Rick approached the hostages and asked, “Where is the vice president?”

A woman wearing a badge bearing the logo of a major American news agency pointed at a corridor. “The dining room, through there.” As he turned away, she said, “The waitstaff did this.”

In his peripheral vision, he watched two Secret Service agents approach the press corps with weapons drawn. He knew they’d all be questioned and vetted before the agents released them.

After a low whistle and a circling motion with his index finger, Rick’s team moved as one again to the end of the room. The corridor branched off in two directions. He sent Waller, Fisher, and Swanson to the left toward the kitchen to neutralize anyone they found there. He, McBride, and Peña went right.

They paused at the door and waited for the report about the kitchen. After several minutes, Swanson’s voice came quietly over their comms. “Had to secure a couple of hostiles. There’s a door here to the dining room. We’re ready.”

Using his hands to direct the two with him, Rick spoke into the mic. “On three. One, two.” Steeling himself for what he might find on the other side of the door, he said, “Three!”

Chapter
Seventeen

The man who dragged Cynthia out from under the table hauled her by her hair and all but tossed her into a corner. She went to Zalika, who had blood pouring down her face. She cupped the woman’s face in her hand and tilted her head, trying to see the gash on her temple. “What did they do?” she asked.

“Hit me with a gun.”

Zalika needed stitches. A man standing next to them had a handkerchief in his tuxedo pocket. “May I?” she asked, pulling it out of his pocket before he replied. She pressed it against the wound. “Keep pressure on it.”

She knew she should feel scared, but she was angry—and focused, looking for someone who might need medical care, trying to pay attention to everything that was happening around her so she could act when the time came.

The waitstaff had separated them into two groups. Those her father would call civilians—spouses, companions, and such—huddled together, while the government officials knelt on the floor on the other side of the table. The waitstaff had shed their jackets and held everyone at gunpoint, staring at them with steely eyes and hard mouths.

The sharp smell of gunpowder hung in the air, reminding Cynthia of burning orange peels. She glanced up and saw the holes in the ceiling that had come from the men firing their weapons in the air. A woman sobbed somewhere in her group. Cynthia looked around and spotted her in the arms of a man in traditional Katangela dress.