Please look under my coat before she sees you!
The upload to the open-source archive portal was underway, a slow, methodical transfer of incriminating data that felt like pushing a massive boulder uphill. Rachel was overseeing it from a secure off-site location, ready to hit the final ‘publish’ button. Kowalski was back in the garage, feverishly calibrating his wireless bypass transmitter.
My phone rang. An unknown number. I answered, my grip tight.
“Lucas Hollister,” a curt, official voice stated. “This is Sergeant Davies, Travis County Sheriff’s Department. We have an active arrest warrant for you. Felony obstruction of justice and violation of a state security order.”
“I know,” I said, my voice steady. “Where are you?”
“We’re outside your property now, Mr. Hollister. Surrounded. Come out with your hands up. Any resistance will be met with force.”
I looked out my garage window. Sure enough, the street was filled with flashing lights. Sheriff’s cruisers, and behind them, dark, unmarked SUVs that could only be Evelyn’s private security detail. They weren’t just here to arrest me; they were here to seize everything.
Kowalski looked up, his face pale. “They’re here for the drive, aren’t they?”
“And anything else they can find,” I confirmed. “They know we’re close.”
I had to get to Evelyn. Now. The window for the archive release was rapidly closing.
I grabbed the bypass transmitter Kowalski had painstakingly built. It was a compact, handheld device, designed to send the decryption sequence to the collar.
“Rachel is counting on us,” I told Kowalski. “You stay here. If I don’t make it, you make sure that upload goes through. Every last byte.”
He nodded, his jaw set. “You get Maya, Lucas. I’ll handle this end.”
I threw on my motorcycle jacket. My old Harley, faithfully waiting, was my only escape.
“They’re coming through the gate!” Kowalski yelled, peering through a crack in the garage door. “Private security first. They’re not waiting for the sheriffs.”
I kicked the engine to life. It roared to life, shaking the small garage.
“Good luck, Lucas,” Kowalski called over the din.
I revved the throttle, the motorcycle lunging forward. I burst through the back wall of the garage, splintering wood and drywall, rather than face the front. The element of surprise was my only advantage.
I shot down the alley behind my property, scattering startled dogs and garbage cans, the sound of shouts and sirens fading behind me. My destination: the San Antonio convention center. Evelyn’s major televised campaign rally.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Evelyn, basking in the spotlight, thinking she had won. But I was coming. With Kowalski’s bypass transmitter in my hand, and Rachel poised to unleash the truth onto the world, I was a ghost in her machine, heading for the heart of her political theater.
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