In the gritty streets of Chicago, Katie finds herself at a crossroads, torn between her tumultuous past and an uncertain future. Escaping an abusive relationship, she embarks on a journey of self-discovery, determined to carve out a new path for her...
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"Okay, everybody, tomorrow hundreds of business leaders from around the world descend on the city, and we're gonna send a serious message to these leeches. Everyone down?" A man with blonde hair tied in a ponytail, who goes by Mad Max, addresses the group with fervor.
"Hell yeah!" The room erupts as fists shoot into the air in agreement. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, motor oil, and cheap cologne, all mixing in the dingy, cluttered basement where we've been gathering for weeks.
"I know we've all grown tight over the last few weeks, but remember to keep using your code names," he warns, his eyes scanning the room. I nod along with the rest of them, the alias I've been living under for weeks now ingrained in my head.
The second man, taller and bulkier, steps forward. "We're gonna need volunteers to carry the cell-jammer backpacks," he says, his voice deep and gravelly.
Hands shoot up across the room, and he points to the quickest volunteers, assigning them to the task. "You guys."
"And we're gonna need volunteers to carry and throw the motor oil bombs," Mad Max adds, his eyes scanning the group. Without hesitation, both Adam and I raise our hands.
"Right here," he points to a girl across the room, then to me and Adam. "Good. I'll text you all the details once I've decided on the best time to hit the target."
"We're gonna show these corporate scumbags a thing or two. United," Mad Max shouts.
"United!" we all echo back, the word bouncing off the cold, concrete walls. The tension in the air is palpable, a mix of excitement and nerves. My heart races, not just from the adrenaline of the undercover operation, but from the weight of knowing we're inching closer to the endgame.
Adam and I walk over to a makeshift station littered with empty bottles, gloves, and various supplies. The motor oil bottles glisten under the dim, flickering lights. The basement smells like gasoline and burnt rubber, and I can feel the grease settling into my skin as I start to fill one of the bottles.
Weeks of playing this part—wearing ratty, oversized sweaters that scratch against my skin, my hair tangled in a deliberately messy bun—have left me yearning for a shower and my regular clothes. Adam doesn't look much better, his hair greasy and flopping over his forehead, far from its usual neat quiff. But it's all part of the gig.
The worst part? Not wearing my engagement ring. My finger feels naked, and I've had to stop myself from subconsciously rubbing the spot where it should be.
"Hey," a voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see the girl who was also chosen for the oil bombs sidling up to Adam. "I'm on to you," she says, her eyes narrowing playfully.
Adam gives her a charming smile. "Oh yeah?"
"Alcott. You got it from Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women. Didn't know she was an environmentalist." She says to him, thinking that she's cracked him.
