She didn’t even question how he knew she was out. She walked toward the dark shape idling at the curb, her heartbeat stumbling between exhaustion and something warmer.
When she reached the passenger door, it unlocked with a soft click.
The second she sat, her breath hitched—in relief, in the sudden quiet, in the realization she’d actually done it. Her throat thickened, eyes burning. Marshall didn’t greet her, didn’t scold her—just looked at her with that razor-sharp intensity that made her feel both seen and shaken. His gaze swept over her face, down her shaking hands, back up again.
“You did it,” he said quietly. “You okay?”
She swallowed hard, blinking fast, refusing to fall apart. But the crack was there. The closeness of the car, the muted glow of the dash, the echo of Marshall’s steady instructions in her head—everything pressed right up against the edge of tears. Not weakness. Release. “I almost got caught.”
“You didn’t.” His voice gentled, something proud threading through it. “You’re clear. And Joey’s got her way in.”
The warmth of it hit her harder than the fear had.
Her throat went tight. “So... I did okay?”
Marshall’s jaw flexed, like the words cost him something. Then?—
“You did more than okay, No-No. You did amazing. Youareamazing. And I was here the whole time.”
Her breath caught at the old nickname. Something melted in her chest—relief, adrenaline, the dizzying security of knowing she hadn’t been alone for a second.
She nestled deeper into the seat, and for the first time all night, she let herself feel safe.
CHAPTER 13
MARSHALL
The bar didn’t advertiseitself, and it didn’t need to. Perhaps it had once had a sign or a name on the door, but it had long since fallen down or worn off. The entrance was a brass-handled door beneath an unreliable streetlamp. The kind of place that had once been a basement boiler room and still smelled faintly of coal dust.
Marshall pushed inside and let the warmth swallow him.
The lighting was low, almost reverent. Vintage Armed Forces recruitment posters papered the walls, edges curled and ink faded. Half a dozen veterans nursed drinks alone, jackets slung over chair backs. Quiet men who’d seen too much and learned not to talk about it loudly.
Ross McClain sat in the far booth, the one that wasn’t visible from the door. A tumbler sat in front of him, untouched. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his jaw said the opposite.
Marshall slid into the seat opposite him.
Ross didn’t waste time. “First thing. This meeting didn’t happen.”
“That’s becoming a theme lately,” Marshall said quietly.
Ross huffed a humorless sound. “Because our walls aren’t as clean as they used to be. I’m serious. No one at Black Tower knows this is happening.”
Which was why they were here, in a bar where the regulars knew better than to listen.
Marshall’s mind was swirling with possibilities as he observed his boss. Ross McClain was as unshakable as they come. The man had worked Secret Service for some of the highest risk targets. He’d personally foiled assassination attempts on the man who now resided in the West Wing of the White House.
But whatever was going on had McClain agitated.
It showed in the smallest flickers of his face—the brief tightening at the corner of his eyes, the barely there press of his lips before he caught himself. Even his jaw, usually relaxed in its confidence, ticked once in a controlled, almost imperceptible shift. He sat as if something heavier than he could name had settled on his shoulders, and his gaze swept the room in a slow, routine pass...then returned a moment later, sharper, betraying a thread of worry he hadn’t meant to reveal.
Ross finally pushed the glass aside. His voice pitched lower. “We’ve had three ops blown in the last three months. Belfast. Moscow. Now Chicago. Different teams, different op sec protocols.” He shook his head. “Even if ops aren’t completely sideways, there’s too much coincidence to shake it off. Someone inside Black Tower is talking.”
Marshall felt the pressure between his ribs tighten. “We’ve got a traitor?”
Ross studied him with an unnervingly perceptive look. One that had made him a successful agent and investigator long before Black Tower existed. “I trust Flint. And I trust you. And Will. Flint trusts Joey and my gut agrees. Beyond that? Everyone is on the board.”
Marshall absorbed that. Slowly. Carefully. “Ryder?” Surely Ross would tell him that he trusted his brother beyond question.
