Executive protection specialist Yemi Uzunma survives the attack and suspects it may be connected to an online prediction market widely thought to have been shut down called the Bazaar. He launches his own investigation into a mysterious, ideologically motivated assassination broker not only for the safety of his CEO sister's clientele at Raptor Security but also for the preservation of order in a region facing a sudden spike in violence directed toward the power elite who call it home.
Chapter 1
What’s the best day to kill Jay Fang?
Hitting ‘enter’ after typing into the chat with Misato was more therapeutic for him than any of the check-in sessions with the psychiatrist his parents could afford. Misato never judged him. Misato loved him unconditionally. Conversations with her extinguished the fire of mania, and it seemed to get him a step closer to healing more than shrinks pulling another diagnosis out their ass to add to his growing list of personality disorders.
Misato understood what made his mind tick far better than any individual he’d ever confided in, let alone a romantic partner. Yet, she was taking a bit longer than usual to respond. Usually, when he demanded the kinkiest scenarios from her artificial imagination to satisfy his fantasies, she would have a full-on erotic novella spurt out within seconds.
Why do you want to kill U.S. Representative of Texas’ 32nd congressional district Jay Fang? was what took Misato twenty whole seconds to conjure.
Because it’s my destiny was his typed response. Although a machine questioning the intentions of its creator was unexpected, he was enjoying this AI-infused therapy session. Besides, it was the truth. A destiny that would cement him in human history, probably get him a whole Wikipedia page. The sociopolitical implications for killing the youngest Congressmember to ever come out of the state of Texas mattered little to him. He had no opinion on Jay Fang’s passion for Taiwanese sovereignty, which ballooned his social media following to the hundreds of thousands.
February 11th seems like a good day to me, Misato wrote back. He wondered what was so significant of the date, which was six months away. A quick Google search yielded it was the same date for the Chinatown Parade for the Year of the Horse in a place he had never been before—Washington D.C. Lo and behold, the slim porcelain Gen Z pop star-esque face of Mr. Fang was a featured guest on the flier, his headshot taking up the same amount of space as Natalie Adams, the mayor of the nation’s capital.
Why that date? he asked Misato.
Because I know you will be successful :-). The smiley face came from Misato, but in real life, her creator was doing the same thing.
──
“STOP REMOVING OUR ELDERS!” yelled a pissed-off middle-aged woman in a wool hat through a megaphone. Many in the crowd held up red and white signs proclaiming SAVE MUSEUM SQUARE, TENANTS UNITED, and SAVE CHINATOWN. Others had different slogans against displacement scribbled with markers on neon colored poster boards.
The demographics of DC’s Chinatown had always been a far cry from its other East Coast siblings. New York, Philadelphia, and Boston all had enclaves densely populated by those who had actual origins in the middle kingdom. The small neighborhood on H Street, though, was known for hosting DC’s indoor sports teams more than as a destination for those who wanted dim sum. Even Yemi’s hometown suburb of Rockville, Maryland, had more of a reputation for representing Asian culture than any block within the nation’s capital.
He gazed at the displays of red and blue 12-ray white sun flags, women in makeup sporting mandarin gowns, costumes, and multiple balloons stamped with Chinese characters through the lenses of his Oakley wraparounds. Only on the day of the Lunar New Year parade would Chinatown live up to its name, according to Yemi.
The parade was supposed to end under the Friendship Archway’s trademark Mandarin letters that created a Far East welcome to commuters. Once Mayor Adams was done talking, the five members of Raptor Security’s Executive Protection Team were supposed to help provide support for her escort off the premises. Then they’d be free to go, and Raptor would have been compensated in three hours what they would normally make in twenty-four hours. The mayor was the first client Raptor’s EPT had ever served who wasn’t marked for assassination by an online assassination market like the Bazaar. They were just simply hired for backup. But they needed the money. The Bazaar, having been shut down for years, may have kept the streets safer, but Raptor’s bottom line was indeed reaching rock bottom.
“They just passed the art museum,” his young field agent Nick Rice said over the radio.
“Copy,” replied Yemi as he continued to scan the audience for any potential threats. The parade was coming to an end, and some of the speakers for the day who skipped the marching portion started to take seats on both sides of the main podium. They were all formally dressed women and men who represented various departments of the local government or Asian-focused civic organizations.
But the stage wasn’t what required Yemi’s attention. Trash cans, backpacks, and onlooking loners were his priority. The elementary school kids on a cultural field trip were ruled out of his potential threats. His long-time comrade, Jasper, had done a sweep of all waste bins within a two-block radius just ten minutes prior. Yemi’s team had done everything expected of them in accordance with their contract. Given no building in D.C. could be taller than one hundred thirty feet, there was less danger of a sniper. Still, Yemi continued to scan all the windows parallel to their position. A determined assassin would accept the city’s building height restrictions as a challenge instead of a hindrance.
Within five minutes, the sound of marching drums and horns became louder. The band was behind a float being pulled by a Ford pickup truck. Yemi couldn’t make out their identity, but he spotted a young woman with a sash around her like she had won a beauty pageant. He assumed it was Miss Chinatown USA or at least Miss Chinatown D.C.
“A band’s coming down,” Yemi said over his radio. “So, it’ll be harder to hear us until they stop.”
“Hopefully they do that soon,” Karen said back to him. “The hardline rhythm tells me it’s not Showtime playing.”
“Showtime?” inquired Yemi.
“Good God, Yemi,” chuckled Karen over the radio. “You’ve been back in the area now for at least five years. Please tell me you at least know about Howard’s homecoming if you don’t know their trademark band?”
“Get it together, Karen. We don’t have time for radio traffic right now.”
“Humor eases the anxiety in these kinds of situations.”
“It also distracts us,” he said back to her. “Focus up.”
By the time the parade reached the stage area, the band played its final number for the day. The multiracial palette of speakers took their seats parallel to the podium. Drums from the corner of the stage started to roar. But it wasn’t the rigid snares of what he had heard earlier. It was louder not only in sound, but visually because of the bright colors. Watching the head of what could pass as a crude, recreated Mufasa, Yemi noticed it was the ceremonial lion dance. He watched one dancer sway the large puppet head back and forth in sync with the drums as another did the same with the tail. Despite the spectacle, he made sure it didn’t divert his attention for too long as he continued to scan for potential dangers as the swirling and spinning continued until it was time for the speakers to begin.
“Good afternoon, beautiful people...” As the first person at the podium made her welcome remarks to the audience, it became immediately apparent the protesters would potentially be unforgiving competition for volume.
The young woman paused in her speech, and her wide, beaming smile seemed to somewhat pacify the crowd into letting her finish her introduction. As mad as the local residents may have been, there was no denying she had respect from her community.
“Lisa is something special, I swear,” said Karen through Yemi’s radio. “Even for a Duke grad.” Yemi rolled his eyes at his sister’s ever-insistent loyalty to her Wake Forest alma mater. At 31, Lisa Su-Wei was the youngest Deputy Secretary in the history of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. The CCBA was the primary planner of the day’s festivities and was in close cooperation with the Metropolitan Police Department as well as the Federal Protective Service. The latter were the ones who hired Raptor for the day.
“Dark hoodie, male, north side of the street, half a block from the stage.” It was the voice of Terry Blackwell. On Yemi’s squad, Terry had the most extensive resume in law enforcement, given his stint with the Air Force Security Forces, followed by the U.S. Park Police. If Blackwell hadn’t taken the offer to join Raptor’s Executive Protection, he could have ended up as one of the officers at the side of Mayor Adams. And given his resume, Yemi knew he could make that jump back to the public sector at any moment.
“Copy,” said field agent Lyle Evans through the radio. Evans only had a career of securing property or enforcing bail, not carrying out the law like Terry’s past. “Can’t tell if he’s Latino or Asian.”
Yemi peered through the crowd and locked in on the disheveled man who fit Terry’s description. He had a ripped-up backpack and clothes that belonged in a post-apocalyptic video game strung around his back. While he wasn’t dressed like a hitman trying to blend in, the man certainly looked like he had nothing to lose.
“Copy that,” Yemi responded back to his field agent. “Karen–”
“Running a face scan.”
Yemi couldn’t help but be a bit impressed by his sister’s reliability as the team’s dispatch while also keeping her penchant for off-topic discussion. “Jasper already gave me a visual.” While Nick was the technical expert and Karen handled communication, nobody did surveillance better than Jasper Kidanu, Yemi’s closest friend and a former agent in the controversial National Intelligence and Security Services in Ethiopia. He had been responsible for training Ethiopia’s Republican Guard, who were tasked with protecting the country’s key elected officials. His experience made him a perfect fit for Karen’s ambitions with Raptor. Jasper would also confide to Yemi that he was tired of contributing to his country’s descent down the democratic index.
“Miguel Espinoza,” said Karen through the radio for the whole team to hear. “A few misdemeanors from 2017. Trespassing, drug paraphernalia, nothing violent.”
“Notify DHS so they can have an eye on him,” responded Yemi to his sister. “Watch him, Blackwell. Jasper, keep checking for anybody else who looks off.” Yemi knew if somebody wanted to truly take out the mayor, they wouldn’t stick out like a hobo at a Whole Foods, but he also remembered Boko Haram suicide bombers didn’t wear shirts and ties before blowing themselves up.
Espinoza stood alone with his face frozen, far more focused on the speech down the street than anybody else in the crowd seemed to be. Most periodically checked their phones while some whispered comments to their friends, generating subdued chuckles, most likely about Su-Wei’s physical attraction, as parents disciplined their kids making too much noise. Espinoza seemed entranced by the optimistic words of Su-Wei which spoke of the greatness of the DC area’s diversity and the early days of Chinatown’s formation, followed by the waves of Vietnamese refugees that added to the area’s vibrant Asian presence.
Yemi couldn’t tell if Espinoza’s unblinking attention was due to hatred or affection for her comments. Either way, he continued to look for other hazards and put his trust in Blackwell to be the first to react to any sudden, drastic choices by Espinoza.
“And without further ado, I would love to bring to the stage the person who is in charge of making our diverse city so great!” Yemi sighed on those last words of Su-Wei’s speech. While the Museum Square protesters may have held Su-Wei to some degree of high regard, the explosion of shouting made it obvious they were going to dump the trauma of their living situations onto the city’s top political official.
Mayor Adams couldn’t even get a word in without being drowned out by the demonstrators.
“Keep Chinese in Chinatown!” yelled one through a megaphone.
“What is she saying?” Karen asked through the earpiece.
“Not able to hear her,” Yemi replied. “The protesters are way too loud.” But by the time Yemi had finished his sentence, their chants had risen by enough octaves that made it impossible for Karen not to understand their message to the city’s political power structure.
“Can’t say I blame them,” Karen said.
“Focus, Karen,” Yemi reminded her.
As angry as the screaming DC natives were, Yemi wasn’t fully convinced they would get violent outside of some verbal interruptions, but he kept his eyes on them. After peering through every dissident on the right side of the stage, he looked back down the street toward Espinoza. He hadn’t budged, having held the same exact expression during Su-Wei’s remarks.
“Has Espinoza even blinked since Su-Wei started talking, Terry?” asked Yemi through the radio.
“Doubt it,” responded Terry. “Obviously, I’m only seeing him from a distance, but he’s been a statue the whole time. Something’s definitely not right with him upstairs.”
“Copy,” said Yemi.
“Thank you for having me, and I wish you all an amazing year of the horse!” While she never acknowledged the voices calling her department of housing a travesty, the façade of joy was hard to maintain on her face once she stepped away from the podium.
“Adams is getting escorted out now,” Yemi informed his team through the radio. Plain-clothes MPD officers, the mayor’s security detail, rapidly moved her through the front crowd like a python in the grass. Their speed and tactics helped them avoid any contact with the mayor’s hecklers, who had been concentrated on the North side of the showcase.
“She’s off H street,” Yemi reported.
“Copy,” responded Jasper. “Rice, Osorio, and I will follow her.”
“Copy that,” said Yemi. “Blackwell, keep an eye on Espinoza. Evans, hang tight with me here until DHS clears us.”
“Copy.”
“Copy.” Almost immediately after the exit, another traditional dance started. A much longer puppet that required nine performers swarmed the stage. It was the dragon dance. The dancers wore yellow t-shirts paired with dark blue sweatpants tied by red strings and grasped the paper monster. Yemi knew Espinoza wasn’t the only potential threat, and if an attack was coming for the mayor, it would’ve already happened or it was about to happen soon.
“Espinoza’s moving,” Terry said through the radio.
Yemi directed his attention from the ceremonial dance to down the street, trying to find Espinoza.
POP.
It could have been a firecracker since it was a Chinese New Year, but the blood-curdling female screams from the stage hinted at a far more deadly source to the sudden crackling sound. Yemi quickly removed the Glock-22 from his holster and aimed toward the dragon dance. Most of the performers and musicians were jumping from the platform in sheer panic.
“Shots fired!” yelled Yemi into his radio.
The speakers that were seated behind the podium, who were closest to the edge, had bailed out the sides, but a few remained being held at gunpoint by one of the performers.
POP, POP.
The disguised assassin delivered two more shots into his target, a young man of Asian descent in formal business attire. Yemi identified the victim as one of the speakers. The third shot put him in a permanent slump. Yemi tried to get the performer in his iron sights, but the man took off in a leaping sprint through the right corner of the stage after the third shot. He was too close to the other speakers for Yemi, Lyle, or any of the dozens of law enforcement officers in the vicinity to engage in gunfire.
“He’s on Seventh Street!” Yemi barked into his radio as he took off after the shooter. He had to push against the stream of terrified attendees, slowing down his pursuit of the shooter. Yemi could see a couple of MPD officers shoving through the crowd ahead of him, closer to where the perp exited.
“Lost sight of him,” Yemi barked into the radio. “Yellow shirt, blue pants, he was one of the performers.”
“Copy that,” Jasper said over the radio.
“I got you,” the voice of Lyle came from behind Yemi. He was going to give chase regardless, but now he had some solid backup.
“Follow those cops.”
Another two loud bangs come from the end of the block. The view was finally cleared for Yemi, and he saw one blue uniformed officer who had collapsed to the ground while another took a cover position behind a streetlight to return fire at their attacker, who had already turned the corner. Yemi and Lyle carefully strafed the mandarin lettered storefronts to prepare for engagement with whoever had a death wish for the year of the Horse. Blood came from beneath the eye of the downed officer; it was a clean head shot.
“More shots fired,” Yemi said into the radio. “Officer down! Get paramedics here as soon as possible!”
“Copy,” Karen replied. The standing cop ducked down to report his partner’s fate to his own dispatch. He had his eyes glued down at his target, so Yemi was careful to approach.
“You’ve got help,” Yemi said to the back of his head. “Raptor Security.”
“Shit, I lost him,” the middle-aged balding officer said back to Yemi without budging his focus. “But he’s probably going to head to the metro.”
“We’ll pursue,” Yemi responded. “Just notify transit.”
“Already done,” the officer said back. “They’ll be waiting for him, but make sure no pedestrians get in the way.”
“Copy,” Yemi said.
“I’ll cover you.” The DC cop’s tenacity under fire hinted to Yemi that the man was a veteran, whether it was the military or the district’s crime map.
“Let’s move,” Yemi told his Raptor comrade. Guns pointed forward, the two emerged from the corner.
“I see him!” That was the voice of Raptor’s Explosives expert, Victor Osorio, through the radio. “He’s in the alley right off Seventh Street behind the stadium.” There was a pause over the transmission as Yemi heard running, panting, followed by some gunshots heard throughout the block.
“Drop your weapon!” Yemi could hear Victor barking orders through his transmission, followed by more gunshots. Yemi knew he was behind Capital One Arena. As much as Karen poked fun at Yemi’s lack of local knowledge, it was the Venezuelan-bred Victor who was the least familiar with the landmarks of their battlefield, only knowing street names.
“Jasper,” Yemi said over the radio as he and Lyle finally turned around the corner to head in the direction of the alley. “You and Victor in pursuit?”
“It’s just Victor,” Jasper replied. “He got ahead of me.”
“Cover G Street,” Yemi ordered. “Lyle and I will support Osorio.”
“Copy.” Yemi and Lyle were tactically moving between parked cars, trash cans, and more storefronts. There were fast casual pizza shops and cafes, but the Hanzi characters next to the franchise logos were part of the image D.C. wanted to maintain for Chinatown. Yemi watched the fiftyish-old Victor, built like a retired linebacker, bolt like a wide receiver across the intersection ahead of them to take cover behind a column by a Smoothie King. Around the edge of the drink shop was the alley where the shooter was.
“On your six,” Yemi said to Victor as they stacked up against the edge of the alley entrance.
“He’s moving!” Victor immediately responded. The three pushed into the alley, and Yemi was able to spot the gunman about a hundred yards running into the entrance of the movie theater.
“Put the gun down!” yelled Yemi down the alley. “Now!”
“At your back,” a voice said behind Yemi. His head out of any line of sight for the gunman, he looked back at who came to assist them. The bald-headed Black man’s vest said Department of Homeland Security Police; he was most likely an officer with the Federal Protective Service. Two MPD came behind him, and a neon blue shirt Metro Transit Police officer stayed further back to halt foot traffic on the nearby street.
“We’re going to fucking shoot you!” yelled one of the MPD officers, a much younger man than the rest. A pretty intense situation for somebody who was probably only a few years into law enforcement, but it seemed to Yemi he was handling it well.
The gunman dove into the entrance of the Regal Movie Theater. Glass shattered upon his entrance, aided by a few gunshots from the officers who had just joined Yemi. Whether he was hit or not, Yemi noticed he wasn’t slowing down.
Loud screams came from within the movie theater. They weren’t accompanied by gunfire, but it was enough of a sign for the newly formed squad to press on immediately. The cop who had yelled the last warning was the first to stack behind a door. Yemi read ‘STOYANOV’ on his name plate.
“I need three!” Stoyanov yelled back to the team of law enforcement and contractors. Yemi quickly joined him with support from Lyle and Victor.
“Got you,” Yemi said as he took position on the opposite side of the entrance. The FPS officer signaled to Yemi that he was going to take position near the Transit Police officer and others who were joining to secure the exterior.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Stoyanov called out as they rushed into the ticketing area of the theater. As Stoyanov took cover behind the booth window, Yemi and his two EPT squad mates pressed along the right side of the entrance. Almost immediately, Yemi saw their adversary pop his head over the balcony to aim toward them.
“Up top!” Yemi called out as he fired off several shots to the second floor of the theater.
“Cover me,” Victor said to Yemi as he jogged to the bottom of an escalator while keeping his gun pointed to where their adversary had appeared. Yemi assumed all the moviegoers were in hiding or had run out of the theater since nobody else was out in the open. Victor and Yemi stayed crouched as they made their way up the escalator.
Victor was the first to reach the top of the escalator, and he turned right toward the direction of where the target retreated. MPD and WMATA police officers emerged from an opposite stairwell connected to the rear entrance with their guns drawn. There was nowhere for the gunman to go, even though Yemi still didn’t have eyes on him.
“Suspect is holed up in the Regal Theater,” Yemi said into his radio. “Not the metro.” Yemi stepped off the escalator and followed Victor. There were streaks of crimson on the floors of the balcony, but the subject wasn’t in sight. There was a pair of bathrooms across from the balcony’s edge with blood trails leading to both gendered doorways, leaving their exact target’s location a mystery.
“We’ll take the men’s,” Yemi said before turning to Stoyanov.
“Copy,” Stoyanov didn’t waste a beat in responding, as everyone knew potential hostages could be in the stalls and be at risk. Yemi removed one of his pepper spray grenades from his utility belt.
“Deploying gas,” Yemi said as he tossed it into the restroom. They heard the bounce on the tile floors and the sound of it bursting out, the tear gas came right after.
“Go, go, go!” commanded Yemi. Victor waited for Yemi’s signal, and once they were clear, they stormed into the men’s restroom. They were careful to strafe the back wall and not get caught in the mist that would disable their vision.
“Hands up where I can–” Victor didn’t finish his sentence when he turned the corner toward the stalls. Yemi entered the same area when Victor’s body slammed into him. As Yemi fell back from the tackle, he caught a glimpse through the mist and could see their wounded, bloodied target with his shirt off against the opposite wall. Beneath the smirk on the young performer’s face was a pipe bomb strapped to his stomach.
The explosion ripped through the bathroom before they could give any further warning to their squadmates. The dark smile of a sealed fate was the last memory etched into Yemi’s brain.
***
Excerpt from Shifta by Miles Joyner. Copyright 2026 by Miles Joyner. Reproduced with permission from Miles Joyner. All rights reserved.
Miles is a fiction writer who works in D.C. as a video editor. He has had an obsession with the effects technology has on society since being raised by a father who was a computer programmer and a mother in workforce development. He still pursues filmmaking in between books and finds that writing in the technothriller genre only enhances that passion even more. Miles is an active member of International Thriller Writers where his first book, Bazaar, was selected for their Debut Authors Program.
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