The humor didn’t soften the warning even if it made me want to smile.
I exhaled slowly, temper threading itself into something colder and far more useful. “So let me get this straight. Brewster thinks something’s coming. Reardon’s already circling like he smells blood and is considering pulling something—not even five minutes after Colin was killed—and his solution was to quietly remove me from the building without bothering to tell me why.”
Flint didn’t argue, which told me everything.
I turned back toward the agents, lifting my voice just enough to carry. “Change of plans,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”
Sterling opened his mouth.
I cut him off. “If there’s a threat to the network, I’m not watching it unfold from the back seat of an SUV. If something is coming, I plan to be right here.”
His jaw worked. He glanced at the other agent. At Flint. At the cameras.
Finally: “Ms. McBryan?—”
“No,” I said pleasantly. “That was me being cooperative again by explaining to you what I was going to do, not me asking for permission. You should write it down. It doesn’t happen often.” At the rate Brewster was going, it wouldn’t happen again.
Period.
Sterling sighed. “Ma’am…” It verged on pleading.
Lips pursed, I shook my head. “If the threat was directed at me specifically, that would make sense to get me out of here. But this isn’t about me and the Unsub targets individuals, he’s hardly a bomber or a spree shooter.” The idea just gave me chills. “So, no, I’m staying here where I can do the most good.”
Flint’s hand closed around my arm—not pulling, not steering. Anchoring.
“We’re going back upstairs,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us or you can stay down here. Either way, we’re getting back to work.”
I let him guide me toward the elevators, pulse steady now, irritation settling into something sharp and focused. I didn’t glance back but when the elevator doors slid open, Sterling and two others followed us inside.
The elevator ride was too quiet.
Sterling stood rigid beside me, eyes fixed forward, jaw tight like he was bracing for impact. The others pretended not to watch us, which meant they were watching very closely. Flint stood just behind my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the steady heat of him without him touching me.
Anchoring. Not claiming.
The doors slid open to the news floor and noise rushed in like a held breath finally released.
Phones ringing. Producers talking over each other. Assistants moving too fast, eyes flicking up when they saw me step out flanked by federal agents. Screens along the wall scrolled with breaking banners, half-written lower thirds, red ALERT boxes blinking like warning lights.
The building hadn’t locked down.
It was bracing.
I felt it in my gut before I saw it on the monitors.
“Okay,” I said quietly, already walking. “What’s breaking?”
Flint didn’t answer immediately. He guided me toward the glass-walled office he used when he wanted to overlook the studio floor, his hand still light on my arm. When we passed a bank of screens, I caught enough to make my stomach sour.
Not one network.
Three.
Same headline. Same phrasing.
UNCONFIRMED REPORTS OF FEDERAL ACTION.
SOURCES SAY WARRANTS IMMINENT.
