Sacrifice Play
The roar of the crowd outside the convention center was deafening, but inside the secure garage, the air was dead silent.
The campaign speech had been a massive success for Mr. Harold, the leading presidential candidate. But where there was political success, there was deadly opposition. His opponent was desperate, a fact that became terrifyingly clear just minutes after the speech concluded.
"Styles! Change of plans," the Chief of the agency barked over the comms, his voice cutting through the static. "Mr. Harold is moving to the secondary armored SUV. You're driving his primary vehicle back to the agency headquarters. Move it out, now."
"Copy that, Chief," Stella replied, her deep, disguised voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins.
She slid into the driver's seat of the sleek black sedan Mr. Harold was originally supposed to ride in. She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, put the car in drive, and accelerated out of the secure compound, trailing a few minutes behind the main convoy.
She was only a few miles down the winding, tree-lined highway when she tapped the brakes to negotiate a sharp curve.
Nothing happened.
The pedal went completely flat against the floorboard. Stella's heart stopped. She pumped the brakes frantically, but the vehicle only gained momentum, hurtling down the steep incline. The lines. Someone cut the brake lines. This car was meant to be a rolling coffin for Mr. Harold.
The steering wheel jerked violently as she tried to keep the heavy vehicle on the asphalt. The tires shrieked. Ahead of her, the road curved sharply, but the car was moving too fast. With a sickening jolt, the sedan launched off the shoulder.
The world turned into a blur of shattering glass, crushing metal, and a deafening roar as the vehicle slammed headfirst into a massive oak tree. Then, darkness.
Back at the HSS tactical command center, the tracking monitor for the primary vehicle went flatline.
Hadrian Duncan stared at the blinking red error code, his blood turning to ice. "Chief! Stiles' beacon just went dark. Extreme impact detected on Route 9. We need to deploy a rescue team immediately!"
The Chief didn't even look up from his tablet. He calmly sipped his coffee. "Stand down, Duncan. We aren't sending anyone."
Hadrian froze, completely flummoxed. He stared at the head of the agency, unable to believe his ears. "What do you mean, stand down? Stiles is out there! The brake line on that car was compromised—it was meant for Mr. Harold!"
"Exactly," the Chief said, his voice cold and detached. "The opponent tried to assassinate the candidate. Styles took the hit instead. It's a sacrifice we have to make to protect Mr. Harold's campaign image. If the police get to the crash site on time, great. If not... it's the cost of doing business."
A hot, blinding fury erupted in Hadrian's chest. He lost all sense of protocol. In two strides, Hadrian crossed the room, grabbed the Chief by the collar of his tactical vest, and slammed him against the control console, knocking a stack of papers to the floor.
"Are you insane?!" Hadrian roared, his eyes wild with rage, his grip tightening on the Chief's clothes. "Do you even have a human heart?! That is one of our own out there!"
"Unhand me, Duncan, or you're fired," the Chief choked out, though a flicker of fear crossed his eyes.
Hadrian didn't care. He snatched the digital map coordinates off the main screen, shoved the Chief away, and stormed out of the command center, grabbing his truck keys. He didn't care about the agency, his job, or the election. He was saving his friend.
When Stella opened her eyes, the smell of smoke and leaking coolant filled her nose. Her head throbbed violently, and she was bruised from the seatbelt and airbag, but miraculously, she was intact. She groaned, trying to push the jammed car door open, but she was trapped.
Suddenly, a heavy shadow blocked the shattered driver's side window.
Thud! Thud!
Hadrian slammed the butt of his tactical flashlight against the cracked window until the glass spiderwebbed and exploded outward. He reached through the frame, clearing the jagged edges, and pulled the jammed door open with a metallic screech.
"Stiles! Stiles, look at me, can you move?" Hadrian's voice was breathless, panicked, and filled with a raw emotion Stella had never heard from him before.
"Hadrian..." she whispered, her voice cracking.
He carefully unbuckled her, hooking his strong arms under her shoulders and lifting her completely out of the smoking wreckage. He carried her to the grass, laying her down gently against the embankment.
"We need to get you to a hospital," Hadrian said quickly, pulling out his phone. "You took a massive hit."
"No!" Stella gasped, panicking. She weakly reached out and grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide with desperation. "No hospital, Hadrian. Please. No doctors."
If a doctor cut away her tactical gear and her chest binder to examine her injuries, the secret would be out. Her identity as Stiles would be destroyed, Aunt Melissa's protection would fail, and her life would be over.
Hadrian stared at her, confused, but he saw the sheer terror in his friend's eyes. He closed his phone. "Okay. Okay, no hospital. I've got a secure safehouse. I'll treat you myself."
Looking up at Hadrian as he carefully lifted her up again to carry her to his truck, a profound warmth bloomed through the pain in Stella's chest. In a world full of betrayal, where her own agency had left her to die as a political sacrifice, she finally knew the truth.
She wasn't alone. She had a true friend.