Page 5 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

The sound is catastrophic. A percussive detonation of splintering wood and shearing metal tears through the delicate strings of the orchestra.

The music cuts off in a shriek of panicked violins and a dropped cello.

I freeze mid-step. My center of gravity shifts. I stumble, my pointe shoe catching the edge of a floorboard, and crash onto my hands and knees. The impact sends a shockwave up my arms.

The silence of the theater shatters.

Men in black tactical gear pour through the ruined entryway. Nothing about them is hesitant or chaotic.

Their boots slam against the marble, a rhythmic thunder that drowns out the first screams of the audience.

Black balaclavas obscure their faces. Ballistic vests bulk their torsos.

The blocky outlines of submachine guns sweep across the terrified crowd.

This can't be real. It must be a mistake.

Violence doesn't belong here. This is a place of art. Of structure. Of grace.

The lead attacker doesn't hesitate. No shouted demands. No wallets or jewelry.

He raises his weapon and fires.

The staccato crack of the gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space of the solarium. The muzzle flash strobes yellow against the dark velvet walls.

A private security guard, positioned near the emergency exit, drops. He collapses, slides down the wall, and leaves a dark smear of blood across the gold-leaf wallpaper.

Terror slams into my chest, crushing the breath from my lungs. My throat locks.

Screams erupt. The frantic shrieking of hundreds of people realizing they're trapped in a slaughterhouse. Chairs overturn. Glass shatters as panicked patrons trample the cocktail tables, fighting to reach the secondary exits.

"Lily!"

The cry cuts through the chaos, sharp and raw.

I look up. Andrea kneels three feet away, her eyes wide with horror. She reaches toward me, her fingers trembling.

I scramble across the oak floorboards, ignoring the friction burn tearing at my knees, and grab her hand. Her skin is ice despite the sweltering heat of the stage lights.

We press flat against the floor, making ourselves small. The white tulle of my skirt offers no protection. We're exposed on the elevated platform, pinned in the unforgiving glare of the overhead spots.

We're sitting targets.

The heavy velvet curtains hang twenty feet to our left. The wings. The backstage exit. It leads into the warren of tunnels behind the stage. A way down. A way out.

Move. Get up and move.

But my legs refuse to obey. Terror floods my system and locks every muscle. My dancer's discipline—the control I exert over every fiber of my being—fails me. I'm a trembling animal, clutching the hand of my best friend while the world ends around us.

Tactical boots slam against the wooden steps leading up to the stage.

The vibrations travel through the floorboards and into my chest.

I snap toward the sound.

The lead attacker clears the top step. He's massive. A towering wall of black Kevlar and ruthless intent. He ignores the screaming audience and bypasses the perimeter.

His head turns toward the center of the stage.