Chapter 14 Eamon #2
For twenty minutes, it almost felt normal.
Then Mac's phone buzzed.
Every head turned.
Mac's hand moved slowly toward his pocket. The color drained from his face.
I crossed to him in three steps. Read the message.
Day 5. Extraction site prepared. Your family is lovely—so many people gathered to protect you. It won't help. December 18th. Come willingly, or I'll make it hurt for everyone who stands between us. —V.K.
"She's watching," Mac whispered.
"She was watching," I said. "I found footprints outside. She's gone now."
"Everyone away from the windows," I said. "Now."
Marcus was already on his phone with Clairmont. Michael pulled the curtains closed. Matthew moved Dorian and Rowan toward the center of the house.
Marcus ended his call. "Clairmont's keeping the raid scheduled two days from now. Team assembles at eighteen hundred. They breach at twenty-one hundred. Planning to catch Vanessa there."
Mac stared at his phone. "She said my family is lovely." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She counted you. She knows who you are. And when it goes wrong—when she comes for me and someone gets hurt—" He looked up, eyes wild. "It'll be because I brought this here."
"Stop." Marcus's voice cut through. "Right there." He sat across from Mac—Firefighter's calm. "You're not the reason she's threatening us. You're the reason we're ready. You're family, Mac.
He leaned forward. "And McCabes don't do math on who's worth protecting. We don't weigh risk against reward. We show up. That's the deal. That's always been the deal."
Ma appeared beside Mac and placed a hand on his forearm. "This is how we protect each other. We show up and stand together."
"I don't know how to let you do this," Mac said quietly.
"You don't let us," Miles said. "We just do. That's non-negotiable."
Claire spoke from the corner. "You don't get to decide you're not worth protecting, Cormac. We already decided you are."
Marcus stood. "Lockdown protocols in effect. No one leaves for any reason. Windows stay covered. Doors stay locked. We rely on each other." He checked his watch. "Twenty-four hours until the breach. Until then, we wait."
Later, I found Mac in the living room. He sat on the couch. Stood. Paced. Stopped.
"Hey," I said quietly. "Come here."
He sat beside me.
"Two days," he said. "Why does it feel like forever?"
"Because waiting is harder than acting."
He closed his eyes. "My mother destroyed a bowl today. Perfect bowl. She destroyed it to prove broken things still have value."
"Did it work?"
"Maybe. She's firing my ridiculous attempt. Evidence of failure getting preserved."
"That's not failure. That's proof you tried."
He looked at me. "You always know what to say."
"I really don't, but I'm trying."
"Yeah. You do a good job."
Mac's knee bounced. I placed my hand on it. Solid. Present.
The bouncing stopped.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being here and for not leaving even when I'm a mess."
Ma appeared in the doorway. Saw us. Smiled slightly.
Then she disappeared, leaving us alone with blinking Christmas lights.
Mac leaned his head against my shoulder. Rested there. Breathing. Letting himself be scared.
I stayed still. Kept watch.
I was also aware of the weight of his head. The warmth of his hand. How his hair smelled like clay and rain.
I wanted to turn and pull him closer. To kiss him the way I had under Christmas lights, except this time without an audience.
But he needed comfort more than he needed my want. So I stayed still and told myself that wanting him was something I could deal with later.
At three-seventeen in the morning, the house had finally gone quiet.
I sat in the kitchen monitoring camera feeds. Four angles. All empty. Sixth cup of coffee cooling beside the laptop.
Movement made me reach for my sidearm before my brain caught up—only Mac, emerging from the hallway like a ghost.
"You scared me."
"Sorry. Couldn't sleep."
"You should try—"
"Don't. Please."
Fair enough.
He sat across from me. Pulled out his phone. "Clairmont sent me access to the evidence files. Vanessa's apartment." He scrolled. "I need to understand what she was thinking."
I understood the need. I had spent three years reading reports after Kyra died.
"All right. Show me."
He looked up. Surprised. "You want to—"
"If you're going to do this, you're not doing it alone."
He turned the phone so we could both see. Vanessa's handwriting—precise, controlled.
Day 127: Subject shows signs of accumulated stress. Shoulder tension visible. Sleep deprivation evident. Current handling insufficient. Deterioration accelerating.
"Four months of this," Mac said quietly.
He scrolled to another entry. Then another. Eighteen months of his life filtered through the eyes of someone who'd decided he was an object.
"Here. This is when she decided."
Day 512: Subject's condition critical. Extraction necessary. Timeline: December 18th—symbolic date, Christmas week, family gathered, optimal conditions for removal and restoration.
"She picked Christmas on purpose," Mac said hollowly. "Because we'd all be together."
"Her logic doesn't have to make sense. It just has to make sense to her."
He closed the file. Set the phone face down.
"I keep wondering what I did. What signal did I give?"
"You didn't do anything. You existed. You were beautiful and public, and that was enough for her."
Mac blinked. "How do you do this? Stay calm and not fall apart?"
"I fall apart later," I said honestly. "When the job's done. Then I go somewhere private and fall apart where no one is watching."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is."
He reached across the table. Took my hand. "And now? Is that still the plan?"
"Now I'm trying something different." His fingers tightened on mine.
"How's that working?"
"Still figuring it out." I looked at him. "But it's better than running."
"Come on," I said. "You're not sleeping. I'm not sleeping. At least let's be not sleeping somewhere comfortable."
In the living room, the Christmas tree still blinked. I sat on the couch. Mac sat beside me. Close enough that our shoulders touched.
"Tell me something," he said after a while. "Something real."
"Jazz. I listen to jazz. Vinyl. Have a collection in Portland. Miles Davis. John Coltrane."
"Why jazz?"
"My dad played it. Sunday mornings. He'd make breakfast and play Kind of Blue, and that made the world a good place."
"You miss him."
"Yeah. He's still in Oregon. I don't call enough."
"Why not?"
"Because visiting means answering questions about my life. And my life for the past three years has been isolation and running from everything that matters."
Mac turned his head. "You're not running right now."
"No. I'm not."
"Why not?"
Because you make me want to stay.
"Because running hasn't been working," I said instead. "Figured I'd try something different."
He leaned his head against my shoulder.
I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Pulled him closer.
He didn't pull away. Just settled into the contact, the fingers of one hand weaving together with mine.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. This is okay."
Minutes passed. His breathing slowed.
"You should sleep," I said quietly.
"Can't."
"You're already halfway there."
"What if something happens—"
"Then I'll wake you. Promise."
He relaxed fully against me. His hand in mine, his head on my shoulder, and his breathing evening out into something that sounded like peace.
I stayed still. Kept watch. Not only the windows and doors. Mac, too. His breathing. How his face looked younger in sleep.
The Christmas tree kept blinking. Red. Green. Counting down.
December fourteenth. Two days until the raid. Four until December eighteenth.
I tightened my arm around Mac's shoulders. He made a slight sound—not quite waking—and settled deeper against me.
Whatever tomorrow brought, we'd face it together.
For now—his hand in mine, his breath evening out, his weight against my side—it was enough.
More than enough.
It was everything.