voice remained pleasant for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “I’m quite busy at the moment, as you can see. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting through proper channels.”
“Like the proper channels you used when you ordered the hit on my wife?” Atticus asked, his voice pitched low enough that only those standing closest could hear, but carrying enough intensity that several nearby conversations faltered as attention shifted toward them.
“Or perhaps the proper channels you used to fund a bioweapon program through shell companies linked to your wife’s charitable foundation? ”
The blood drained from Mitchell’s face, though his political training held—he maintained his smile even as his eyes went cold and calculating. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, reaching for his phone. “But I think it’s time for you to leave before you embarrass yourself further.”
“Is that what you told Dr. Elaine Cho before you had acid poured down her throat in a public café?” Sabrina asked, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Atticus. “Or what you told the four research scientists who disappeared from BioGenix after they developed your weapon?”
Mitchell’s gaze hardened as he assessed his situation. A ripple moved through the nearest guests, whispers spreading outward like concentric circles in still water. Mitchell’s mask slipped further, calculation giving way to something darker as he realized the danger of this public confrontation.
“You’re making accusations you can’t possibly prove,” he said, voice hardening as he abandoned the pretense of civility. “Security!”
“They’re occupied,” Atticus replied with cold satisfaction.
“Just like the security at your demonstration site was occupied while we secured the bioweapon samples you planned to sell to international terrorists. Just like the FBI is currently occupied raiding BioGenix’s facilities and securing evidence that links directly back to you. ”
More guests had turned to watch now, the whispers growing louder as phones appeared, capturing the confrontation. Mitchell’s remaining bodyguard moved toward them, hand sliding beneath his jacket.
“Hostile approaching, your six o’clock,” Jade reported calmly through their comms.
“I wouldn’t,” Atticus advised the bodyguard, turning slightly to face him while keeping Mitchell in his peripheral vision. He discreetly revealed the edge of his own weapon. “Not here, surrounded by diplomats and cameras. Think about what happens next—to your career, to your boss.”
The bodyguard hesitated, clearly weighing his options. His gaze darted from Atticus to the crowd of witnesses with phones recording, then to Mitchell who gave him a subtle head shake. The guard stepped back but remained vigilant, hand still positioned for quick access to his weapon.
“Smart decision,” Atticus said, turning back to Mitchell. “Now, as I was saying…”
He stepped closer to Mitchell, close enough that anyone watching would see only an intense conversation rather than hear the damning words.
“Your operation is exposed. Your buyers from Texas have been detained. Your weapon has been neutralized. And right now, a complete dossier of your crimes—including your direct order to eliminate my wife eight years ago because I was getting too close to your weapons dealing—is being delivered to every major news outlet, federal law enforcement agency, and international security organization.”
“You’re bluffing,” Mitchell hissed, though uncertainty had crept into his expression. “You have nothing.”
In response, Atticus removed his phone from his pocket, turning the screen to reveal a video feed—Mitchell in his private office, issuing explicit instructions regarding the bioweapon demonstration.
“Turns out your secure communication system wasn’t as secure as you thought,” Atticus said, satisfaction evident in his tone. “My tech specialist has been inside your network for months. Every conversation, every order, every detail of your operation—we have it all.”
Real fear flickered across Mitchell’s face for the first time. Then his expression hardened, and his hand moved subtly to his watch.
“If that’s true,” Mitchell said, voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “then none of us will be leaving this building alive.”
Atticus recognized the movement instantly—the slight twist of Mitchell’s watch face, the subtle click of a mechanism engaging. His combat instincts surged to the forefront.
“He’s activated something,” Atticus warned through the comms. “Cal, check the building security systems. Now.”
Sabrina stepped forward, blocking Mitchell’s retreat as the senator attempted to back away. “What did you just do?”
Mitchell’s lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. “Insurance policy. You should have left me alone, Cameron. You had eight years to make peace with your loss. Now everyone in this building will share your wife’s fate.”
“Atticus.” Cal’s voice came through their comms, tension evident in his normally steady tone. “I’ve detected an unauthorized device activation in the building’s electrical system. Looks like some kind of explosive attached to the main structural supports. Timer indicates less than ten minutes.”
“How many?” Atticus demanded, not taking his eyes off Mitchell.
“Multiple devices. At least six, strategically placed. If they all go, the entire building comes down.”
“You’re insane,” Sabrina said, her medical training immediately calculating the casualties such an act would cause. “There are over a thousand people in this building.”
“Collateral damage,” Mitchell replied with the casual disregard of someone who had built a career on others’ suffering. “Just like your wife, just like those test subjects in Texas. The world runs on necessary sacrifices.”
Atticus lunged forward, grabbing Mitchell by the throat and slamming him against the nearest wall. Guests scattered, cries of alarm spreading through the reception hall as the confrontation turned violent.
“Disarm it,” Atticus growled, his control finally fracturing under the weight of eight years of grief and rage. “Now.”