Who knew that would be a perk?
“Flint is not only my news director,” I continued, refusing to say boss. Technically, he was in charge of the network’s news programs—notme. Splitting hairs, but I appreciated the distinction right now. “He’s also myfriend.”
Right now, that last piece was the most important one. At least for me.
“So unless there’s a direct threat—which is absolutelynotcoming from Flint,” I said, emphasizing the final point. “Why are you still pointing guns at him?”
He didn’t answer.
The other agent glanced at him, then at Flint. A silent exchange passed between them—calculation, liability, escalation risk. Then almost as one, they lowered their weapons and holstered them once more. Sterling’s ears actually flushed a little red at the tips.
Poor guy. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“I need to have a word with her,” Flint said, dropping his hands. It wasn’t a request. “Mallory?”
Sterling stared at him.
“I’m going to speak to him,” I told Sterling, backing up Flint’s play. Then, not waiting for the agent’s response, I asked over my shoulder. “Private convo?”
“Mostly,” he answered. “But I really don’t give a shit if they hear.”
That almost made me laugh.Almost. As it was, I couldn’t suppress the twitch of my lips. I could see the math working behind his eyes—command directives versus the nightmare scenario of dragging a nationally visible journalist into a car on a closed-circuit feed.
Finally, he nodded once. Sharp. Reluctant.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Gracious,” I muttered, what sympathy I had for the younger agent evaporating at that little gem of a pronouncement. I walked away from the agents and Flint met me halfway. They were still right there, but Flint took my arm and angled us both away from themandthe cameras.
“Brewster called,” he said, in a low voice meant just for me. “Told me to lock the building down. Said Reardon isn’t the only one applying pressure.”
My stomach dropped. “And?”
“And,” he continued, giving that single word a significant emphasis before he seemed to verbally underline his next words, “whoeveris, just made a move.”
“Could he possibly have vagued that up any more?” I asked. “Or is he saving specifics for a dramatic reveal?”
Flint’s mouth twitched once. Not amusement. Recognition. “He told me to lock the building down.”
I looked at the agents again—at how ready they still were.
“So rather than speak to me, he told them to just get me out of here.”
“He said he’d handle you,” Flint replied carefully.
That earned a short, humorless laugh. “Of course he did.”
Because Brewster always handled things. Controlled them. Cracked the whip and moved people where he wanted like a ringmaster who never asked if anyone wanted to be in the act.
“And you?” I asked, resentment boiling upward. “Are you here to handle me?”
Flint’s gaze held mine. Steady. Unbothered. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—slow, dark, unmistakably amused.
“No,” he said, dragging that single syllable out. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m here to make sure you stay in charge of the story.”
A beat.
“Good news director instincts,” he added lightly. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
