Chapter 22 #2
"Stall them," I said. "Tell them the artistic process was... interrupted by a muse event."
Simon let out a short, bark of a laugh. "Muse event. That's one way to put it."
We drove in silence for a few miles; the winding coastal road demanded my focus. But the silence wasn't empty. It was heavy with the things we weren't saying.
"Does it feel..." Daniel started, then trailed off, staring at the ocean churning grey and violent below the cliffs.
"Like we forgot something?" Simon finished.
"Like a limb is missing," Daniel corrected. He rubbed his chest, right over his heart. "It hurts. Physically hurts."
"It's the bond," I said clinically, keeping my hands at ten and two. "Secondary Spike induced a rapid-onset pack dynamic. Your brain is dumping oxytocin and dopamine, and now that you're creating distance from the source, you're experiencing withdrawal. It's chemical."
"Is it?" Daniel looked at me. "Because it feels like I left my heart on that mattress."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
"It's chemical," I repeated, trying to convince myself. "And it's temporary. Once we stabilize her and get back to the city, the intensity will level out."
"You're lying," Simon said from the back. "I saw your face, Anders. When you locked. You aren't 'leveling out.' You're planning the rest of our lives."
I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. They were dark, circled with exhaustion, but sharp.
"I am planning the security of the asset," I said stiffly.
"You bit her," Simon pointed out.
"It was a grounding technique."
"You bit her," Simon repeated. "That's not a technique; that's a claim."
"Let's not pretend this is a business trip anymore, Anders," Daniel rumbled, closing his eyes. "We crossed the Rubicon."
I didn't answer. I pressed down on the accelerator, pushing the SUV faster toward civilization. He was right. We had crossed the line, burned the bridge, and salted the earth behind us. There was no going back to 'agent' and 'client.'
I needed to get to town. I needed to buy bandages, heating pads, and enough nutrient-dense food to feed an army. I needed to do something practical, because if I stopped moving, the realization of what I had done, and what I stood to lose, would crush me.
Seaboard was a tourist trap in the summer, but in the off-season storm, it was a ghost town. Shuttered taffy shops and grey-shingled cottages lined the main drag.
I pulled into the parking lot of the only open pharmacy.
"Action plan," I barked, killing the engine. "Daniel, grocery store next door. Get broth, crackers, eggs, steak, red meat for the iron, and whatever fruit doesn't look like plastic. Simon, stay in the car and monitor the comms. If that sat-phone pings, you scream."
"Why do I have to stay in the car?" Simon complained.
"Because you look like you just escaped a cult," I said honestly. "You have charcoal on your face and you smell like sex and arson. You'll scare the locals."
"Fine," Simon slumped.
"I'm going in for the medical," I said, unbuckling. "Twenty minutes. Mark."
I stepped out into the damp air. The icy wind bit through my dress shirt, I had discarded the ruined jacket, but I welcomed it. It sharpened my edges.
The bell jingled when I opened the pharmacy door, a cheerful sound that felt obscene given the gravity of my headspace. I moved through the aisles with the efficiency of a shark.
Aisle 3: First Aid.
I grabbed heating pads. Adhesive warming patches. Cooling patches. Ibuprofen. Acetaminophen. Rehydration salts.
Aisle 5: Personal Care.
Unscented body wash. Soft cotton pads.
I paused at the shelf stocking suppressants. The branding was familiar. The colorful boxes promising 'freedom' and 'control.'
I stared at them. I remembered the shattered bottle on the kitchen floor. I remembered the way her body had fought itself, twisted in agony because she had tried to chemically mute the song of her own blood.
Never again, I thought.
I bypassed the suppressants. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of prenatal vitamins, not because she was pregnant, but because the nutrient density was higher for recovery.
I reached the checkout. The cashier, a teenage Beta girl snapping gum, looked at my pile of goods, then up at my disheveled hair and intense expression.
"Rough weekend?" she asked, scanning the items.
"Project management," I clipped out. "It's demanding."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Then a continuous, frantic vibration.
I froze.
Tessa.
I yanked the phone out.
It wasn't the Sat-Phone number. It was Gretchen. Again.
MISSED CALL: GRETCHEN (AGENCY)
MISSED CALL: SIMON (PACK)
Then a text from Simon.
GET BACK TO THE CAR. NOW.
The tone of the text wasn't boredom. It was panic.
I threw a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
"Keep the change," I snapped, grabbing the plastic bags before the receipt could print.
I turned and sprinted out of the store.
Daniel was already at the SUV, abandoning a cart full of groceries in the middle of the parking lot. He was running, his heavy boots slamming against the pavement.
"Anders!" he shouted, pointing at the vehicle.
I reached the car at the same time he did. Simon was in the back seat, holding his phone up, his face drained of all color, looking like he was about to vomit.
"What is it?" I demanded, ripping the driver's door open. "Did she call? Is she hurt?"
"She didn't call," Simon whispered, turning his phone screen toward me.
It was social media. The trend list.
#1 TRENDING: #GraduationGirlFound
#2 TRENDING: #TKRoseExposed
My blood turned to ice. The world narrowed down to the glowing pixels of the screen.
"What am I looking at?" I asked, though I already knew. The dread in my gut was a heavy, cold stone.
"It's a leak," Simon choked out. "Someone doxxed her. Not the old stuff. New stuff."
He tapped a link.
A video played. It was grainy, shaky footage taken from a drone, hovering outside a familiar glass house on a cliff edge. It showed a woman walking past a window.
Then, a document. A medical record hacked from the Omega Health Foundation database, showing a distress ping at specific GPS coordinates.
"They connected the dots," Daniel said, his voice a low growl of pure fury. "They linked the medical emergency ping to the Graduation Girl video location."
"Look at the timestamp on the leak," Simon said, looking up at me with terrified eyes. "It was posted ten minutes ago. While we were driving."
"The swarm," I whispered.
I didn't need to explain. We all knew. The internet didn't just watch; it hunted. If the coordinates were public, if the drone footage was live...
"The paparazzi," I realized, the horror crashing over me. "They aren't just online. They're physical."
I threw the medical supplies into the passenger seat.
"Get in!" I roared. "Get in the goddamn car!"
Daniel dove into the back with Simon. I slammed the door and turned the key; the engine screaming as I floored the accelerator in neutral before slamming it into drive.
"How long?" Daniel demanded, leaning forward, his hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to bruise. "How long do we have before they reach the house?"
"They're already there," I said, swinging the SUV out of the lot, tires smoking. "The drones are the first wave. If there are vans... if they have amplification..."
"She's alone," Simon cried. "Anders, we left her alone!"
"Call her!" I shouted, tearing down the main street, blowing a red light. "Call the sat-phone!"
Daniel was already dialing. He put it on speaker.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
Silence.
Ring... Ring...
"Pick up," Daniel pleaded. "Tessa, pick up."
Nothing.
I looked at the road ahead. The grey sky seemed darker now, ominous.
"Two hours," I had promised her.
I pressed the gas pedal to the floor. We were going to break that promise. We were going to be late.
And for Tessa Kane, being viewed without her armor wasn't just annoying. It was her apocalypse.
"She thinks we did it," Simon whispered, the realization hitting the car like a bomb. "We leave, and ten minutes later the leak drops? She's going to think we sold her out."
I gripped the wheel, my eyes burning.
"Hold on," I snarled.
I drove back toward the storm.