Chapter 3

Chelsea throws herself into his arms, sobbing like she was born for it.

"Hunter, baby, this crazy woman wouldn’t let me in! She said she’d have me arrested! She’s insane!"

He strokes her hair and whispers, "Shh, shh."

Then he looks at me.

I’m bleeding, covered in mud, pinned to the ground.

And his eyes are ice.

"Hunter! Look what they did to the field! This is the core of the GoldenGrain project!"

"Your father BEGGED for this test site to be here! The government only said yes because of me!"

I try to get up.

The goons press down harder.

Hunter doesn’t lift a finger to help.

I try to get up.

The goons press down harder.

Hunter doesn’t lift a finger to help.

He walks over and stares down at me.

"Harper. Don’t push your luck."

Each word comes out slow and controlled.

"Chelsea just wanted to hang out with her friends. Do you really need to make a scene?"

I stare up at him.

This is my fiancé.

This is really happening.

"A scene? They’re partying on a federally classified test site! Are you out of your mind?"

"Apologize to Chelsea. Now."

He cuts me off like he’s bored.

"Apologize?"

A laugh tears out of me.

It sounds like something dying.

Now I get it.

He doesn’t give a damn about GoldenGrain.

He never did.

He only cares about her.

Chelsea’s eyes suddenly light up.

"Hunter, baby — didn’t you tell me once that the wheat from this field is, like, amazing for your skin? Like some kind of beauty wheat cereal?"

Something sly flickers in his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

"Yeah. Super high nutritional value."

"Oh my God!"

She claps her hands.

"I have to try it. Call it the hillbilly’s little apology to me."

My blood pressure shoots through the roof.

They aren’t just wrecking the field.

They want to boil the last of my seed stock.

"No! You can’t!"

I thrash against them.

Nothing.

Chelsea crouches down and pinches my chin.

"Aw, is baby upset? Then sit there and WATCH."

She smiles down at me.

"Watch your precious wheat turn into my face-mask wheat cereal."

She stands.

"You two — go grab a pot. I’m making wheat cereal."

Two guys jog off to the parking lot and come back with a generator, a slow cooker, and a stack of Evian.

Then her eyes move to the golden stalks still standing.

"Rip them all out. Every last one. I’m having the most expensive bowl of wheat cereal on planet Earth."

Her goons charge in and start ripping my wheat out by the roots.

"STOP!"

I scream so hard my throat tears.

I crawl toward them.

Two strong arms lock around my waist from behind.

It’s Hunter.

He whispers in my ear.

"Don’t move. You owe her this."

I whip around.

"Are you out of your damn mind? Do you know what GoldenGrain-9 IS?"

His eyes are dead.

I lunge for my phone.

If I can just get one call out — 911, the emergency protocol, anything.

Hunter sees it.

He rips the phone out of my hand, powers it off, and tosses it into the mud.

Every stalk is torn up.

Chelsea and her friends squat in a circle, giggling, rubbing the grains off the stalks with their manicured fingers.

They dump my wheat into a slow cooker full of Evian.

The wheat a hundred scientists bled for.

And they do it laughing.

Five years.

Five years of no sleep, of failure, of starting over.

Gone.

Worse than gone.

The most important agricultural project this country has ever run.

Gone.

The wheat that could end world hunger is about to become face-mask wheat cereal.

And there isn’t one seed left.

An entire strategic asset wiped off the board.

"When Washington finds out, God help us all."

The slow cooker clicks.

The red light comes on.

A soft, clean smell of wheat fills the air.