Chapter 6 Eamon
Chapter six
Eamon
The new deadbolt made a different sound from the old one—the precise sound of metal catching metal, meaning it would hold. I tested it twice, then checked the camera feeds on my laptop: the front porch, side yard, and the back alley. Nothing moved except the neighbor's cat.
Footsteps on the stairs. Mac hit the landing and rounded into the kitchen before I'd closed the laptop. Dark green jacket. Keys in hand.
"You planning an escape?" I asked.
He smiled—the real one, not the one for cameras. "Planning coffee."
"You don't have clearance for coffee away from here."
"Then clear it." He leaned against the doorframe. "I'm going stir-crazy."
Calculations rattled off in my mind—public exposure: high risk.
"Where?"
"Reserve Roastery. Maybe Pike Place after."
I touched my beard. Caught myself. Mac tracked the gesture but didn't comment.
"Medium to high risk," I said. "But manageable if we control the variables. I drive. We take the route I choose. You stay where I can see you. And if I say we leave, we leave. Agreed?"
"You really think the stalker's going to hit me with a latte?"
"I think complacency kills."
Mac's smile faded. Recognition. He'd heard the subtext under the tactical speak.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Your show, but I need to move, Eamon. I need to be somewhere that isn't these four walls closing in while they wait for something to happen."
I closed my laptop. "Give me five minutes to update Michael."
Mac exhaled. "Thank you."
He laughed. It was a heartfelt sound that came from his chest instead of his throat. I added it to the growing list of details that weren't part of the threat assessment but lodged in my brain anyway.
It wasn't relevant to keeping him alive, but it made maintaining professional distance harder than it should have been.
My rental car was a gray Accord, parked facing out. Mac folded himself into the passenger seat without argument and buckled in.
I started the engine. Checked mirrors. Scanned the street in both directions.
I pulled out, taking Aurora north, even though it added time. The route gave me visibility and multiple turn options.
Mac cracked his window.
"Close that," I said.
"It's an inch."
"Close it anyway."
He did, and I caught a smile. He was testing boundaries.
"You know Seattle has a coffee hierarchy, right?" Mac's voice cut through the white noise of tires on wet pavement.
"I'm aware Seattle has opinions about coffee."
"Not opinions. Doctrine." He shifted in his seat, angling toward me, more relaxed than he'd been in days. "There's your corner Starbucks. Acceptable for emergencies only. Then there's the local roasters. Solid daily drivers."
"And the Reserve Roastery?"
"That's the temple." He grinned. "Tourist trap, overpriced, and completely unnecessary. Also worth it."
Mac thinks this is freedom, I thought. It wasn't. It was a moving target. Still, I understood the hunger for it.
"You're doing it again," he said.
"Doing what?"
"The thing where you disappear into your head and come back looking like you've calculated the weight of the world."
"That's my job."
"Is it? Or is that what you tell yourself so you don't have to stop?"
I didn't answer. It was impossible to reply honestly without admitting that the hypervigilance had stopped being professional years ago and had become the only way I knew how to exist.
Two blocks from the Roastery, a woman stepped off the curb. My pulse spiked.
Black umbrella, face partially hidden. Gray coat, dark jeans. She moved with purpose—crossing against the light, jaywalking like every other Seattle resident.
I focused on her anyway. Height, build, gait. Nothing threatening except the pattern recognition firing in my brain, screaming that something was wrong, and if I'd missed something, it would be the moment everything went to hell.
She reached the far sidewalk. Kept walking. Disappeared.
I exhaled—only someone crossing the street.
"Eamon?" Mac's voice pulled me back. I'd slowed the car, tracking the woman's movement.
"Fine," I said. Pressed the accelerator. "I'm fine."
"That woman—"
"Was just crossing the street."
"But you thought—"
"I think about everything." I turned into the parking garage. "My instincts see threats in everyone. Which means I either listen to all of them and never let you leave the house, or I learn to sort signals from noise."
I found a spot on the second level, backed in, and killed the engine.
Mac's hand landed on my forearm. Light. Careful.
"Hey," he said quietly. "We don't have to do this."
"It's not too much." I glanced at him. "I'm here to protect you. That means going where you need to go and managing the risk. Today, the risk is manageable."
He removed his hand, leaving warmth where his palm had been.
"Okay," he said. "But I'm holding you to the coffee. No backing out when you realize how many civilians can fit in one building."
"You hired me for it."
He smiled. "God, you're exhausting."
***
I heard the hiss of steam wands and the industrial roar of grinders. The sound of simultaneous conversations layered over the equipment noise.
I took a deep breath, smelling burnt sugar. The aroma of coffee was so strong it coated my throat.
Two stories of copper casks rose like industrial sculpture, pipes gleaming under Edison bulbs wrapped in festive holiday garland.
Christmas music played under the machinery noise—"Christmas Time Is Here." Someone had decided A Charlie Brown Christmas fit the aesthetic.
I turned my head to examine the essential details.
Three exits. Main doors, back hallway, and employees only behind the roasting equipment. Twenty-three people were visible. Six faced the door.
Woman in the corner. Laptop open, not typing. Her eyes flicked up when we entered—held one beat too long before dropping back to her screen.
Mark her—continuous monitoring.
"Breathe," Mac murmured beside me.
"I am breathing."
"You're working." He touched my elbow, steering me toward the counter. "Coffee first, tactical assessment second."
The line moved. The barista's eyes did the same thing the woman's had—flicked to Mac, held, widened.
Recognition.
"This is chaos," I said quietly.
Mac read the menu. "This is coffee."
"There are too many variables."
"You want to leave?"
It would be wise to pull him out. Too many people. Too many angles.
"No," I said. "We stay."
Mac ordered something complicated—a Chestnut Praline Latte with extra whipped cream and cinnamon dolce sprinkles. He said it without irony, and the barista didn't blink.
"Holiday special?" I asked when he stepped aside.
"Don't judge. It's December. I'm allowed." He grinned. "Besides, it tastes like Christmas threw up in a cup. In a good way."
I ordered drip coffee, black. He paid before I could reach for my wallet.
We moved to the pickup area. Mac leaned against the counter, watching the roasting equipment.
His shoulders had dropped two inches since we entered. The brittle hypervigilance that had been building in him for days had eased enough to see the person underneath.
He needed a distraction while I calculated the cost.
"Mac!" the barista called.
He retrieved our drinks, handing me a paper cup, warm hands brushing against mine.
"Upstairs," Mac said. "Quieter."
The mezzanine opened up—fewer people and more space.
Someone had hung vintage-style ornaments from the railings, silver and red catching light.
Below, a small artificial tree sat on the counter, covered in coffee-themed ornaments.
Tiny espresso cups, felt croissants, and a star made from wooden coffee stirrers.
Mac followed my gaze. "Seattle takes Christmas seriously."
"Apparently."
He chose a table near the windows but not directly in front of them. It was a compromise without me having to ask. He gave me the seat that faced the stairs.
Mac was learning my patterns.
"See?" He sat, wrapped both hands around his cup. "Not so bad."
"Jury's still out."
"You say that, but you're sitting down. That's progress."
He was right. I'd followed him upstairs into a position where I couldn't see all three exits simultaneously. I'd done it because he'd asked.
It was the kind of mistake that got people killed.
The copper light caught his hair, glistening off the dark strands.
Mac's phone buzzed against the table.
I heard it before he did—conditioned reflex. The caller ID was visible for half a second before Mac flipped it face down.
Agent.
He didn't pick up.
"You're not going to answer?"
"Not today." He wrapped both hands around his cup. "I want one morning where I'm not Mac McCabe, MVP. I want to be that guy buying overpriced coffee so he can see the Christmas decorations."
"That's not in the threat assessment," I said.
"What isn't?"
"You want to be someone other than who you are."
"I'm not trying to be someone else. I'm trying to remember who I was before I became public property." His thumb traced the rim of his cup. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"You tell me. You've been watching me for days." He tilted his head. "When I'm not performing—right now—am I different? Or is the performance all there is?"
"You're different."
"How?"
"Your smile changes. Voice drops into a lower register. Your movements are less calculated."
A gentle smile spread across his face. "That's what I want."
The phone buzzed again. He silenced it without looking.
Mac watched me sip. "Verdict?"
"It's coffee."
"Come on, Eamon, admit one thing you enjoy." He leaned forward. "Just one thing. Doesn't have to be the coffee."
"I enjoy keeping you alive."
"That's your job, not pleasure."
"Who says they're mutually exclusive?"
He chuckled. "That's a deflection."
Downstairs, someone laughed. I tracked it automatically. Not a threat.
When I looked back, Mac was still watching me.
"You're always scanning," he said. "Even when you're pretending to have a conversation."
"I'm having a conversation. I'm also scanning. I can do both—walk and chew gum."