Fury built in Griff's chest, but his body wouldn't respond. The cut in his shoulder pulsed. He'd saved Sarah from one bullet only to lead her into another.
They marched him through corridors, Griff stumbling despite the guards' grip. Then he saw her.
Still in yesterday's catering uniform. Her face was pale but unbroken, chin raised despite the guards flanking her.
Their eyes met. Hers held no blame, only faith. She mouthed: "Have faith."
He tried to convey everything—apology, promise, the word he hadn't said. But the guards shoved them in different directions.
"Status report," Ronan said in his ear, voice steady. "Speech starts at three. That's our window."
"Every network's covering it live," Finn added. "Perfect."
"Security's focused on the stage," Zara reported. "Three entry points mapped."
“And on the building perimeter,” Doc said. “They’re expecting you all.”
Griff's mind began to clear slightly—enough to understand. Rescue would come at the lunch. The team planned to use Buckley's own stage against him. His job: stay alive and protect Sarah when chaos erupted.
The ballroom doors opened, revealing Buckley's triumph. Cameras everywhere. Lights that hurt to look at. Hundreds of attendees already seated. A stage with a podium and two chairs—one for him, one for Sarah.
His shoulder burned as they positioned him. In the VIP section, he spotted Pemberton taking his seat, adjusting his cufflinks with the confidence of someone who thought he'd already won.
"Forty Stillwater contractors visible," Izzy said in his ear.
The drugs were metabolizing faster now. Not fast enough, but better. Control returning in increments. Okay. He’d take what he could get. But he’d play it cool. Make them think the drugs were still hitting. Hard.
They brought Sarah to the opposite chair. Twenty feet away, might as well be twenty miles. She looked so small between the guards, but her eyes found his immediately. No fear there. Only trust he didn't deserve.
Then her gaze shifted, finding Pemberton in the VIP section. Something flickered across her face—recognition, betrayal, then determination.
"Another hour until you're fully functional, sport," Ronan said.
No worries. He’d take fifty percent. Adrenaline––and fury––would do the rest.
Buckley was approaching the podium, checking the microphone.
Stage lights glittered off the lenses of the man’s wire glasses. He cleared his throat importantly. "Ladies and gentlemen, what you're about to witness will shock you. But it's necessary for our nation's security."
Through his earbud, Doc's voice: "Buckley ate the entire croissant. I knew he would. Here we go, children. Showtime.”
Griff locked eyes with Sarah across the stage. He couldn't speak, could barely move, but he tried to put everything into that look.
This time I won't fail you.
She seemed to understand. The slightest nod. The hint of a smile.
"Places, team," Buckley commanded. "We're live in sixty seconds."
The red lights on the cameras began to blink. Ready. Waiting.
Griff resisted the urge to tense. He needed them to believe he was still in a stupor. He box-breathed, waiting for the signal he knew would come.
"Thirty seconds," someone called.
In his ear, Ronan's voice, deadly calm: "All teams, stand by."
Sarah straightened in her chair, touching the spot where her cross usually rested. He could see that Buckley’s hired guns had taken it, along with Tank's tags. But faith didn't require symbols.
