Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,58
the world today, spread out across the globe, affecting the people of every nation.
“Human trafficking is a crime against all people. It is a crime against humanity. All of us are born free—it is the most crucial characteristic of humans, that none of us should be a slave or a tool to another person. We must all be free to seek our happiness in this life.
“This monstrous scourge takes many forms—forced labor, sexual slavery, arranged marriages, and child trafficking. We must form coalitions with groups like the United Nations and . . .”
I’m not listening to Solomon. I’m trying to follow the line of the flags, to see why they’ve been arranged in this way. What line of sight they’d provide to someone in the right position.
The high rises on the opposite side of the field are far away. A mile off. I didn’t consider them a threat, because only a tiny minority of snipers could make that shot.
At that distance, you’re looking at a five or six-second flight time for the bullet. You’d have to account for temperature, humidity, elevation, wind, and the spindrift of the bullet. Even the rotation of the earth becomes a factor. The mathematical calculations are convoluted—and some have to be done on the fly, if there’s a change in wind or angle, or if the target moves.
Snipers take headshots, in case the target is wearing a vest.
They don’t shoot the moment the speech begins. They wait for the speaker to go into full flow, when they’ve found their position and they’re not shifting around as much.
Yafeu Solomon is ninety seconds into his speech. If someone is about to shoot him, it will happen very soon.
I’m staring across the road at the high rises, looking for motion at any of the windows. A curtain moving, a face peering out.
Instead I see a momentary flash. It’s there and gone in a quarter-second. Light reflecting off glass or metal.
I don’t stop to think. I sprint toward the stage as fast as I can.
At first, Solomon doesn’t notice. I’m almost right below the podium when he breaks off his sentence. I don’t know if he recognizes me. He’s just staring, frozen.
Grabbing the mirror shield in both hands, I lift it up and angle it toward the sun, shouting, “GET DOWN!”
I point the mirror toward the high-rise.
The sun glances off the broad, flat surface and beams back at the building. If there’s someone in the window, it will send a blazing glare right at them. So bright it will blind them.
I don’t hear the shot. I just see the bullet embed itself in the stage.
Solomon barely had time to flinch, let alone duck down behind the podium. He stares at the bullet-hole, too shocked to move.
It’s Simone who grabs him from behind and drags him away. Cal has already seized Aida and pulled her off the stage. The crowd is screaming, stampeding toward the far side of the field.
I keep angling the mirror toward the high rise, knowing that any second another bullet might come spinning down toward my skull.
But a second shot never comes. The sniper knows he’s fucked—he missed his mark, and now he’s got to get out of his perch before the cops storm the building.
I throw down the mirror and run around the side of the stage, looking for Simone.
I find her crouched down with her father, both of them looking wildly around as the security team and the Chicago PD close a circle around us.
“Who was that?” Simone cries, eyes wide.
“Who knows,” Solomon says, shaking his head.
When I look at his face, I’m not sure I believe him.
25
Simone
Seeing Dante Gallo staring at me from the front of the crowd is one of the worst surprises of my life.
I almost don’t recognize him—at twenty-one, he was already the biggest man I’d ever met. Now he barely looks human. He’s grown at least another inch or two and filled out even more. Just muscle on top of muscle, straining against the bounds of a t-shirt that must be an XXXL.
His jaw has broadened, and he has a few lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes—not smile lines. It looks like he’s been squinting into the sun.
But the thing that transforms his face the most is his expression. He’s glaring at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. He looks like he wants to leap up on this stage and tear my head off my shoulders.