Page 32 of Duty Compromised

“Charlotte? Everything all right?”

I nearly left my skeleton behind. Raymond Wilmington, head of security, stood by the main entrance, his thick eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Fine! Yes. Everything’s fine.”

His gaze dropped to my bags. “Heading out early?”

“Dentist appointment.” The lie emerged bulky but feasible. “Routine cleaning. You know. Dental hygiene is important.”

“Indeed it is.” His hand drifted toward his security badge, the one that granted him authority to search any bags leaving the building. “You seem a bit flustered.”

“Running late. Traffic. You know how it is.”

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?