Casey stands at his perch on a rooftop. He cocks his gun, readying himself to snipe a suspected terrorist. The CIA had gained an anonymous tip about a possible hit at a musical. Of course, it had to be something Casey hated.

He hears the floorboards behind him creak. He stands, drawing his pistol. He turns on his heel. “Don’t move.”

In front of him stands a girl, her hands raised as tears stream down her face. “P-please, don’t shoot.” She removed her jacket to reveal a bomb strapped to her.