Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Tessa
The silence Daniel promised wasn't real. It was a temporary air pocket in a sinking ship.
He carried me through the back door, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor, his chest vibrating against my cheek with a low, continuous rumble that tried to counteract the screaming coming from the driveway.
The recording had started up again, though this one seemed like it was a lower quality, which I supposed was something.
"...look at her! Oh my god, she's leaking!"
My teenage voice, distorted by cheap amplification, bounced off the glass walls of the living room.
It was a sonic weapon. It stripped the skin right off my bones, leaving me raw and shivering in Daniel’s arms. I was covered in mud from the trail, my hair a tangled disaster, wearing a stolen hoodie and leggings that felt like paper armor against the artillery fire outside.
"Put me down," I whispered, though I clung to his flannel shirt like a burr. "The bathroom. I have to get back to the bathroom."
"No more hiding," Daniel said. He didn't stop moving until we were in the center of the room, away from the glass, in the structural shadow of the fireplace.
"They're watching!" I hissed, pointing a trembling hand at the window where a black drone hovered like a giant, angry hornet. "They have cameras. They have the audio. Daniel, please, just let me hide."
"Tessa."
The voice didn't come from the chest I was pressed against. It came from the hallway.
I whipped my head around.
Anders stood there.
He looked like a man who had walked through a hurricane to get to me. His white dress shirt was soaked through, clinging to the slabs of muscle on his chest and arms, unbuttoned halfway down. His golden hair, usually lacquered into perfect submission, was wild and wet, plastered to his forehead.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. They weren't the cold, calculating blue of the agent. They were the burning, furious blue of a wolf at the door.
He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't say a word. He didn't try to explain where they had been or why they had left. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
He shoved the screen into my face.
"Look," he commanded. The word was a growl, rough with smoke and rage.
I flinched back, expecting to see the leak. Expecting to see my own medical records highlighted in neon, or the drone footage of me cowering in the mud.
"Look at it," Anders urged, stepping closer, boxing me in against Daniel’s massive frame.
I forced my eyes to focus on the screen.
It was a livestream. Vertical video, shaky and handheld, vibrating with kinetic energy. The viewer count in the top corner was ticking up so fast it was a blur, 4.8M... 4.9M... 5.0M.
The camera angle flipped.
I saw a face I knew. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair wet with rain, eyes black with fury.
Simon.
"Simon?" I breathed.
On the screen, Simon was walking. He wasn't hiding in the car. He wasn't cowering. He was marching through the rain in my driveway, holding his phone up like a torch. He walked right up to the white van blocking the gate, the one blasting my trauma into the air.
"Hey guys," Simon’s voice came through the phone’s speaker, tinny but dripping with venom. "Welcome back to the stream. Sorry for the delay. I know you're used to seeing me draw, but today we're doing a different kind of art. It’s called 'Consequences.'"
On the screen, Simon shoved his phone camera right into the window of the van. The driver, a guy in a beanie, scrambled to cover his face.
"That's a Ford Transit," Simon narrated, his voice deadly calm. "License plate Washington B-K-L-4-9-2. Registered to a shell company owned by PulseMedia tabloids. And that guy covering his face? That looks a lot like Greg Miller. Greg, didn't you just get sued for trespassing in Malibu?"
Simon spun around. The camera whipped to the three men standing by the gate with telephoto lenses. They lowered their cameras, looking unsettled. They were used to hunting, not being hunted.
"And here we have the ground team," Simon sneered, walking right up to them. "Get a good look, chat. Five million of you. I want you to see the faces of grown men who use signal jammers to isolate a woman so they can broadcast audio of a panic attack."
The comments on the side of the screen were a waterfall of rage. Not at me. At them.
@ArtWitch: Dox them back, Si.
@RoseBud_Official says: LEAVE HER ALONE.
@OmegaRightsWatch says: Is that legal? That audio sounds illegal.
"You want to talk about 'Graduation Girl'?
" Simon roared on the video, turning back to the van.
He kicked the bumper, a dull thud that I heard through the phone and, a split second later, echoed through the glass walls of the house.
"This isn't news. This is harassment. And you are doing it on private property. "
Simon looked directly into his phone camera. His eyes were wild, dark, and protective. He wasn't looking at his audience. He was looking at me.
"Tessa," he said, his voice breaking. "If you're watching this... we didn't leave you. We went to get ammo. And now we're clearing the field."
Anders pulled the phone away.
The scent of icy winter air rolled off him, sharp and aggressive, cutting through my own fear.
"He's destroying them," Anders said, his voice low. "He is burning their anonymity to the ground. Five million people are currently identifying every piece of equipment, every license plate, and every face in that driveway."
I looked at Anders, then up at Daniel.
"You really... you came back," I whispered. "I thought you were setting me up."
"We know," Daniel rumbled, his arms tightening around me. "I saw it on your face in the woods. And we are going to spend the rest of our lives making up for the fact that we let you think that for even a second."
Anders stepped closer. He reached out, his hand hovering near my face, then settling firmly on my shoulder. His grip was grounding. Heavy.
"We have a tactical decision to make," Anders stated. "We can barricade the doors. We can wait for the police, who will take twenty minutes to get past the blockade. We can hide while they circle the house." He paused, looking deep into my eyes. "Or we can walk out the front door."
My stomach dropped. "Walk out? Out there? Anders, I'm... I'm a mess. I'm covered in mud. I'm wearing filthy clothes. If they get a picture of me like this..."
"Let them," Anders said ruthlessly. "Let them see the mud. Let them see the reality. Because if we sneak you out the back, or hide you under a blanket like a criminal, they verify the narrative that you are something to be ashamed of."
He squeezed my shoulder.
"You are T.L. Rose. And we are not extracting you. We are escorting you."
"I can't," I choked out, the phantom sensation of the stage lights burning my retinas. "I can't do the walk. The noise... the flashes..."
"You won't be walking alone," Daniel said effectively into the top of my head. "You're in the middle of the formation."
Anders grinned viciously. "Standard VIP protective maneuver. Tight diamond. No gaps."
He looked at the front door.
"Simon is holding the perimeter of the car. I take point. Daniel takes rear guard. You are the payload. We put you in the SUV, and we drive through them."
I looked down at my muddy leggings. I looked at my trembling hands.
The audio from the van was still playing. My eighteen-year-old self was still begging for help.
Iron doesn't break, I thought, the line from my own book surfacing like a lifeline. It hardens.
I took a deep breath. It smelled of spiced chai and bourbon. It smelled like a pack that had come back for me.
"Okay," I whispered. "Get me out of here."
Anders nodded. A shift occurred in his posture. He dropped the frantic, worried lover and became the businessman. His spine straightened. His jaw set. He radiated a field of 'Fuck Around and Find Out' that was palpable.
"Daniel, drop the cargo," Anders ordered.
Daniel set me down gently on my feet, though he kept a hand on the small of my back, steadying me.
"Stay close," Daniel murmured. "If you stumble, I’ll catch you. If you stop, I push you. Just keep your eyes on Anders' back."
"Ready?" Anders asked, his hand on the door handle.
"No," I admitted.
"Good. Let's go."
Anders threw the door open.
The noise hit us like a physical wall.
The sound of the recording was deafening without the glass to dampen it. The thump-thump-thump of the bass rattled my teeth. The wind whipped rain into the entryway, cold and biting.
There were a dozen of them now. Men with cameras swarming the driveway, stepping over the line Simon had drawn.
Every head snapped toward the open door.
"She's there!" someone shouted.
"Kane! Look over here!"
A strobe-light effect ignited. Flash. Flash. Flash. Blinding white bursts that seared my vision, turning the grey afternoon into a violently high-contrast nightmare.
I froze. My feet glued themselves to the floorboards. The smell of stale popcorn ghosted into my nose.
"Eyes on me," Anders roared.
He stepped in front of me. He didn't duck. He didn't shield his face. He straightened his shirt with a casual, arrogant disdain, blocking the center angle completely. He was a wall of golden-haired rage.
"Move," Anders commanded.
He stepped out into the rain.
I moved. I had no choice. Daniel’s large hand was flat between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.
We stepped onto the wet stone of the porch.
"Get the shot! Get the face!"
A photographer lunged from the side, trying to bypass Anders’ shoulder to get a clear angle on me.
"Back off!" a voice snarled from the left.
Simon.
He appeared out of the rain like a wraith.
He had abandoned the livestream. He slammed into the photographer, using his shoulder to check the man backward.
He didn't apologize. He stood his ground, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his hands, those precious, ink-stained hands, curled into fists.