Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Hatch’s muscles coiled beneath her jacket as she scanned the hotel’s banquet hall. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of coffee, sweat, and barely concealed tension. Senator Masterson’s voice boomed from the stage, but Hatch’s focus flickered from face to face in the crowd, cataloging every furrowed brow and restless shift.

“Smalltown New Hampshire is the backbone of this state,” Masterson declared, his words echoing off the walls. Yet beneath the senator’s practiced confidence, Hatch sensed the crowd’s simmering unease. Low murmurs, sharp and biting, slithered beneath the senator’s speech, growing louder with each passing second.

Reeves stood near the stage, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed on Masterson. Behind the podium, Nathan Sawyer sat with his hands folded, his neutral expression betraying a flicker of concern as the undercurrent in the room grew darker.

In Hatch’s earpiece, the comm crackled. “Eyes sharp,” came the low, steady voice of one of her team. “Intel suggests potential agitators in the crowd.”

The first person at the microphone was a supporter, but his praise for the senator barely made a dent in the charged atmosphere. Hatch’s eyes swept across the room again. She spotted a woman moving with purpose toward the mic, her shoulders squared. Something about her stride—a determined, cutting edge—set Hatch’s nerves on alert.

Here’s an improved version of the dialogue, focusing on building tension and emphasizing the facts with sharper delivery and stronger pacing:

The woman gripped the microphone tightly, her knuckles white, her voice cutting through the thin applause like a blade. “Isn’t it true, Senator, that you’re in bed with Crystal Springs?”

The room froze. Conversations died mid-sentence, and Hatch could almost hear the collective gasp ripple through the crowd. All eyes locked on the stage, the weight of the question hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to burst.

Masterson’s practiced smile faltered, the polished veneer cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of unease. “I’m sorry, could you repeat your name?” he asked, his tone a thin attempt at control.

“Answer the question,” the woman shot back, her voice sharp and unrelenting. “They’re your biggest campaign contributor, aren’t they? And isn’t it true you sit on their board? Silent, of course. Profiting while our town’s water is drained, bottled, and sold back to us at triple the price.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, low and angry, like the growl of a gathering storm. Hatch’s pulse quickened as her eyes darted across the room. The tension was palpable, ready to ignite with a single spark.

The dam broke. The crowd’s silence shattered as shouts erupted from all corners of the room, rolling toward the stage like an avalanche. “Sellout!” “Thief!” Anger, hot and acrid, filled the air.

“Now, let’s all calm down—” Masterson began, but his words were swallowed by the rising tide of fury.

Hatch’s heart raced, her senses going razor-sharp. She met Reeves’ eyes across the room, his expression taut. He was already moving, speaking fast into his comm.

Reeves’ voice crackled in her earpiece. “It’s turning ugly. We’re pulling him out. Prepare for extraction.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood, their agitation spreading like wildfire. Hatch moved fluidly, cutting through the chaos as she positioned herself by the exit. Her hand hovered near her concealed weapon but drawing it would be a last resort.

The crowd surged, their anger growing louder, more desperate. A plastic water bottle sailed through the air, narrowly missing Masterson. Hatch’s body tensed, ready to act, but Reeves was already guiding the senator offstage, keeping his body between Masterson and the crowd.

The roar of the crowd followed them, a wave of noise pressing closer. Hatch’s hand clenched the door handle, her eyes scanning the sea of faces one last time. Fear, anger, desperation—bitter emotions were written in the people’s eyes, but beneath it all, a line had been crossed.

She yanked the door open, ushering Masterson and Reeves through. The heavy wood slammed shut behind them, cutting off the cacophony, but Hatch’s gut told her this wasn’t over.

The hallway was quiet. But just as she exhaled, the distant shouts grew louder. The protesters outside. Hatch’s pulse spiked. They were pushing through, overwhelming the sheriff and his deputies.

“Reeves, we’ve got a breach,” Hatch said into her comm, already moving, her body tense. The chaos from the banquet room was spilling into the hall, and the lobby wouldn’t hold for long.

The air crackled with tension as protesters burst through the doors, their shouts echoing against the high ceilings. Gasps rippled through the hall, followed by the screech of chairs scraping against the floor as people stumbled back. Security stiffened, hands flying to their earpieces, unprepared for the situation that escalated so quickly.

Hatch’s world sharpened, each detail gaining more clarity. The chaos around her became a blur as her focus narrowed. Bodies jostled in the crowd, the acrid scent of fear and sweat thick in the air.

Then she saw him—a hulking figure bulldozing through the throng. He was massive, his shoulders wide as a battering ram, eyes blazing with fury as they locked onto the senator. Hatch’s pulse quickened as she started to move.

Reeves was focused on the senator, ushering him toward the exit. "We need to move, now," he barked into the comm, his voice hard with urgency, unaware of the storm brewing behind him.

“I’ve got this.” Hatch’s words cold and focused as she broke into a sprint.

The protester barreled forward, swinging a protest sign mounted on a heavy 2x4, his movements wild but disturbingly deliberate. He surged into the hallway from the main lobby, where the crowd was still pouring in, their voices swelling into a chaotic roar. People scattered in his wake, yelps of fear blending into the rising clamor.

The hallway connected the banquet hall to a side entrance, but now it felt like a trap, narrowing as the protester gained speed. The crowd instinctively parted, creating an unbroken path that led directly to the senator.

Hatch moved like water, cutting through the throng with practiced precision. Her steps were silent but swift, her focus locked on the threat. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready to spring. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, keeping time with the protester’s pounding footsteps. He was only seconds away from colliding with Masterson.

Not today.

Hatch’s voice lashed out, sharp and commanding, freezing the man mid-stride. "Hey!"

He turned, eyes wild with rage, locking onto her. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, his eyes flicking over the woman before him. Underestimating her. His grip on the 2x4 tightened, and he swung with all his weight.

The wood whistled through the air, a brutal arc aimed at her.

But Hatch was faster. She slipped inside his guard, her body moving with fluid grace. The 2x4 skimmed past her shoulder, close enough that she felt the rush of air, but too slow to touch her.

Time slowed. She caught his arm, twisted, and used his momentum against him. Her body pivoted, muscles tensing as she sent his massive frame airborne. He flipped over her, a mess of limbs and fury.

The sound of his impact was deafening. He crashed onto a nearby table—the same one where the family had played Monopoly just the night before. Wood splintered beneath him, the table collapsing with a thunderous crack.

The protester groaned, his head lolling to the side, eyes glazed. He lay sprawled in the wreckage, his bulk shifting slightly as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. All the rage drained from his slackened face.

Hatch straightened, breathing in steady, measured bursts. The adrenaline surged through her system, but her focus was unshaken. She scanned the room, already assessing, calculating the next potential threat.

The hall had gone still, the chaos suspended in shocked silence. The other protesters stopped dead in their tracks after witnessing the big man toppled. Eyes fell on the woman who had dropped him with frightening ease. Their collective will faltered, uncertainty rippling through them.

Heavy boots thudded against the floor, and the sheriff rushed in, his face flushed with exertion. His eyes darted from the groaning protester to Hatch. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a surprised respect.

The sheriff bent down, snapping handcuffs onto the man’s wrists with a loud click . "Nice work," he muttered, his voice low, as though trying not to reveal just how impressed he was.

Hatch barely acknowledged the comment, her mind already moving ahead. The danger hadn’t passed. She spotted Reeves ushering Masterson toward the side exit.

Hatch slipped behind Sawyer who was standing just behind the senator. The side door hissed shut behind them, cutting off the chaotic noise inside the hotel. Hatch’s senses, still sharp from the earlier confrontation, scanned the perimeter. The late morning sun bore down, harsh and unforgiving, casting long shadows from the nearby trees. The crisp air carried the scent of pine, sweat, and tension, but it did little to cool the heat of the situation brewing around them.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, like an unstoppable wave, the protesters’ chants swelled from outside of the building, growing louder and angrier with each passing second.

Reeves stood beside Senator Masterson, his broad frame taut with frustration as he snarled into his radio. “Where the hell is the motorcade? Get those vehicles moving! Find a way around the protesters, now!”

Sawyer lingered off to the right, pale and jittery. His eyes flicked between the road—where their escape should have been waiting—and the angry crowd pressing against the barricades. The senator stood in the middle of it all, outwardly composed but unable to mask the slight tremble in his hands. His eyes darted to Hatch, seeking some unspoken reassurance.

Hatch’s instincts hummed, her mind analyzing. The line of trees at the property’s edge offered too many places for someone to hide. The rocky outcroppings, the faulty security perimeter, the growing unrest. It all screamed danger. She shifted closer to the senator, her muscles coiled tight, ready to spring into action.

“Dammit, they're blocking the road,” Reeves growled, his back turned for a moment as the garbled response crackled in his earpiece. When he spun back around, his eyes were blazing. His usual ironclad composure was slipping, each second stretching the tension taut. “I don’t care how—find a way through!”

Hatch ran through the events leading up to this choke point. The delayed motorcade, the rising fury of the crowd, the lack of cover in their current position—it was a security disaster waiting to happen. Her eyes never stopped moving, tracking every shift in the environment, cataloging every possible threat.

Then she felt it. A prickling sensation down the back of her neck—the unmistakable sense of being watched.

Reeves was pacing now, barking into the radio, each word clipped with frustration. “Move them! I don’t care how—clear the damn path!”

The senator stood like a statue, jaw clenched so tight Hatch could almost hear his teeth grinding. Sawyer’s nervous energy manifested in a constant shuffle, his feet never staying still for long.

Hatch caught a glint in the distance—just a brief flicker of light reflecting off something metallic, hidden among the rocks. The realization hit her like a jolt of electricity. She tensed, her muscles primed for action.

And then it happened.

A sharp crack ripped through the air—a high-powered rifle shot, unmistakable and deadly. The sound split the through the protestors’ shouts, echoing across the grounds.