Chapter 15 Mac
Chapter fifteen
Mac
Clairmont's office smelled like burnt coffee. The metal desk had scars at the corners where handcuffs had scraped over the years. I'd been sitting in a plastic chair for twenty minutes while Eamon stood behind me, radiating tension.
"Walk me through it again," I said.
Clairmont leaned back. Her chair groaned. "Pike Place Market, midday today. You shop, stay visible. We wire you, position plainclothes officers throughout, wait for contact."
"Bait," Eamon said. Voice flat.
"Controlled exposure." Clairmont pulled out surveillance photos—me at the Reserve Roastery, the ferry terminal, Ma's house. "She's been documenting his routine, building a narrative where she's the savior. If we give her an opening—"
"You're gambling with his life."
"I'm gambling we end this before December eighteenth. The raid team goes in tomorrow night at twenty-one hundred. But if we can draw her out earlier—"
"Then you have two chances," I said. "Market and cabin."
"Exactly."
Eamon moved beside my chair. "And if she sees through it?"
"We proceed with the cabin raid as scheduled."
I looked at the photos. Me existing in public while someone recorded my deterioration like a specimen.
"I'll do it," I said.
Eamon's hand landed on my shoulder. "Mac—"
"She's threatening my family. Ma, Claire, and everyone in that house. If we can end this before she gets near them—"
"Not at your expense."
I looked up. His jaw was tight, gazing intently at me.
"It's my choice."
"It's a bad choice."
"Maybe. But it's mine."
His hand didn't leave my shoulder. "If we do this, I'm in your ear the entire time. Any deviation, any sense she's moving, and I pull you out. Non-negotiable."
"Agreed."
I turned to Clairmont. "Timeline?"
She pulled out a laminated map. "Position you by eleven hundred. Plainclothes officers here, here, and here. Sniper on the Economy Market rooftop. If she approaches, you stall. We move in."
"And if she's armed?"
"Overwatch has a clean backstop. If she presents a firearm, we interdict; overwatch is a last resort."
My stomach lurched. Someone could get shot.
"The cabin raid still happens?"
"Eighteen hundred tomorrow for assembly. Twenty-one hundred breach. Two hours north in Concrete. We go in fast, clear the structure." Clairmont's expression didn't change. "But if we take her at the market first, the cabin becomes evidence collection."
I looked at my hands. They had both signed autographs and caught line drives.
Now they'd be bait.
My father's hands had looked like this. Callused. Scarred. The hands of someone who did what needed doing.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go."
Clairmont directed me to the precinct locker room. A folding table in the center held equipment—transmitters, battery packs, medical tape, and monitors with green sine waves.
A technician gestured to a chair. "Have a seat."
The metal was cold through my jeans. Eamon positioned himself against a wall, watching everything.
"Shirt off," she said.
I pulled my henley over my head. The air bit at my skin—too cold, reeking of disinfectant.
She opened a small case. Inside was a microphone no bigger than a button. "Center mass. Battery life is eight hours. You'll feel a vibration at the two-hour mark."
She pressed it against my sternum. The adhesive was cold.
"Test," she said into a radio.
I spoke, and my voice played back tinny and strange.
She ran the wire down my chest, securing it with tape, and I was thankful for a naturally smooth chest. The transmitter pack was heavier than expected, clipping to my belt.
"Arms up."
An elastic band compressed my ribs. Not painful. Present. Impossible to forget.
"Put your shirt on."
I did. When I looked up, Eamon had moved closer.
"Let me check," he said.
His hands were warm. He ran fingers along my collar, feeling for the wire underneath.
"Visible here," he said quietly, tracing the line through fabric.
"She won't get close enough to notice."
With him so close, I stared at the shades of red in his beard and the shadows under his eyes.
"Turn around."
He checked the transmitter pack, tugging gently. Then ran his palms up my spine, smoothing the elastic band.
"How does it feel?"
"Strange."
"Your body will adjust. But if anything digs in, tell someone immediately."
The technician returned. "Comms check. Detective Clairmont and I will be in the van. Agent Price mobile. Say something."
I took a breath. "This is Mac McCabe. Testing."
"Copy. Clear signal. Agent Price?"
Eamon fitted an earpiece into his left ear. Tapped once. "Price. I have him."
Those three words made a knot form in my chest.
The technician packed up. "Try to avoid loud environments. Don't touch the mic."
She left.
Silence filled the room.
"I'll be fine," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I know you'll be there."
Eamon stepped closer. "Walk me through what happens if she approaches."
"I keep her talking. You move in."
"And if she's armed?"
"Sounds like they shoot her."
He inhaled sharply. "I don't like this."
"You've made that clear."
I reached up. Touched his jaw, causing it to twitch. "You're catastrophizing."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're scared."
"Yes." No hesitation. "I am."
The skin on my forearms prickled. Eamon didn't admit fear.
"Me too," I said quietly.
His hand covered mine. "Three years ago, I froze. One second, and my client died." His voice dropped. "I won't freeze tomorrow. But that doesn't mean I'm not terrified I'll miss something."
"You won't. I trust you. More than I've trusted anyone in years."
Eamon sighed. "You have too much faith in me."
"Or you don't have enough in yourself."
"Come on," he said finally. "Let's get you fed."
***
Pike Place Market at midday was chaotic.
Fish and brine. Roasting chestnuts. Coffee and salt air. Too many bodies in too little space.
"Radio check," Clairmont said through the earpiece. "Status?"
"I'm here."
"Copy. Agent Price?"
"North entrance. I have visual."
Clairmont gave the signal. "You're green to proceed."
I stepped into the arcade. Tourists flowed around vendor stalls. A child screamed with delight.
"Breathe," Eamon said quietly.
I moved deeper. Stopped at a blanket vendor—wool throws in pyramids. Ma collected them.
"This one's popular." The vendor pulled out a deep-green throw with Celtic knots in the pattern.
I knew Ma would love it. "I'll take it."
While the vendor wrapped it, I scanned the crowd—too many faces.
"Movement at your six," Eamon said. "Woman, dark hair, flower stand."
I froze.
"Don't turn. Checking now."
I counted heartbeats.
"False alarm. Keep moving."
I paid and moved on.
"That's good," Clairmont said. "Keep shopping."
I found a ceramics stall. A cream teapot caught my eye—glaze pooled in recesses. It had patterns that would defy replication. I knew Claire would appreciate it.
"Reduction-fired," the vendor said.
"My mother's a ceramicist."
"Then she'll love it."
I paid. Two gifts down.
"You're drawing attention," Eamon said. "Young guy, jerky stand."
Behind me: "Hey! Are you Mac McCabe?"
I stopped. Turned. Smiled. A performance immediately clicked into place.
He wore a Mariners cap, early twenties. "Man, you kick ass both in the field and with the bat. Can I get a picture?"
"Sure."
His friend counted down. The wire felt obvious.
"Thanks, man."
He walked away, posting proof that Mac McCabe was at the market.
"Move on," Eamon said.
I kept walking. At a leather stall, I picked up a journal. Small, leather-bound. I thought Eamon would appreciate it.
I traced the binding with my thumb.
"See something?" Eamon asked.
I set it back. "No. Just looking."
More of the market stretched ahead. More faces. My hypervigilance redlined.
A child dropped an ornament, and the shattering sound made me flinch hard.
"Keep breathing," Eamon said. "You're okay. I'm right here."
Ninety minutes elapsed, and she was nowhere.
Eamon's voice suddenly sharpened. "Woman at the coffee stand. Dark coat, hood up."
My pulse raced. "Where?"
"Ten o'clock. Don't turn."
I picked up a multi-tool. Used the motion to glance left.
There was a hood shadowing her face as she watched me.
"Is it her?" Clairmont asked.
"Can't confirm. Hold position."
The woman pulled back her hood.
Blonde. Twenty years old.
Not Vanessa.
She smiled and lifted her phone for a photo.
I nodded.
"False alarm," Eamon said.
I set down the multi-tool. My hands shook.
"Time?" Clairmont asked.
"Fourteen forty-three."
At fourteen fifty-seven: "All units, scrub the operation. Mr. McCabe, head for the exit."
It was over. She hadn't appeared.
Eamon materialized from the crowd. "Come on. Let's get you out."
We walked together. The sky had gone gray. Neither of us spoke until we were blocks away.
"She's at the cabin," I said.
"Probably."
"Which means tomorrow night—"
"Tomorrow night, we end this." Eamon's jaw was tight. "One way or another."
***
Ma's house smelled like leftover roast beef. Police radios crackled from the dining room. Michael's voice carried from the kitchen.
I climbed the stairs. Each step creaked—third, seventh, tenth. Home sounds, except the house didn't feel safe anymore.
The guest room door stood slightly ajar. I always closed it when I left.
After I stepped inside, I pulled the door shut behind me until I heard the latch click.
The room looked the same, but something was wrong.
It was like someone had stirred up the air. They'd moved through the space recently. Was it Ma sprucing up?
The photos on the dresser were slightly different. They'd been moved a quarter-inch left.
The closet door stood open. I knew I'd left it closed. My duffel bag's zipper faced the wrong direction.
I started to breathe faster.
Then the scent hit me—perfume. Floral mixed with chemical-sweet. No one in Ma's house wore that.
It was someone else's perfume. I turned and found a white envelope propped against the pillow. My name was written in careful script.
Cormac