Chapter 17: Sabotage
The elevator doors slid shut behind him, its mechanical groan swallowed by the cavernous silence of the underground garage. Joe Goldberg took a deliberate breath, tasting the stale air: oil, concrete dust, and the faint, lingering sweetness of her perfume – Elizabeth's perfume. He’d followed its trail from her parking spot, number 27B, near the overflowing dumpster. Perfect. Shadowed. Forgotten.
His gloved fingers tightened around the slim leather case in his jacket pocket. Inside, the specialized tools felt cool, familiar. Necessary. The garage echoed with distant drips and the low thrum of ventilation, a soundtrack to his focused rage. Elizabeth Lawrence. Smug, interfering Elizabeth. Planting doubts in Matthew’s mind since the beginning. Questioning him. Undermining the fragile sanctuary he was building with Matthew. She’d cornered Matthew in the bar, he knew. Whispering poison. She thought she was protecting him? From what? From love? From safety? From Joe?
Joe crouched low beside the driver’s side front wheel well of Elizabeth’s sensible silver Lexus. His body moved with practised efficiency, a dancer performing a dark, intimate ritual. He didn’t need light; his fingertips traced the contours, finding the critical points. The steering linkage. Specifically, the bolts securing the tie rod end. With silent, controlled movements, he retrieved the modified wrench and socket. The faint scrape of metal on metal seemed deafening in the stillness, but no alarm sounded. No footsteps approached.
He loosened the bolts. Not all the way. Just enough. Just enough that under stress – say, navigating a curve on the Hutchinson River Parkway at speed – the connection would shear. The wheel would wrench violently. Uncontrollably. He imagined the screech of tires, the sickening lurch, the crunch of metal. A tragic accident. A distracted diplomat rushing to see her aging parents. A wet road, perhaps. Utterly believable. Matthew would be devastated, of course. But safe. Freed from her corrosive influence. Joe carefully wiped the bolts and surrounding area with a cloth soaked in solvent, erasing any trace of oil, any microscopic shred of evidence. He stood, surveying his work. Perfect. A clean, necessary solution. He melted back into the shadows, the scent of solvent briefly overwhelming the garage’s baseline smells before dissipating. He was a ghost. A protector.
Twelve hours later, the soft chime of Matthew’s phone shattered the quiet luxury of the Geneva hotel suite. Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, casting warm stripes across the rumpled linen sheets. Matthew Sterling stirred, momentarily disoriented by the scent of expensive cologne – not Joe's familiar vetiver, but Tony Fitzpatrick’s richer, spicier blend. Tony lay beside him, deeply asleep, a solid warmth against his side. The memory of the last two nights – the intensity, the taboo thrill, the sheer physical release, the Ambassador’s commanding presence – flooded back, chased instantly by a wave of guilt so sharp it stole his breath. He fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Hello?" His voice was thick with sleep and something else – apprehension.
"Matthew? Baby? It's me." Joe’s voice, strained, urgent, crackled down the line. "Oh God, Matthew. I'm so sorry to call like this. It's... it's Elizabeth."
Matthew sat bolt upright, the sheet pooling around his waist. Tony stirred, murmured something unintelligible. "Elizabeth? What about her? What's happened?" Ice water seemed to flood his veins.
"There was an accident. A bad one." Joe's voice hitched, a masterclass in controlled distress. "She was driving to Connecticut, to see her parents. On the Hutch. Her car... it just... lost control. Went off the road. Hit a barrier. Hard."
Matthew’s hand flew to his mouth. "Is she...?"
"She's alive," Joe said quickly. "Barely. They're airlifting her right now. To New York-Presbyterian." He paused, letting the horror sink in. "It's... it's really bad, Matt. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding... they’re saying critical condition."
"Oh my God." Matthew felt dizzy. Nausea churned in his stomach. "When?How?"
"Early this morning. One of your coworkers called when she couldn't reach you. I guess your phone was off?" Joe’s tone held no accusation, only concern. "I'm heading to the hospital now. She’s being flown in. I'll meet the helicopter. I'll stay with her until you get here."
Matthew was already swinging his legs out of bed, the plush carpet feeling alien under his feet. Tony was awake now, propped on an elbow, watching him with concern etched on his face. "I... I'm in Geneva, Joe," Matthew stammered, the reality crashing down. "I... I have to get back. Right now."
"I know, baby, I know," Joe soothed. "Just get here safely, okay? Don't rush and do anything stupid. Liz is tough. She’s a fighter. They’ve got the best doctors." He took a shaky breath Matthew could practically see. "I'm so sorry you're hearing it like this. I wish I was there with you."
The guilt surged, a physical ache. Here he was, tangled in the Ambassador’s sheets, while Elizabeth fought for her life. While Joe, loyal, devoted Joe, was rushing to her side. "No, Joe, thank you. Thank you for being there. I'll... I'll get the first flight I can. Text me any updates. Anything."
"Of course. Every tiny improvement, I'll tell you." Joe’s voice softened further. "Just focus on getting here. We'll get through this. I love you, Matt."
Matthew swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "I... love you too, Joe." He ended the call, the silence of the room suddenly immense, pressing in on him. He dropped the phone onto the bed, running both hands through his hair.
Tony sat up fully now. "Matthew? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Matthew turned to him, his face pale, eyes wide with shock and burgeoning panic. "Elizabeth. Car accident. On her way to Connecticut. She's... critical. Being airlifted back to New York." The words felt thick, unreal. "Joe's meeting her at the hospital."
Tony's expression shifted instantly from concern to sharp professionalism. "Christ. That's terrible. Are you sure? Did Joe say how it happened?"
"Just... her car lost control on the Hutch. That's all he knew." Matthew was already grabbing his discarded clothes from the floor, his movements frantic. "I have to go back. Now. I need to be there."
"Absolutely," Tony said, already reaching for his own phone on the nightstand. "First flight. I'll call the embassy transport desk. They'll get you on whatever's fastest. Geneva to JFK or Newark." He started dialing, his voice shifting into commanding Ambassador mode. "Marie? Fitzpatrick. We need emergency travel arrangements for Matthew Sterling, New York, immediately... Yes, critical family emergency... Right. Book whichever is soonest. Business or first, whatever's available. Charge it to the emergency protocols... Good. Text the details to his phone and mine." He ended the call, his gaze returning to Matthew, who was struggling into his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. Tony’s eyes held a complex mix of sympathy and something else – a recognition that the intense, stolen bubble of the last two days had violently popped. "They're on it. You'll be wheels up within the hour, I expect. Car will be downstairs in ten minutes."
Matthew stopped, shirt half-buttoned, staring at Tony. The intimacy of the rumpled bed, Tony's bare chest, the scent of their shared night – it all felt grotesque now, a betrayal layered on top of the horror. "Tony... last night... this..."
Tony waved a hand, dismissing the unspoken apology. "Later, Matthew.Go. Be with your friend. That's what matters right now." His voice was firm, but his eyes held a flicker of regret. "Call me when you know more about Elizabeth."
Matthew nodded, a lump forming in his throat. Gratitude warred with shame. He grabbed his wallet, passport, phone. The simple act of packing his overnight bag felt surreal. His mind was already leaping ahead: the frantic drive to the airport, the agonizing hours in the air, the sterile smell of the hospital corridor, Elizabeth broken and pale, Joe waiting – supportive, reliable Joe. The Joe he’d just betrayed.
He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Thank you, Tony. For... for everything. And for this." He gestured vaguely at the arranged flight.
"Just go, Matthew." Tony’s voice was quiet now. "Safe flight. Give Elizabeth my best."
Matthew turned and walked out of the suite without looking back, the luxurious room already feeling like a memory from another life. Downstairs, the embassy car was indeed waiting, engine idling. He slid into the back seat, the cool leather a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. As the driver merged into Geneva morning traffic, heading for the airport, Matthew pulled out his phone again. Not to call Joe. Not yet. His thumbs flew over the screen, navigating airline websites, searching frantically for the earliest possible flight confirmation. Every minute in the air was a minute Elizabeth might... He couldn't finish the thought. He found it: a seat on a Swiss Air flight departing in 85 minutes. He jabbed the 'Book Now' button, his finger trembling slightly. Payment confirmation flashed on the screen. A single, decisive click. He was going home.