Kate felt a cold sweat prickle her neck. This was wrong. This was a professional setup. It was a classic boxing maneuver. Finch was the target. Her training screamed at her. Observe. Analyze. Act. She tried to dismiss it as paranoia, a ghost of her former life bleeding into her peaceful present, but she could not. The details were too precise, too coordinated. The way they all wore similar dark, well-fitted suits that could conceal weapons. The way none of them checked their phones, a near impossibility in this day and age. They were disconnected from the outside world because their entire world was now contained within these four walls.
She needed to warn someone. Her eyes flickered toward Henderson, Finch’s vaunted head of security. He was good, but he was comfortable. He was looking for the obvious threat, the lone gunman, the crazed fan. He was not looking for the predators hiding in plain sight, mimicking the behavior of the flock. Making her way toward the bar on the pretense of picking up a drink order, Kate passed close to Henderson. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice low and urgent. Henderson’s eyes snapped to her, his gaze sharp and annoyed. “What is it?” “Your client may be in danger,” she whispered, keeping her expression neutral, her eyes focused on a point just past his shoulder. “There are five men. They came in separately, but are working together. Two at table nine. One at the bar. Two by the kitchen. They’re boxing you in.”
Henderson’s expression did not change, but a flicker of condescending amusement touched his eyes. He gave the room a cursory glance, his gaze sweeping over the men Kate had indicated. He saw what he wanted to see. Rich men in a rich restaurant. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice dripping with practiced patience, as if speaking to a child, “I appreciate your concern, but I have been protecting high-value targets for fifteen years. I know what a threat looks like. These are just customers. Please go back to your duties and let us handle security.”
Kate felt a surge of frustration so hot it almost buckled her knees. “You don’t understand. Their positioning is tactical. They aren’t eating or drinking. They’re waiting. Check the man at the bar. He’s watching you in the mirror. The two by the kitchen are blocking an exit.” Henderson’s jaw tightened. “I’ve got my men on all the exits. The situation is under control. Now, I’m not going to tell you again. Back off. You’re drawing attention.” He turned away from her, a clear dismissal. He had already labeled her as a hysterical waitress, probably starstruck or overly imaginative. The pride of the professional, the inability to accept a warning from an unqualified source, was a fatal flaw she had seen get good men killed. She was on her own.