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MITCH

T he first thing Mitch saw when he opened his eyes was her.

Still asleep, hair spilling across the pillow. One arm curved across his stomach. The sheet tangled low on her hips. Her breathing was even, her mouth slightly parted, lips swollen from the night before. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. But somehow, with her wrapped around him, he'd stopped watching the clock.

She had that effect on him—stillness in the middle of chaos.

It was temporary. He knew it. War didn’t pause just because you wanted it to.

His phone vibrated once on the bedside table. Then again.

He slid out from under her with practiced care, tugged on a pair of sweats and padded barefoot into the adjoining suite’s secure room, soundproofed and lined with Cerberus hardware. Coop’s voice came through the encrypted comm as soon as he tapped in.

“We’ve got him,” Coop said. No lead-up. No preamble.

Mitch didn’t need it. He’d been waiting for this.

“Name?”

“Gerald Faulkner. Real estate magnate. Owns one of the largest land banks in the city. On paper, he’s clean. But off the books? He’s been feeding Wexler’s PAC for years through shell firms and dummy LLCs. The zoning exemptions? The development deals Andi blocked? They were Faulkner’s. Every single one.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “He’s the one who pulled the trigger?”

“Not directly. But he gave the order,” Coop confirmed. “He bankrolled the crash setup, green-lit the gala threat, and funded the blackmail targeting Lacey. Even paid off the judge who signed the original arrest warrant. Full sweep.”

The rage that burned through Mitch’s chest was sharp, controlled. He didn’t shout. He didn’t curse. He simply sat down at the table, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes for one long breath.

“How sure are we?”

“Ten out of ten. We found a hardline connection between Faulkner’s holding firm and the burner used to coordinate the surveillance at the museum. We also found a transfer—six figures, routed through a Singapore account, to Victor Ames two weeks before the crash.”

The puzzle snapped into place.

“Where is he now?” Mitch asked.

“In the city. Private residence. Guarded. Two-man detail, minimal rotation. He thinks he’s insulated.”

“He’s not.” Mitch’s voice was ice.

There was a long pause. Then Coop said, “What do you want to do?”

Mitch didn’t answer right away. He stared at the monitor as the plan formed. It was time to end this. But not with another ambush. Not with blood on the floor or a press leak about retaliation.

Andi didn’t need to disappear into silence. She needed to stand up—once more. But this time on her terms.

“I want her to speak,” Mitch said finally. “One more time. Not as a target. Not even as a candidate. I want her standing in front of the people who tried to erase her and making damn sure they know they failed.”

“You’re going to let her go public?” Coop asked, carefully.

“I’m not letting her do anything,” Mitch said. “I’m giving her the stage.”

Another pause. This one less surprised, more accepting.

“I’ll get the location secured,” Coop said. “Private venue. Invite-only, but press-friendly. If the museum will give us the atrium, we can control it, including the perimeter.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Absolutely. They owe us a favor.”

“Good, then do it,” Mitch said. “And make sure Faulkner’s people hear about it.”

“Understood.”

The comm went dead. Mitch stood slowly and walked back into the bedroom.

Andi was still curled where he’d left her, the sheet rising and falling with every breath. But when he sat beside her, brushing a hand over her hair, her eyes opened.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“We found him,” Mitch said.

That woke her up. She sat up, pulling the sheet with her. “Who?”

“Faulkner. Developer. Been working through Wexler since the beginning. Every attack, every leak, every smear—he funded it, and we’ve got it documented. He tried to make you disappear before you ever hit the debate stage.”

Andi didn’t look surprised. She looked… tired. But not broken.

“So what now?” she asked.

Mitch held her gaze. “Now you speak.”

Her brows lifted.

“One more time,” he said. “One more speech. Not about zoning. Not about recovery. About you. About surviving. About refusing to go quiet. You don’t owe them anything, Andi. But if you want to burn it all down—politically—I’ll make damn sure they watch it happen.”

Andi was silent for a moment. Then: “Where?”

“The museum—where they made their first really public attempt,” Mitch said. “They’re going to open the atrium for us.”

“Sniper?” she asked cooly.

“Maybe, but we’ll have people watching any potential places they could get a good angle on you, and we’ll have Miley and Reyna positioned.”

“Miley and Reyna? Your snipers are women?”

Mitch grinned. “Yes, and also collared submissives. But more importantly, they are two of the best snipers that ever lived. Coop is locking down the location and details. Invite-only. Controlled optics. No surprises.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“I’ll need time to write it,” she said.

Mitch smiled. “You already have.”

Andi tilted her head.

“You’ve been writing it with every step you’ve taken since the crash,” he said. “Now it’s just time to say it out loud.”

She looked at him differently then. Like something in her shifted.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Mitch said. “Just finish this your way.”

He didn’t say it out loud—but he didn’t need to. Finish it while you’re still standing. Because if Faulkner wanted war, they were bringing it straight to his doorstep—with her words, not his bullets.

And Mitch? Mitch and the Cerberus team would watch from the shadows. Eyes sharp. Gun loaded. Every exit covered.

It was time to end this. One speech. One bullet if necessary. One last stand.

And this time, Andi wasn’t the explosive device itself. She was the fuse.

* * *

The day broke gray and tense. Chicago’s skyline sat like a line of sharpened teeth against the horizon, the cold bite of early spring cutting through the air with surgical precision. Mitch stood at the edge of the secured staging lot behind the atrium, headset snug, comms live, gun holstered at the small of his back. The museum immediately adjacent was already filling with bodies—press, supporters, volunteers—none of them aware they were walking into what could easily become a killing field.

Andi’s final speech was set to start in forty-three minutes. Cerberus had swept the site four times. Drones. Thermal. Sniffers. Reyna and Miley were posted and keeping a close eye out for anyone from the opposition that might pose a threat. Body doubles had been prepped as decoys, and Andi had been briefed to within an inch of her patience.

Still, something was wrong. Mitch could feel it. Not nerves. Not pre-game adrenaline. This was something deeper. A silence in his gut that didn’t belong. The kind that came right before the trigger got pulled.

“Langdon, come in.” Coop’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Go.”

“We’ve got eyes on the developer. Faulkner. He’s not at his usual location. He just slipped into a black Escalade two blocks east of the venue. Plates match Paragon’s fleet.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “What’s he doing this close to Andi’s rally?”

“No clue. He’s not in campaign attire. No press. No meetings. We think he’s running logistics.”

Or pulling the pin.

“Get eyes inside the SUV,” Mitch said. “Thermal, infrared, I don’t care. I want a headcount, fast.”

He tapped his earpiece and moved, one hand brushing his jacket aside to rest on the Glock at the small of his back. The crowd noise was growing—a sea of cheers and cameras and chants of her name. And somewhere in that chaos, Mitch knew, was the last piece of this sick little game.

He climbed the stairs to the second level of the staging structure. Maya met him at the landing, earpiece in, clipboard forgotten in her hand.

“She’s ready,” Maya said. “She’s asking for you.”

“Delay her.”

“Not a chance. She said—and I quote—‘I’m walking on stage regardless of what they find—sniper or squirrel—it doesn’t matter.’”

Mitch cursed under his breath but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Do me a favor?” Maya nodded. “Tell her I love her.”

Maya shook her head. “Oh hell no, big guy. You’re on your own for that one.” She smiled at him. “But for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about you.”

With that, Maya turned and walked away, leaving Mitch to scan the perimeter, glad that the rest of the team couldn’t see the goofy grin on his face. Cerberus had already cleared the nearest rooftop. Crowd pathways were marked. But the south service lane… that was blind.

“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.”

Mitch slammed the cuffs on with military precision. Coop and Nick closed in seconds later, Cerberus agents sweeping the area.

Faulkner was done. Mitch stood slowly, breathing hard, muscles burning.

The crowd noise had shifted. The panic had ebbed, replaced with scattered applause. Andi was back at the podium. Unflinching.

Mitch watched from the shadows, blood still roaring in his ears. She stood tall, fierce, still catching her breath but refusing to break.

She wasn’t a politician up there anymore. She was something else.

Not a figurehead—a force.

And this time, when Mitch looked at her, he didn’t just see someone he was sworn to protect. He saw the woman they’d never touch again.

The rally was still humming with raw nerves and adrenaline when Mitch made it back inside the atrium, holstering his Glock and adjusting his jacket.

Cerberus had locked down the perimeter, swept for remaining threats, and discreetly moved Faulkner into private custody, pending a quiet handoff to federal agents with less loyalty to donor networks. Outside, Andi’s speech—defiant, fearless—had turned chaos into momentum. But in here, behind the curtain of civility and applause, the real bloodsport was still being played.

Mitch adjusted his earpiece and stepped through the narrow hall that looped behind the press platform. His knuckles were bruised. The scrape on his temple hadn’t stopped bleeding yet. He didn’t care. He moved with one purpose now—and that purpose was standing ten feet ahead, arguing with a communications aide while trying not to sweat through his overpriced blazer.

Wexler.

His tone was tight. His smile tighter. The man had the air of someone who’d just seen his carefully stacked tower of bullshit begin to collapse. The aide excused herself quickly, slipping into the shadows, which left Wexler alone… exactly where Mitch wanted him.

Mitch didn’t call out. Didn’t announce himself. He just walked straight up and stopped, inches from the man’s face.

Wexler turned, startled. “Langdon.”

Mitch didn’t blink. “You’ve got two minutes.”

Wexler tried for condescending, but it fell flat. “If you’re here to posture, I don’t have the time.”

“This isn’t posturing,” Mitch said. “This is clarity.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that Wexler had to tilt his head back slightly to hold eye contact. Mitch lowered his voice to a whisper—slow, quiet, intimate. Dangerous.

“I know what you did. The raid. The press leak. The payments from Faulkner. He orchestrated the whole thing. You were his marionette. We’ve cut the strings. You’re screwed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wexler said. But his voice shook. Just enough to betray the lie.

Mitch leaned in, breath cold against the man’s ear. “I don’t need a confession. I have proof. And the woman you tried to silence? She just survived a second assassination attempt and still finished her damn speech. So here’s the deal.”

He paused, letting the silence grind down hard.

“I told you before if she dies—so do you. But let me tell you now… if you so much as touch another piece of her world, if you so much as breathe in her direction, if one whisper of your operation resurfaces, I will bury you in a grave your donors can’t dig you out of. You will be exposed, prosecuted, and made to choke on the very public you tried to manipulate. And if that doesn’t happen fast enough?”

Mitch straightened, jaw locked.

“I’ll end you myself.”

Wexler swallowed hard. He didn’t reply.

Mitch gave a tight nod. “Your two minutes are up.”

He turned without waiting for a response, shoulders loose, blood still thrumming like war drums beneath his skin.

Andi was waiting just outside the atrium—flanked by Maya and two Cerberus agents, but fully in control. Her lips were tight. Her eyes locked on his.

“You got him?” she asked.

Mitch nodded once. “He knows where the line is now. And what happens if he crosses it.”

She gave a single breath of relief, but her jaw stayed set. “Faulkner?”

“Cerberus has him. He’ll be gone before dawn. Clean extraction. Feds will take it from there.”

“Good.” She paused, then looked up at him fully. “I want them both.”

Mitch narrowed his gaze. “What does that mean?”

Andi stepped closer. Her voice was low, firm. “I want justice. For what they did. For the people they hurt. But I want the exposure, too. I want the truth out in the open, where the public can see it. Names. Companies. Contributions. Every thread.”

Mitch studied her—sweat still on her brow, fire still in her eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” She didn’t blink. “I want both. One for the courts. One for the people.”

Mitch nodded slowly. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

He reached into his coat and handed her the flash drive, recovered from Faulkner’s case. “This has it all. The money trail. The blackmail. Emails. Burner numbers. It’s damning. We’ll move on two tracks—public and private.”

Her fingers closed around the drive. She didn’t tremble. He saw it then—what they’d all underestimated. She wasn’t just surviving. She was taking control, and this time, Mitch wasn’t shielding her from the fire… he was fanning it.

She lifted the flash drive, looked at it for a moment, then slipped it into her inner jacket pocket. “Let’s go burn the whole thing down.”

Mitch searched her face. “I love you.”

Maya grinned. “I knew you could do it.”

Andi laughed. “I love you too.”

Maya clasped her hands together and did a little laugh. “Oh, I love a happy ending.”

Andi looked at her. “We don’t have that yet… we’ve got an election to win.”

Mitch’s hand brushed hers as they turned to leave. The storm might not yet be over, but she had taken this battlefield and would, he was sure, win the whole damn thing.