The Ripped Man In The Cowboy Hat Wouldn’t Stop Staring At Me On The Plane

I picked it up. Maddox barked, “Don’t touch that!” Too late. The blinking died and his face went hard. “It’s not a bomb,” he said, “but it’s data. If someone on the ground thinks we stopped him, they’ll try to finish it.” The pilot announced an emergency landing; black SUVs swarmed the tarmac. When doors opened, bullets and shouting replaced polite turbulence. Maddox shoved me into an SUV. We escaped under a hail of orders and glass.

Inside a safe room, agents decrypted the drive. “They know your face now,” Maddox said. “We can’t let you go home.” He offered me two impossible choices: witness protection—or join them. I laughed then, half from terror, half from adrenaline. “A spy?” I repeated.

Three months later I was in Arizona at a remote training site. My old life erased for my safety, replaced by drills and briefings and a fierce new purpose. Maddox still watched me—same intense look—but now I watched back.