The Crash

"Luke, what happened?” Amelia asked trying to keep her voice steady as she took her sit in the front seat.

“We don’t know. He left the tower hours ago. Took one of the company cars. No driver, no security, no contact since.”

“Where was he last seen?” she asked.

“On the East Side. Company building. He told me he’d be quick. No one saw him leave.”

“And his phone?”

“Dead. Tracker’s off. We’re assuming either damaged... or deliberately disabled.”

“He wouldn’t just disappear,” she said quietly.

Luke glanced at her. “That’s what I thought too.”

They pulled into the underground level of Blackwell Tower. Security was everywhere. Phones were ringing. People moved fast, with their heads down, eyes grim.

Amelia followed Luke through the elevator and into a private operations suite she didn’t know existed. Screens, radio chatter, maps. It felt like a war room.

And all of it was for him.

“Sit,” Luke said gently, gesturing to a padded chair in the corner. “I’ll keep you updated. Just... stay close.”

She didn’t sit.

She stood near one of the glass walls, arms folded, eyes locked on the screen where someone had frozen an image: a black car turning onto a narrow road near the bridge.

"Is that it?" She pointed at the screen in horror.

Luke, who had his eyes on another screen, looked up. "That's the car?"

"We're running the plates now, sir." One of the guys working on a system said.

After what felt like forever, he said. "Plates confirmed sir. I'm sending you the location now."

Luke started to sprint out but Amelia held him back. "Wait, I'm coming with you."

"No, stay back. He'd kill me if anything happened to you."

"No, I'm coming with you. I'm not sitting here while my fianc...while he's out there."

Luke caught sight of something shift in her eyes but he didn't say anything.

"Alright. Nate, keep an eye on the car and monitor street cams incase the hitman comes back. You and you, come with me. Keep a safe distance in case Amelia and I get followed."

"Yes sir." The three men echoed in unison.

*****

The car was found near South Bridge, just off a dirt road lined with trees and too much silence. The headlights were still on. Steam poured from under the hood like breath from something wounded.

Amelia didn’t wait. She threw the door open before Luke stopped the car and sprinted.

"Amelia, wait..." Luke called after her as he turned off the ignition.

She didn’t. Her feet hit the gravel, then the wet grass, then the uneven slope of the ditch, but she didn’t stop. Her chest was tight, her pulse hammering in her ears. She didn’t even register the cold until it bit through her scrubs. None of it mattered. Not when the mangled shape of Frederick’s car came into view.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Oh my God..."

The front end was caved in against a tree. The windshield was shattered. Glass littered the ground like a thousand tiny knives.

“Where is he?” she shouted, voice cracking. “Where the fuck is he?!”

Luke was behind her now. She barely noticed.

One of the agents phoned for a medic but there was no body. No one in the driver’s seat. The car was empty, abandoned, bleeding, too quiet.

A crowbar screeched against the frame as someone pried the door open. Inside, blood streaked the wheel. Just enough to punch the air from her lungs.

Her knees gave out and she hit the ground hard. Mud soaked through her pants. She didn’t care.

“Amelia...” Luke knelt beside her, tried to steady her shoulder.

“Over here!”

They all turned.

One of the guards had veered off toward the woods. He was kneeling, flashlight pointed at the earth.

Luke moved first. Amelia followed, nearly slipping on the incline as she ran.

The guard stood and stepped back. “Footprints. Heading that way.”

Amelia looked down.

There, in the soft earth and wet leaves, were unmistakable prints—deep, uneven, and smeared with blood. Her breath caught.

They weren’t running prints. They were limping. Dragging.

“Is it his?” she asked. “Is it his blood?”

“We won’t know until we test it." Luke said carefully.

“But you think it is.”

Luke didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

Amelia pushed forward, crouching at the edge of the print trail. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a glove, and slipped it on with instinctive ease. The doctor in her had surfaced, but it wasn’t clinical. It was frantic. Personal.

She pressed her fingers to the edge of one print—still wet. Still warm. “He’s not far.”

“Amelia, we have a full team coming in.”

“We don’t have time!” she snapped. “That blood’s fresh. If he’s still walking, it means he’s conscious. But not for long if he’s losing blood like this.”

She stood, chest heaving, eyes scanning the tree line.

Luke’s phone buzzed. He stepped away to answer, speaking low.

Amelia kept staring into the woods.

“I need a flashlight,” she said, turning to one of the guards. “Now.”

“You should wait here."

“Do I look like I’m waiting?”

He handed one over without a word.

She clicked it on and followed the prints a few feet in. Her shoes were soaked. Her hands were shaking. But she didn’t care.

She reached a clearing and froze.

There was a smear of blood on the side of a tree.

A handprint. Lower than it should’ve been.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, and pictured him leaning there. Losing strength. Trying to keep going. And no one beside him. He was alone and hurt and more than anything that broke her.

“Please” she whispered. “Please still be alive.”

Behind her, Luke’s voice rose. “We’ve got something. Heat signature. About fifty meters out. Moving slow.”

Amelia turned sharply. “Then what the hell are we still doing here?”