“You need to lock the building down,” he said. No preamble. No explanation.
My spine went cold.
“Why?”
A pause—short, deliberate.
“Because Reardon isn’t the one applying pressure,” Brewster said. “And whoever is just made a move.”
“Mallory just left.”
“I know,” Brewster said.
A beat.
“I’ll take care of Mallory.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, every instinct I had catching fire at once.
Reardon needed dealing with.
But Brewster needed answering.
Whatever was coming next was already here.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
MALLORY
The garage felt wrong the second the elevator doors opened. Not dangerous—yet. Just… off. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence, but from intention.
The two agents flanked me as we stepped out, their shoes echoing sharply against the concrete. No conversation. No idle murmurs into earpieces. No casual updates traded under breath. Every movement was precise, economical. Purpose-built.
Routine didn’t feel like this.
I slowed my stride just enough to notice the details—the black SUV idling near the exit ramp, engine already running. One agent adjusted his grip on the door handle as if timing mattered. As if I were already late.
I wasn’t.
I stopped walking.
The agents didn’t—at first. Then one of them glanced back. “Ms. McBryan?”
That was when I saw Flint.
He came out of the stairwell at a near jog, jacket still open, hair slightly out of place like he’d moved faster than he’d meantto. His gaze locked on mine immediately—not panicked, not uncertain. Focused. Sharp.
Something in my chest tightened. We’d just said goodbye and he told me to take the day. He hadn’t called to let me know he’d changed his mind. He shouldn’t be here, which told me something was wrong.
The agent closest to him stiffened. The other’s hand moved—not all the way, but close enough.
Weapons.
Just the suggestion of them, but unmistakable.
