Activate. Broadcast. Emergency protocol. "Dispatch, we need medical response," Martinez was saying.
"Location is—" Static cut through his transmission. The younger guard swore, adjusting frequencies. More static. While they focused on communications, Immani's beacon was already broadcasting.
Somewhere in Preach's cousin's basement, Mina's borrowed laptop pinged with the signal. Within seconds, her live stream activated. "Signal detected. If you see this marker, timestamp it."
"Record everything. Traffic cams, store security feeds, anything public. Build the timeline." The van's radio crackled. A new voice cut through.
"Unit 217, redirect to alternate location. Code Four Alpha." Martinez frowned. "Four Alpha? That's not confirmed."
"Unit 217, proceed to Morgan Event Center. Security teams standing by." The younger guard shifted uncomfortably. "But the hospital?"
"Those are orders," Martinez said, but his tone carried doubt. Immani had stopped gasping, now sitting calmly upright. The sudden change made Martinez eye her suspiciously. "You're awful relaxed for someone who couldn't breathe a minute ago."
Immani met his gaze in the rearview mirror. "Because I've been hunted before," she replied evenly. "And I learned how hunters get sloppy. They forget to check their corners."
"They miss the obvious signs." The younger guard's radio squawked again. Local channels were flooding with chatter. Online viewers were already triangulating the van's position.
Every traffic-light camera, every store-security feed, every cell-phone video became a data point in Mina's growing digital map. "Three patrol cars just passed Main Street," one viewer reported. "Timestamp 8:17 a.m." Another message appeared.
"Emergency vehicles redirecting toward Morgan Center. Event permit filed yesterday. Community prayer breakfast with Sheriff Van." The van turned onto a wider road.
Through the mesh windows, Immani glimpsed campaign posters stapled to telephone poles. Sheriff Van. Leadership You Can Trust. Each one perfectly placed for maximum visibility.
"Why is everyone heading to a prayer breakfast?" the younger guard muttered. Martinez didn't answer, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He knew, or suspected, that this transport had become something else. A show.
A performance. Immani felt the road surface change from asphalt to concrete. The van slowed, turning into what sounded like a larger lot. Voices filtered through the walls, a crowd gathering.