Work Location: Literally My Grave

Still no signal.

Yeah—this phone was messed with.

Fake location locked in. Signal blocked. Even the battery readout was fake.

Jay used to work in tech. This was his lane.

I slammed my fist on the wheel.

Just roll over and lose?

No.

Hell no.

Then it hit me—emergency kit in the trunk.

My old phone. The one I replaced.

Backup. Powered off the whole time. No way Jay knew.

I rushed to the back, popped the trunk, dug through the dusty kit.

Found it.

It was my old phone, one corner cracked.

My hands shook as I hit the power button.

Screen lit up.

Thirty percent.

Signal—two bars. Weak, but it'd do.

I pulled up the map.

Blue dot blinking:

Westside Cemetery—abandoned section.

Twenty-five miles from downtown.

I glanced at my main phone.

Still dead. Same frozen nav screen.

Northpoint Corp parking garage. Lower Monterra.

Just like I thought. My main phone was hijacked.

The old phone buzzed.

A text. From Mr. Lloyd. Company-wide.

"Due to Zane Zander's serious violations, his employment will be terminated in one hour. Jay Zander will take over as Sales Manager."

An ultimatum.

One hour.

Right now, Jay was probably in that conference room, soaking it in. Thinking I was stuck out here. Thinking I'd crack.

I checked the time.

9:20 a.m.

If I pushed it, I could make it in forty minutes.

I tossed the rock and yanked the spare and jack out of the trunk.

Ten years on the road—I could swap a tire in five minutes.

Jay Zander, just wait.

I'll show you what digging your own grave really means.

***

I ditched my jacket, rolled my sleeves, and got to work.

Jack up the car. Crack the lug nuts. Yank the tire. Slam on the spare. Clean. Fast. No wasted motion.

Sweat stung my eyes. I didn't blink it away. Every second mattered.

Five minutes later—

The spare was on, and the other three were badly damaged.

Didn't matter. I knew this SUV. Even if the rims scraped dirt the whole way, I was getting out of this dump.

I slid into the driver's seat and fired it up. The car lurched, metal grinding loudly and uglily.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes locked on the rutted road ahead. Pedal down. The SUV surged like it was bleeding out. Mud flew everywhere.

I called Mr. Lloyd on the old phone.

No answer.

Yeah—either pissed, or already buying Jay's garbage.

I texted the receptionist. [Tell Mr. Lloyd not to sign the termination papers! I've got proof! I'll be there in forty minutes!]

Sent. Phone tossed to the passenger seat. Eyes back on the road.

Eighty.

On gravel like this? Yeah—basically daring death to blink.