“You stupid bitch!” he roared, raising a hand as if to strike me right there on the stage.
Sarah didn’t wait. She kicked off her heels. She grabbed my wrist with a grip of iron.
“RUN!”
We bolted. Two sisters, barefoot, sprinting through the wreckage of a fairytale. We slipped on the frosting, scrambled over the debris, and dashed not toward the main exit, but toward the service entrance Sarah had scouted earlier.
“Stop them!” David screamed behind us. It wasn’t the voice of a groom. It was the command of a general.
We burst through the double doors into the kitchen, startling the chefs. Sarah didn’t slow down. She shoved a rack of pots and pans over behind us, creating a metallic barricade.
“Sarah, what is happening?!” I panted, hitching up my ruined dress.
“Just run!”
Behind us, the kitchen doors banged open.
The True Face: David stood there. He wasn’t worried about his wife. He pulled a tactical radio from his tuxedo pocket.
“Code Red!” he barked into the device. “The asset is running! Lock down the perimeter! I want them alive. Break their legs if you have to, but keep the faces intact!”
The asset.
The “security guards” stationed around the venue—men I thought were hired for crowd control—drew weapons. Not guns, but tasers and extendable batons. They weren’t security. They were mercenaries.
