The Disarming

Jax swept his gaze across the sea of formalwear, his tactical training kicking in with clinical precision. If the device was on a timer and the operative had worn a hyper-realistic mask to bypass facial recognition at the loading dock, there was a high probability the saboteur had removed the mask and blended back into the guest list before the perimeter was locked down. A man wearing a maintenance uniform would draw instant suspicion in a ballroom filled with black-tie attire, but a man wearing a custom tuxedo would be entirely invisible.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jax said, pressing his comm-link as he walked toward the elevated stage. His voice projected through the room's sound system, commanding absolute silence. "Every exit is sealed. Protocol zero is in effect. Anyone attempting to force a door will be detained immediately."

A wave of panicked murmurs rose among the wealthy patrons, but Jax raised a hand, cutting them off.

"We are looking for an individual who smells faintly of peppermint and bears a chemical stain on the back of his right hand," Jax announced, his eyes scanning the faces in the front rows. "If you see anyone exhibiting unusual stress, or if you notice someone who joined this gathering after five-thirty PM without a verified invitation, do not confront them. Step away and signal my team."

Arthur Vance stepped up beside Jax, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "Jax, are you out of your mind? You're accusing my high-profile donors of being terrorists! Senator Sterling is standing right over there!"

"Senator Sterling can wait," Jax replied coldly, stepping down from the stage. "Unless the senator has a peppermint habit and a blue dye stain on his hand."

Jax began walking the perimeter, weaving through the clusters of anxious guests. He observed hands holding champagne flutes, watching for any discoloration, any tremor, any sign of deceit. Most of the guests looked outraged, their pride wounded by the suspicion. But near the western pillar, half-hidden in the shadow of a massive floral arrangement, a tall man in a midnight-blue tuxedo stood perfectly still. He was not drinking champagne. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back.

Jax slowed his pace. He circled behind the pillar, closing the distance silently. As he drew closer, a faint, sharp scent drifted past his senses. Peppermint.

"Excuse me, sir," Jax said smoothly, stepping out from behind the marble column. "May I see your invitation?"

The man turned slowly. He had slicked-back dark hair and sharp, aristocratic features, but his eyes were entirely dead. He smiled, a thin, tight stretching of the lips.

"I believe my invitation was handled by your employer," the man said, his voice cultured and devoid of panic.