The Final Pitch

Sarah's heart raced as she scanned the crowded stadium, her emerald eyes darting from face to face. The World Series, Game 7, bottom of the ninth. Two outs, bases loaded, home team down by three. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to cut with a knife.

But Sarah wasn't here for baseball.

Her gaze locked onto a man three rows down, salt-and-pepper hair, navy blazer. Mark. The man who'd vanished five years ago, leaving only a cryptic note: "I'm sorry. They're watching. I have to protect you."

Those words had haunted her dreams, fueled her nightmares. For months, she'd jumped at every shadow, convinced "they" were coming for her too. But no one ever did. Eventually, the fear faded, replaced by a dull ache of abandonment.

Sarah had moved on, or so she thought. She'd thrown herself into her work as a journalist, climbing the ranks at the Chicago Tribune. She'd even started dating again, though no relationship lasted long. Something always held her back.

Now, seeing Mark again, old feelings surged back like a tidal wave. Anger. Longing. Fear. Questions that had tormented her for years bubbled to the surface. Why did he leave? Who was watching? What danger had he protected her from?

She stood, inching closer. The crowd roared as the batter stepped up to the plate. Sarah's hand brushed her purse, feeling the cold metal within. The gun she'd brought for protection... or revenge. She wasn't sure which anymore.

Two rows away now. Mark hadn't noticed her, his attention fixed on the field. He looked older, lines etched around his eyes that hadn't been there before. But he was still handsome, still the man who'd stolen her heart all those years ago.

The pitcher wound up. Sarah held her breath.

Suddenly, she froze. A red dot danced on Mark's back – a sniper's laser sight. Her blood ran cold. This was it. The danger Mark had run from had finally caught up to him.

The crack of a bat split the air. A collective gasp from the crowd. The ball soared towards the stands, a white streak against the night sky.

Sarah had a split-second choice: duck for cover, or risk everything to save the man who broke her heart.

She lunged forward just as the crack of a gunshot pierced the air, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. Sarah collided with Mark, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The baseball whizzed overhead, missing them by inches.

"Sarah?" Mark gasped, his eyes wide with shock and recognition.

Before she could respond, chaos erupted. Fans scrambled in panic, realizing the sound wasn't just a balloon popping. Security swarmed the area, their voices lost in the cacophony of screams and shouts.

"We have to move," Sarah hissed, dragging Mark to his feet. "Someone's trying to kill you."

Mark's face paled. "How did you—"

"Later," she cut him off, pulling him towards the exit. Her mind raced. Who was after Mark? How had she stumbled into this nightmare?

As they reached the concourse, a burly man in a dark suit stepped in their path. "Mr. Thompson," he addressed Mark, "you need to come with me."

Sarah's hand tightened on her purse, ready to draw her weapon. She'd never fired a gun outside of a shooting range, but adrenaline coursed through her veins. She'd do whatever it took to protect Mark, to finally get the answers she deserved.

Mark tensed beside her. "Sarah, run. I'll explain everything, I promise. But you need to go. Now."

"Not a chance," she growled, her eyes darting between Mark and the stranger. "I've spent five years wondering what happened to you. I'm not letting you disappear again."

The man in the suit took a step forward. "Ms. Chen, this doesn't concern you. Walk away."

Sarah's blood ran cold. He knew her name. Whoever these people were, they'd been watching her too.

Suddenly, the stadium lights cut out, plunging everything into darkness. Screams echoed through the concourse. Sarah felt Mark's hand slip from hers, his fingers brushing against her wrist in what felt like a deliberate pattern. Morse code? Her mind raced, trying to decipher the message.

A voice whispered in her ear, barely audible above the chaos. "Locker room. Third base line. Ten minutes."

When the lights flickered back on seconds later, both Mark and the mysterious man had vanished. Sarah stood alone in the surging crowd, her mind reeling from the rapid-fire events.

Security guards rushed past, barking orders into their radios. In the distance, sirens wailed. Sarah's journalistic instincts kicked in, urging her to stay and investigate. But Mark's message burned in her mind.

She glanced at the stadium clock. Nine minutes left.

Sarah pushed through the panicked crowd, her heart pounding. This was madness. She should call the police, tell them everything. But the man had known her name. How deep did this conspiracy go?

As she neared the locker room area, Sarah's steps slowed. What if this was a trap? What if Mark was working with the people who'd tried to kill him? Or what if he was being forced to lure her in?

She reached into her purse, fingers wrapping around the gun. The weight of it was reassuring, even as it terrified her. How had her life come to this?

Eight minutes.

Sarah leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Memories flooded back – her first date with Mark, the way he'd made her laugh, the plans they'd made for the future. Then the morning she'd woken to find him gone, leaving nothing but that cryptic note.

Seven minutes.

She thought of her career, the life she'd built for herself. Was she really willing to throw it all away, to dive headfirst into whatever danger Mark was mixed up in?

Six minutes.

But then she remembered the look in Mark's eyes when he'd recognized her. Fear, yes, but also relief. Longing. Maybe even love. Whatever had torn them apart, she realized, it hadn't been his choice.

Five minutes.

Sarah pushed off the wall, decision made. She'd come this far. She needed answers, needed to know the truth, whatever it might be.

Four minutes.

She rounded the corner, the locker room door in sight. A figure stood in the shadows – Mark? The stranger from before? Her hand tightened on the gun in her purse.

Three minutes.

Sarah took a deep breath and stepped forward, prepared for anything.

Anything except for what happened next.

The figure turned, stepping into the light. It wasn't Mark. It wasn't the man in the suit.

It was a face she knew all too well – her editor at the Chicago Tribune.

"Hello, Sarah," he said, his voice eerily calm. "I think it's time we had a talk about your latest story."

Sarah's mind reeled. Her editor? How was he involved in all this? And where was Mark?

The stadium clock ticked down. She had to decide – retreat and try to make sense of this new development, or push forward into the unknown.

Either way, she realized, her life would never be the same again.