Chapter 9 #2
For a moment that stretched like pulled taffy, we stood frozen. His hand near his badge. My hands white-knuckling my bags. Then he stepped aside.
“Drive safely.”
I practically sprinted across the parking lot, my keys performing an elaborate jangle as I fumbled for them.
Opening the door, I threw my stuff inside—computer bag, lunch box, and purse landed in a heap on the passenger seat.
I didn’t dare check the rearview as I pulled out of the parking lot, didn’t dare verify if anyone had noticed my escape.
The knot between my shoulder blades began to loosen as I merged onto the main road. I’d done it. Definitely violated multiple security protocols, but I’d done it. Now I could work in peace. No interruptions, no distractions, no Ty Hughes making me forget basic motor functions with just a glance.
The drive from work wasn’t too long, thankfully. I was already mentally arranging my home workspace when I approached the four-way stop at Maple and Third.
The impact came from nowhere.
Metal shrieked against metal as my world exploded in white. The airbag detonated into my face with brutal force, snapping my head back against the seat. Glass erupted across my lap in a crystalline shower.
For a moment, maybe longer, everything dissolved into static and cotton. Warm liquid traced a path down my temple. My ears filled with a high, tinny whine that drowned out all other sound.
Through the haze, movement registered. A figure approaching the passenger side. Help. Someone was coming to help.
The passenger door wrenched open, and hands reached inside. But they weren’t reaching for me. The figure, face obscured by oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled way too low, grabbed my computer bag from the seat.
“Wait—”
The word emerged slurred, wrong. The figure was already running, my bag pressed against his chest, vanishing around the corner before my foggy brain could process the theft.
“Miss? Miss, are you hurt?”
New faces appeared at my window. Concerned citizens with phones already pressed to ears. Someone was opening my door, asking questions I couldn’t quite parse.
“My computer,” I managed. “Someone took… They took everything.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Just stay still. The ambulance is coming.”
But they didn’t understand. The stabilizer code. The drive containing all the work. Everything required to prevent the Cascade Protocol from becoming a weapon.
Gone.
“No, you don’t understand—”
“Miss, please don’t try to move. You might have a neck injury.”
Paramedics materialized with proficient movements, their hands gentle but firm as they secured a collar around my neck. Questions floated past—what’s your name, what day is it, does this hurt—while my mind spiraled into free fall.
I’d lose my job. That was guaranteed. But worse than my imploding career was the knowledge that I’d failed. Without that code, without the backup drive, rebuilding the Stabilizer from scratch before the deadline was completely impossible.
It was all I could do not to hyperventilate. What was I going to tell Alex? Ty?
The paramedics loaded me onto a gurney despite my protests that I was fine, just slightly dazed, just a minor laceration.
The ambulance interior blazed too bright, too clinical.
The paramedic with kind eyes pressed gauze to my temple while his partner rattled off medical jargon into a radio, and we started on our way.
Through my haze, I watched him reach for something beside the gurney.
“We grabbed what we could from your vehicle,” he said, holding up my battered lunch box. One corner was dented from the impact. “This and your purse were still in the car.” He handed me both.
I clutched my lunch box against my chest, trying to breathe. Trying to think. What was I going to do?
Beating my lunch box against the side of the gurney was not going to convince this medical professional that I was okay, but I was still tempted.
Then I stopped, registering my lunch box’s weight. It was heavier than it should be. Heavier than any empty lunch container should be.
With shaking fingers, I popped the latch. Inside, sat four pens that were usually on my desk, the papers Marcus wanted me to look through, and…
The stabilizer code drive.
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep, slightly hysterical but genuine.
In my complete mental breakdown while talking to Ty, I’d dumped everything haphazardly between my computer bag and lunch box.
My sandwich Tupperware container had ended up in my computer bag, and the drive—the irreplaceable, invaluable, career- and life-saving drive—had landed in my lunch box.
If someone had deliberately targeted me for the stabilizer code, they were in for a rude awakening. A computer that would wipe itself the first time a wrong password was entered and a Tupperware container that might still carry traces of today’s sandwich.
“Miss? Are you okay?”
The paramedic was studying me with concern, probably wondering if the head trauma was worse than it appeared. I was laugh-crying into a lunch box while blood dried on my temple and my car sat crumpled at an intersection.
“Better than okay,” I said, snapping the lunch box shut and holding it tight. “Absolutely perfect.”
They exchanged glances suggesting they’d be recommending a thorough neurological exam, but I didn’t care. The stabilizer code was safe.
I might be headed to the hospital, might have to explain to Ty how I’d managed to get myself into a car accident while trying to escape his protection, might still lose my job when everything came to light.
But the code was safe. And that beautiful, impossible truth made everything else manageable.