We someone who eliminates the threat entirely.” “I need someone who doesn’t accidentally shoot a bystander in a crowded gala,” Victoria shot back. “Keep him in.” The second phase was the situational awareness room. It was a massive sound stage mocked up to look like a high-end charity dinner complete with tables, mannequins, and live actors mingling.

The candidates were given 2 minutes to walk through the room and identify potential security threats. Most of the candidates, including Russo, pointed out the obvious. The man with a bulky jacket that could conceal a weapon, the unlocked kitchen doors, the actor acting aggressively near the bar. When Noah walked into the room, he didn’t look at the people acting suspiciously.

He looked at the floor, the ceiling, and the lighting fixtures. He walked through the space in 60 seconds and stepped back out. Cole stood with his clipboard. “Well, Reynolds, what did you see?” “The bulky jacket is a distraction,” Noah said, his voice flat. “The man is sweating profusely from his forehead, not his body.

He’s nervous, probably instructed to draw attention. The real threat is the waiter pouring champagne at table four.” Cole raised an eyebrow. “The waiter?” “He’s pouring with his left hand, but his watch is on his right wrist facing inward. Typical for someone who shoots right-handed and wants to protect the glass face.

Moreover, he’s wearing an ill-fitting uniform, but his shoes are Salvatore Ferragamo Oxfords. A caterer doesn’t wear $1,000 dress shoes to a shift. He’s an interloper.” Silence hung in the hallway. Cole looked down at his master sheet. Noah had perfectly identified the hidden assassin that nine other candidates had missed.

Noah didn’t stop. “Furthermore, the chandelier above the VIP table is rigged to a secondary winch system that isn’t connected to the building’s main power grid. If someone wanted to create a diversion, dropping it would block the primary exit. The only viable extraction route for the principal is through the service elevator, but the emergency brake has a padlock on it.

You need to fire the maintenance staff. Victoria Hayes pressed the intercom button from the observation deck. Her voice crackled through the speakers in the hallway. “Mr. Reynolds, how did you notice a padlock on a service elevator from across a crowded room?” Noah looked up at the camera lens mounted in the corner. “I didn’t, Ms. Hayes.

I checked the reflection in the polished silver serving trays the waiters were carrying. It gave me a 360° view of the room’s blind spots without having to turn my head.” Victoria sat back in her leather chair, a genuine smile playing on her lips for the first time in weeks. “Fascinating.” Down in the hall, Russo bumped his shoulder hard against Noah as he walked past. “Cute parlor tricks, Dad.

” Russo hissed under his breath. “But when things go loud, a keen eye doesn’t mean squat if you can’t throw a punch. I’m going to break you in the CQC phase.” Noah stumbled slightly from the impact, recovering his balance. He didn’t retaliate. He just thought of the medical bills on his kitchen counter, the sound of Lily wheezing in her sleep.

He adjusted his frayed suit jacket and followed the group to the mats. By 1400 hours, the candidate pool had been halved. 15 men remained. They were ushered back into the main warehouse where a massive padded fighting ring had been assembled. “Close quarters combat.” Cole announced, pacing around the edge of the mat.

“No weapons, no groin strikes, no eye gauges. Everything else is fair game. You fight until submission, knockout, or I call it.” “Ms. Hayes wants to know what happens when your gun jams and the threat is within arms reach.” The fights were brutal. These were large, highly trained men fighting for a life-changing contract.

Blood stained the blue mats within the first 20 minutes. Noses were broken, shoulders were dislocated. Dominic Russo was a machine. In his first bout, he faced a massive former Marine. Russo didn’t just defeat him, he dismantled him. He slipped a jab, delivered a punishing liver strike, and when the Marine doubled over, Russo locked him in a guillotine choke, squeezing until the man passed out and collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

Russo stood over the unconscious body, chest heaving, roaring to the remaining candidates, “Who’s next? Come on!” Up in the booth, Victoria winced. “Is that level of violence necessary, Richard?” “Absolutely,” Cole replied, his eyes gleaming with approval. “You want a monster to fight the monsters, Victoria.

Russo is the apex. No one here can touch him.” Down on the floor, Cole read off the clipboard, “Reynolds, you’re up.” Noah slowly took off his suit jacket, folding it neatly and placing it next to his gym bag and Lily’s pink thermos. He rolled up the sleeves of his black T-shirt, revealing forearms that were corded with dense, lean muscle, a stark contrast to his unassuming posture.

Russo grinned, exposing a mouth guard. He waved off the man who was supposed to fight Noah. “No. No,” Russo said, pointing a heavily taped finger at Noah, “I want the dad. Let me test him, Cole.” Cole hesitated, looking up at the booth. Victoria leaned forward, her eyes locked on Noah. She gave a subtle nod.

“All right, Russo,” Cole called out, “you have Reynolds,” Cole called out, “keep it clean.” Noah stepped onto the mat. He didn’t take a traditional fighting stance. He didn’t bounce on his toes or raise his fists to his chin. He simply stood there, his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands open and relaxed at his waist.

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