“We were already talking security with Jason and the mayor,” he said. “We’ll loop your guy in.”
“Good.” Paper rustled. “If you see anyone hanging around that doesn’t fit, get me a plate if you can. Don’t play hero at the warehouse, James. You already did that once.”
“I hear you.”
She exhaled. “I’ll pass along anything else that crosses my desk. For now, finish your coffee. Enjoy your victory. Let us do our jobs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He ended the call.
“Well?” Brian asked.
Hank relayed the gist. Brian’s easy grin vanished; Colby went still.
“So we’re officially on somebody’s list,” Brian said.
“We were already on it,” Hank said. “This just means Diaz knows the list exists.”
Bree’s fingers tightened on his. “Does this change anything?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It changes how fast I want to get cams on that building. It changes how often I want you walking alone.”
Her jaw set. “I don’t want to live like a target.”
“You’re not a target,” he said. “You’re a witness who helped stop something lethal. That’s going to irritate people who think they’re untouchable. I’m not saying we board up the windows. I’m saying we make it harder for them to cause trouble without consequences.”
She looked down at their joined hands, thumb rubbing along his knuckles. “You’re falling into Marine brain,” she said softly.
“Probably,” he admitted. “Hard to shake. But Marine brain kept a lot of people alive. I’d like to put it to work here.”
Colby cleared his throat. “I’m with him on this,” he said. “We can design the shop so it feels open and still leaves us control of the entry points. Cameras, alarms, smart locks. None of that has to be ugly.”
“Jason said the same,” Bree said. “If my studio looks like a prison cell, I’m out. But if we can hide the security in the bones, I can live with that.”
“We can,” Colby said. “I’ll talk to Jason about wiring and camera placements when we walk the place.”
“Speaking of,” Brian said, checking his watch, “you’re meeting him when?”
“Half an hour,” Hank said. “He’s finishing a walk-through at one of the boardwalk places.”
Brian slid out of the booth. “Then we’d better get moving. I want to see my future lift bay.”
They paid, said quick goodbyes to the staff who recognized Hank, and walked back toward Bay Street. The farther they got from the waterfront crowds, the quieter the streets became. The warehouse loomed at the end of the block, brick stained and windows clouded with years of salt and dust.
Jason Keene already stood out front, blueprints under one arm, a hard hat dangling from his hand. He wore the same pencil behind his ear and the same practical boots he’d had on in the mayor’s office.
“You came back,” he said. “Always a good sign.”
“We brought reinforcements,” Hank said. “Jason, this is Brian Knight and Colby Landon. The other two-thirds of the brain cell.”
Jason shook their hands. “Good to meet you. Let’s go see what we’re dealing with.”
Inside, the warehouse smelled like old wood, motor oil, and the faint tang of salt driven in on sea wind. Dust motes spun in shafts of light. The ground floor stretched long and deep, the concrete cracked but solid.
Jason walked them through the space, pointing out support columns, water lines, and electrical panels that needed to be replaced yesterday. He spoke in practical phrases, the way Hank remembered engineers talking in briefing rooms.
“We replace this panel,” Jason said, tapping a metal box that had seen better decades, “run new lines along here, re-route for whatever heavy equipment you want. Where are you thinking lifts and dyno?”
