"I planned... to stop... a murder."
Buckley's fingers dug into his shoulder, painful even through the drugs.
Griff forced more words past numb lips. "You... killed... Tank..."
Guards yanked him backward, but the damage was done. The cameras had caught it.
"The drugs have clearly affected his mind," Buckley said smoothly, returning to the microphone. "This is what foreign manipulation looks like. A broken soldier, used by our enemies."
In the VIP section, Pemberton was nodding along, playing his part perfectly. The righteous official who'd helped stop a terrorist plot. Who'd exposed his ex-girlfriend as a traitor. Who had no idea that every financial transaction he'd designed was about to be displayed for the world to see.
Buckley gestured dramatically to the crowd. "Tomorrow, these terrorists planned to assassinate?—"
Buckley stopped mid-word. His hand moved to his stomach.
"Planned to..." He swallowed hard, face paling. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.
In Griff's ear, Doc's amused voice: "As is typical, the senator and his VIP friends ate before the luncheon. Wouldn’t want to get caught on TV chewing, would one?”
“This woman rocks. I mean hard,” Kenji added.
A pause over the link. “Thank you, dead. Syrup of ipecac. Quite a nasty amount. So unfortunate, isn’t it? Surprise in… three, two, one..."
Buckley doubled over, falling to his knees, and vomited with spectacular force. On national TV.
The crowd recoiled. Security rushed forward, unsure whether to help their boss or maintain positions. Other officials were getting sick too—the Secretary of Defense stumbled off stage, hand over his mouth. Three senators rushed for exits.
“Apparently some of Buckley’s colleagues couldn’t resist the pastry tray either,” Doc noted, clearly amused.
Pemberton stood, looking confused but trying to maintain his composure. He wasn't sick. Clearly, he hadn't been important enough for the pre-conference coffee klatch. He headed toward the stage, ostensibly to help, but Griff could see him calculating. The situation was spiraling. Time to position himself as the stable one. The hero in the chaos.
Not gonna happen.
Adrenaline burned off the last of the drug fog. But his body… He had no strength. No speed. His shoulder screamed as he wrenched one arm free from the distracted guard's grip. An elbow to the solar plexus dropped the man.
Twenty feet to Sarah. Might as well be twenty miles with his legs barely working.
He stumbled forward anyway. More guards converged, but some were helping Buckley, others dealing with violently ill VIPs. The scene had devolved into chaos.
Three steps. Five. Ten.
A guard tackled him from the side. They went down hard, Griff's head bouncing off the stage. His vision exploded into stars, but he kept fighting, kept crawling toward her.
The words spilled out without thought, without plan. A prayer ripped from somewhere deep.
"Jesus, please. Not for me. For her."
Another guard piled on, driving him flat.
"Let me reach her. Let me save her this time."
Blood in his mouth, face pressed to the floor.
"I failed Tank. Don't let me fail her."
Through the chaos, he could see Sarah struggling against her restraints, her eyes wide and focused on something above them. But also tracking Pemberton, who was now trying to take charge, shouting orders to confused security.
Every screen in the ballroom flickered. Then went black.
