Beyond Protection (First in Line #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Mac

The storm door squeaked the way it had for twenty years—metal hinge against metal frame, the rhythm of home for the holidays. Rain hammered the overhang above my head. Inside, someone laughed a little too loudly.

I hadn't planned to visit my cousins this year, but Ma's house always smelled like permission to stop performing, and that was reason enough. She'd been offering that permission since I was ten, since my father died, and she made it clear I had a place at her table. Always would."

Before going in, I almost turned back to my rental car for a moment of quiet. Then my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket.

I should've left it in the glove compartment. Or in Phoenix. Or at the bottom of Puget Sound.

Instead, I pulled it out—a message from an unfamiliar number.

You don't look the same this season. The smile's thinner. The shoulders tighter. I've been watching. You need rest before something breaks.

For half a second, I thought it was a trainer—one of those sports-science guys who thought unsolicited advice counted as friendship.

Then I read it again.

I've been watching.

The porch light flickered. Rain kept falling. Inside, someone clinked a serving spoon against a casserole dish.

A prank, I told myself. Probably a fan. The internet was full of armchair analysts who thought televised games made them experts on my posture.

"Mac?" Michael's voice carried from inside. "You coming, or planning to drown out there?"

I thumbed the screen dark and slid the phone back into my pocket. "Be right there."

When I stepped into the light and noise, the smell of roast beef and Murphy's Oil Soap hit me hard. Ma waved a dish towel at me. I smiled for everyone.

Underneath the smile, the words kept repeating.

You need rest before something breaks.

"There he is." Ma came at me, flour on her cardigan sleeve, and glasses fogged at the edges. Her hug was quick and fierce—you're late and I'm glad you're here in one squeeze.

"Sorry. Traffic from—"

"I don't care about traffic." She pulled back, hands on my shoulders, checking for damage, a reflex from raising four first responder sons. "You look thin."

"I look the same."

"Thin." She turned me toward the kitchen. "Go eat something before Marcus takes all the rolls."

I kicked off my sneakers. The entryway linoleum was tacky under my socks. Someone had already strung Christmas lights in the living room doorway, even though Thanksgiving wasn't over yet, their reflections blinking red and green in the hallway mirror.

Seven voices, maybe eight. Marcus's baritone carried over the rest. Michael's dry commentary underneath. Matthew laughed at something Miles said. My mother Claire's voice was quieter than the rest, like silk slipping between my fingers.

It was all supposed to be cozy and warm. I forced myself to move toward the dining room.

They'd crammed everyone around the table that had survived forty years of elbows, spilled gravy, and arguments about ketchup on roast. Marcus sat at the head where his father used to sit, sleeves rolled up, ready for a siege.

Michael slouched in the corner nursing a beer, but his eyes tracked my entrance the way they probably still tracked rooms for threats—former SWAT habits died hard.

Matthew gestured with a fork mid-story. Miles watched everything with the therapist's attention, who missed nothing.

Their partners filled the remaining spaces—James, Alex, Dorian, Rowan—already folded into the chaos like they'd always been there.

Claire occupied the space nearest the window. Straight spine, small movements, and hands folded in front of her untouched plate. She looked up when I entered.

"Cormac."

Just my name. The Japanese way she shaped the syllables made it sound like a complete sentence.

"Mom."

"You're here."

"I'm here."

Ma shoved a plate into my hands before I could sit. It contained roast beef, thickly sliced, potatoes drowned in horseradish butter, rolls Marcus hadn't claimed yet, green beans with almonds, and cranberry sauce still holding the shape of the can.

"Ma, I can't—"

"Eat what you can and stop arguing."

I wedged myself between Matthew and Miles. Someone's elbow hit my ribs. The table groaned under too many plates, too much noise, and too much family crammed into a space that should've felt crowded but somehow felt right.

For about thirty seconds, I almost relaxed.

Then Marcus asked, "So how's our MVP doing?" and the weight settled back on my shoulders.

I opened my mouth. The smile was already forming—bright, practiced, the one I gave interviewers. "It's been—"

The words died.

Everyone was watching and waiting for the performance. The charming deflection. The humble-but-confident sound bite about hard work and great teammates. My throat closed around it.

"Tired," I said finally. The words were flat. Honest. Wrong. "Really fucking tired."

The table went quiet.

"Language," Ma called from the kitchen, automatically.

Everyone continued to look at me.

I tried to recover. Searched for the joke, the pivot, the way to make this moment not so goddamn heavy—

"I just mean—" My voice cracked. "The off-season. I need the off-season."

Marcus's expression softened. "Hell of a year," he said gently.

"Yeah." I picked up my fork. My hand shook slightly. "Yeah."

I'd meant to charm them. To be fine. To be the success story they could tell their friends about.

Instead, I'd just bled out on Ma's Thanksgiving table.

Michael caught my eye. Mouthed: "You okay?"

I nodded. Smiled. There—that was better. The performance clicked back into place, but the mask had slipped. Everyone had seen.

Miles's voice cut through the awkward pause. "So, we're all going to pretend that didn't happen? Cool. I'll add it to my notes under McCabe family patterns of avoidance."

Matthew kicked him under the table.

"What? I'm only saying—if we're doing therapeutic silence, I charge for that."

The tension broke. Marcus snorted. Even I managed a real laugh.

"That diving stop in game four—" Matthew started, shooting Miles a look.

"Let him eat first," Claire said quietly.

The table settled. Forks scraped plates. Ma hummed something tuneless while returning from the kitchen. The conversation drifted sideways into safer territory—Michael's security contract, Matthew's EMT renewal, and whether Rowan's podcast was getting too dark.

I ate. It gave my hands something to do.

My hands. Callused thick at the base of each finger where the glove sat for nine innings.

Taped joints. The left index finger sat slightly crooked from two breaks that hadn't healed properly.

These were the hands of a third baseman—ten years of diving for grounders and catching line drives barehanded before I learned better.

One hundred sixty-two games. Plus playoffs. Plus media obligations. Plus the weight of being part of history, like I'd asked for it.

The season had worn me down to exposed nerves.

My phone buzzed against my thigh.

No one else heard it. Or they were polite enough to pretend they hadn't.

I set down my fork. Reached under the table.

Unknown number. Again.

You're maintaining social obligations despite visible fatigue. This accelerates deterioration. Isolation is necessary for proper restoration.

My hand tightened around the phone. How did they know about my social obligations? I deliberately didn't tell anyone about the trip to Seattle, avoiding fodder for the sports press.

"Mac?" Claire was watching me. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Just—" I put the phone away. Forced a smile. "Agent stuff. Nothing important."

Her eyes held mine across the table. She didn't believe me. She never did, but she let it go.

Michael didn't.

His attention had shifted from his beer to me, that tactical assessment sharpening. He didn't say anything. He watched.

I picked up my fork again.

Ma appeared beside me. "You're not eating."

"I'm eating."

"You're pushing food around like Claire does. Eat."

I took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. It tasted like dust.

The third text came while Marcus was explaining fire safety code changes.

847 documented images across 18 months. Current condition: critical. Intervention timeline: 3 weeks.

The phone slipped from my hand and clattered against my plate.

Everyone looked.

"Sorry." I grabbed it. Stood. "I need—bathroom. Excuse me."

I made it to the hallway before my hands started shaking.

The bathroom door locked. Click of the button.

I braced against the sink. The faucet dripped once, sharp and deliberate, as if the house itself was listening.

847 documented images. Eighteen months.

When I looked in the mirror, the reflection staring back—dark circles, tension in my jaw—matched exactly what the messages described. Someone had been close enough to see all of it.

The room tilted. Four in. Hold. Four out. Mom's breathing technique.

My phone buzzed again.

I looked.

I see you chose blue today. Good instinct—complements your coloring optimally. You have a natural aesthetic sense. Under proper conditions, this will flourish.

Someone was here. Now. Close enough to see what I was wearing.

I yanked open the bathroom door.

Michael was waiting in the hallway.

"You going to tell me what's going on?" His voice was level. "Or do we keep pretending that was your agent?"

I handed him my phone.

He read the first message. His jaw ticked. Read the second. The third. Scrolled back to the top and read them again.

"When did the first one come?"

"When I got here. On the porch."

"And you've received four total?"

"So far."

He tapped the screen. Checked the metadata. His jaw ticked harder.

"Mac, this isn't fan mail."

"I know."

"This is surveillance—documented surveillance over eighteen months. Someone's been close enough to—" He stopped. Looked at me. "You in danger right now?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."