Still no signal.

Yeah—this phone was messed with.

Fake location locked in. Signal blocked. Even the battery readout was fake.

Jay used to work in tech. This was his lane.

I slammed my fist on the wheel.

Just roll over and lose?

No.

Hell no.

Then it hit me—emergency kit in the trunk.

My old phone. The one I replaced.

Backup. Powered off the whole time. No way Jay knew.

I rushed to the back, popped the trunk, dug through the dusty kit.

Found it.

It was my old phone, one corner cracked.

My hands shook as I hit the power button.

Screen lit up.

Thirty percent.

Signal—two bars. Weak, but it'd do.

I pulled up the map.

Blue dot blinking:

Westside Cemetery—abandoned section.

Twenty-five miles from downtown.

I glanced at my main phone.

Still dead. Same frozen nav screen.

Northpoint Corp parking garage. Lower Monterra.

Just like I thought. My main phone was hijacked.

The old phone buzzed.

A text. From Mr. Lloyd. Company-wide.

"Due to Zane Zander's serious violations, his employment will be terminated in one hour. Jay Zander will take over as Sales Manager."

An ultimatum.

One hour.

Right now, Jay was probably in that conference room, soaking it in. Thinking I was stuck out here. Thinking I'd crack.

I checked the time.

9:20 a.m.

If I pushed it, I could make it in forty minutes.

I tossed the rock and yanked the spare and jack out of the trunk.

Ten years on the road—I could swap a tire in five minutes.

Jay Zander, just wait.

I'll show you what digging your own grave really means.

***

I ditched my jacket, rolled my sleeves, and got to work.

Jack up the car. Crack the lug nuts. Yank the tire. Slam on the spare. Clean. Fast. No wasted motion.

Sweat stung my eyes. I didn't blink it away. Every second mattered.

Five minutes later—

The spare was on, and the other three were badly damaged.

Didn't matter. I knew this SUV. Even if the rims scraped dirt the whole way, I was getting out of this dump.

I slid into the driver's seat and fired it up. The car lurched, metal grinding loudly and uglily.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes locked on the rutted road ahead. Pedal down. The SUV surged like it was bleeding out. Mud flew everywhere.

I called Mr. Lloyd on the old phone.

No answer.

Yeah—either pissed, or already buying Jay's garbage.

I texted the receptionist. [Tell Mr. Lloyd not to sign the termination papers! I've got proof! I'll be there in forty minutes!]

Sent. Phone tossed to the passenger seat. Eyes back on the road.

Eighty.

On gravel like this? Yeah—basically daring death to blink.

Didn't matter. I had one shot.

Get into that conference room before the papers hit ink, and I could flip this.

A sharp curve rushed up. I jerked the wheel. The rear kicked out, sliding wide.

Then—

A black pickup tore out of the trees.

No headlights. No plates.

Like a damn ghost, it came straight at me.

Bang.

The crash hit hard and loud.

My SUV got shoved sideways—six feet easy—almost tipping into the ditch.

The pickup didn't stop. It backed up, lined me up, and gunned it again.

Yeah. Not blocking me.

They were here to kill me.

I caught the driver for a split second—

Black mask. Cap low. But that gold watch? It flashed in the sun.

I knew that watch.

Looked just like the one Jay gave security captain Peter Black for his birthday.

So that's the game. Teaming up with security.

That explained the keys. It explained how my car vanished without a trace.

Rage burned through me.

You wanna ram me to death?

I've spent ten years tearing up highways, slipping past eighteen-wheelers before you knew what you were doing.

I slammed it into reverse, barely dodging the second hit.

The second it adjusted—I floored it and drove straight into its rear side.

Blind spot. Weak point.

Boom.

The pickup lost control and slammed headfirst into a roadside tree. White smoke poured from the hood.

I slammed the brakes, grabbed the wrench, and jumped out.

The pickup door flew open.

The masked driver stumbled out. Saw the wrench—then bolted.

"Stop!"

I took two steps after him.

Pointless.

He knew the terrain. Gone in seconds, swallowed by the trees.

I didn't chase.

No time.

I walked back to the pickup.

Something sat on the driver's seat—a blue card.

I picked it up.

Access card. [Northpoint Corp Security Department – General Access.]

On the back, scrawled in marker:

[Peter.]

Peter's card.

Hard proof.

I slipped it into my pocket, then glanced into the truck bed.

Broken headstones. A bucket of red paint. Print scraps from the photo they used for that headstone.

All of it. Just sitting there.

I pulled out the old phone and snapped photos, shot video—everything.

Jay's little "gift."

Yeah. I was sending it right back.

I climbed back into my wrecked car.

Hood dented. Tires shot. Didn't matter.

In the rearview, my face was streaked with dirt. Eyes lit up.

Jay, you wanna play? Let's play.

I'll make you regret pushing me this far.

***

I floored the battered SUV and aimed straight for the city.

People kept staring as I'd lost it.

Yeah. Didn't care.

Checked the time.

Ten minutes.

I didn't head to Northpoint.

Pulled up outside a busted little phone shop instead.

Mason's place.

Old classmate. Total tech genius.

I rushed in and slammed my hacked phone on the counter.

"Mason. I need a favor. Check the location software. I want the install logs and usage records."

He looked me over—mud, mess, borderline unhinged. "Damn. You crawl out of a war zone or what?"

"Skip it. Move. This is life or death."

No more questions. He plugged it in and started typing.

Two minutes. Code flooded the screen.

"Got it." He pointed. "Developer mode's on. Hidden app—'GeoShade.' Spoofs location, messes with your screen, drains your battery whenever it wants. Installed at..."

He paused.

"Last night. 11:30."

Right then.

I was blackout drunk at the table. The phone was just sitting there. And right next to it—

Jay.

"Can you export it?"

"Yeah. I'll print the backend logs. Everything's here."

Printer kicked on, spat out a page packed with data.

I grabbed it, shoved it in my jacket. "I owe you a drink."

Then I was already out the door.

9:55 a.m.

Five minutes left.

Northpoint was two blocks out.

I fired up the engine and punched it.

Red light? Blew through it.

Wrong way? Took it anyway.

A cop's whistle shrieked behind me.

I didn't even look back.

License, no license—didn't matter.

I was getting there.

Northpoint came into view.

I slammed to a stop, left the wreck parked sideways by the fountain.

Security moved in—then saw my face and backed off.

Good call.

I walked into the lobby.

The receptionist covered her mouth. "M-Mr. Zander?"

"Mr. Lloyd still in the conference room?"

"Yes... he's about to sign—"

I didn't wait. Hit the stairwell.

Eight floors in one go.

Lungs on fire. Didn't care.

Just rage.

The conference room doors were shut.

Jay's voice slipped through.

"Mr. Lloyd, yeah, my brother messed up... but maybe let him leave with some dignity. We can say he resigned for health reasons..."

Wow.

What a saint.

So thoughtful. So generous.

I lifted my leg and kicked the door with everything I had.

Bang.

The heavy doors blew open.

Every head snapped my way. Mr. Lloyd's pen froze midair.

Jay's fake smile locked up.

I stood there—covered in mud, suit wrecked, hair a mess.

Red clay from Westside still stuck to my shoes. Like I'd crawled out of a grave.

"Who said I'm resigning?" My voice came out rough, steady. "Jay... you really think you can take my seat?"