Chapter 16 Eamon
Chapter sixteen
Eamon
Mac's breathing changed before I fully surfaced—the rhythm shifting from sleep's deep pull to something lighter, conscious but not yet awake.
His weight pressed against my left side, one arm draped across my ribs, with his face buried against my shoulder blade.
My arm had gone numb an hour ago, but I didn't move it.
Outside, a garbage truck rumbled past. Hydraulics hissed. Metal clanged against metal. Ma's house settled around us with the creaking that meant morning—the furnace kicking on, water running somewhere down the hall, and the coffee maker starting its automated cycle in the kitchen.
I should've been examining exit routes. Checking angles. Running through the day's timeline in my head—briefing at 0700, equipment check at 1400, departure at 1900.
Instead, I focused on the weight of Mac's hand on my chest. The specific pressure of his knee hooked over mine, and how his hair fell across his forehead when he wasn't awake to push it back into place.
He stirred. His fingers flexed against my chest—not quite conscious yet, checking I was still there.
"Hey," I said quietly.
His breath caught. Then he pressed closer, face pushing into the hollow of my throat. "What time is it?"
"Early. Six, maybe."
"Michael's briefing?"
"Eight."
"We should—"
"Not yet."
He responded, "Okay."
Two syllables. Permission to stay where we were.
I ran my fingers down his spine. Felt him relax into the touch, vertebra by vertebra. His breathing evened out again, but he wasn't sleeping anymore.
I wanted him safe. Wanted to come back to this room. More mornings that felt like this one—quiet, unhurried, his weight against me proof that I hadn't failed yet.
"You're thinking too loud," Mac said against my neck.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." He lifted his head. His eyes were still sleep-soft, with his hair smashed flat on one side. Mac, rumpled and real. "What's going on in there?"
"Assessing."
"Threats?"
"No." I touched his face. His stubble was rough under my fingertips. "This."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not good at this. At letting myself..." I paused. "Last night, when you asked me if I was okay, I said I was. I meant it. But I'm not used to meaning it."
"Neither am I."
"I know."
"Good." He kissed my knuckles. "At least we match."
The furnace clicked off.
"We should get up," Mac said after a moment. "Ma's going to feed us whether we're ready or not."
"Probably already making pancakes."
"God, I hope not." He groaned. "I can't watch you be competent at helping cook breakfast again. My ego can't take it."
"I'm not good at everything."
"Name one thing you're bad at."
"This." I gestured between us. "Relationships. Being someone you can count on when it matters."
"You're here," Mac said quietly. "That's mattering. And you haven't run yet."
"I'm not going to," I said.
"Promise?"
"Yeah." I pulled him closer. "I promise."
He kissed me. Slow with his fingers raking into my hair.
"We really should get up," he said, not moving.
"Probably."
"Ma's going to come looking for us."
"Definitely."
Neither of us moved.
We heard footsteps in the hallway—purposeful, maternal, coming closer. Mac scrambled back. I sat up. We were both fully clothed, nothing inappropriate, but somehow we looked guilty anyway.
Ma knocked, and the door opened before we could answer.
"Breakfast in twenty minutes," she said, taking in the scene with one comprehensive look. "Coffee's on."
She left and closed the door behind her.
Mac started laughing—quietly at first, then louder. "Oh, my god."
"She didn't say anything."
"She didn't have to. That look."
"I've faced armed suspects who scared me less."
"Welcome to the family." He swung his legs off the bed. Stood. Stretched. His shirt rode up, showing a strip of stomach and the hollow of his hip. The adhesive marks from yesterday's wire had faded to faint pink lines.
I got up. Found my shoes. Started building the day's armor piece by piece—professional distance, tactical focus, the version of myself who could do this job without letting desire compromise judgment.
"Ready?" he asked.
No. Not even close, but I nodded anyway.
"Let's go."
In the kitchen, Ma stood at the stove flipping something. She glanced up when we entered.
"Sit," she said. Not a request. "Both of you."
They'd already set the table. Four plates. Michael sat in the corner nursing black coffee, his laptop open to what looked like building schematics. He nodded when he saw us.
Michael's nod meant I was part of this—not hired muscle, but someone who belonged at the table when his family was in danger.
Ma put plates in front of us. Bacon, eggs, toast scraped black at the edges. "Eat."
"Ma, I'm not really—" Mac started.
"Eat anyway. You're too thin, and you're about to have a very long day." She poured coffee into mugs. "You too," she said, looking at me. "Don't make me say it twice."
"Yes, ma'am."
I ate. The bacon was so crispy it shattered. The eggs were slightly rubbery but still comforting.
Mac picked at his toast. I watched him spread butter with surgical precision—each stroke perfect, covering the edges.
The front door opened. Cold air rushed in, followed by voices.
Michael stood. "That's Clairmont."
My spine straightened. Time to engage professional mode—shoulders back, expression neutral, the mask I wore when someone needed to see competence instead of the man underneath.
Detective Clairmont entered with another officer. Her eyes landed on me. Narrowed.
"Price."
"Detective."
"Let's move this to the dining room," Michael said. "More space."
We relocated. Ma followed with the coffee pot. The dining room table—same one that held Thanksgiving dinner—now held maps and surveillance photos.
Clairmont spread everything out with practiced efficiency. "Here's what we know."
She tapped the largest photo. The cabin sat isolated on five acres, surrounded by Douglas fir and western red cedar—one road in, one road out.
"Vanessa Kensington rented this on November 4th. Paid six months up front, cash." Clairmont's finger traced the perimeter. "No neighbors within half a mile. She's been preparing this for weeks."
"We've had eyes on the property since yesterday," the other officer said. "Gray Civic on site. Lights on in the main structure. No movement outside."
"She's waiting," I said.
Clairmont looked at me. "Waiting for what?"
"For him." I glanced at Mac. "She believes she's rescuing him. This isn't a trap—it's the sanctuary she prepared. She's expecting him to arrive, not us."
Silence.
Michael broke it. "He's right. Everything we've seen supports compulsive preparation, not random violence. She's methodical."
"So we assume she's expecting him," Clairmont said. "Standard entry protocol—three teams breach simultaneously."
"No." My voice was firm. "If you corner her, she escalates. She sees it as betrayal. That makes her unpredictable."
"She's armed," Mac said quietly.
"Then we definitely need tactical entry," Clairmont said.
Michael piled on. "I agree, with one addition. Eamon goes in with the entry team."
Clairmont clenched her jaw. "Absolutely not. This is a police operation."
"Then I don't go either." Michael's voice was level. "And you need me. I know that terrain. I trained half your tactical unit. Eamon comes too."
"Why?"
"He knows her patterns. He's studied her behavior. He predicted she'd escalate before Christmas, and he was right." Michael gestured at the maps. "More than that—he's spent the last week protecting Mac. He's earned the right to be there when we end this."
Clairmont's expression said she wanted to argue, but she gave in to Michael.
"Fine. Observer only. He stays behind the entry team. Understood?"
I nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Mac stays here with two uniforms at the door and a cruiser posted on the alley. Full briefing at 1400 hours. We move on the cabin at 2100."
Twenty-one hundred. Nine PM.
Fourteen hours.
The meeting dissolved into logistics. Ma stood in the doorway holding the coffee pot. She'd been there the whole time. Christmas lights blinked behind her head.
After Clairmont left, Michael started shutting down his laptop and turned to me. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You sure? Because you look like you're about to be sick."
I almost laughed. "Maybe a little."
"Good. Means you're taking this seriously." He closed the laptop. "I meant what I said. You've earned this. You've kept him safe."
Ma appeared beside me. Refilled my coffee without asking. "You barely touched your eggs."
"Sorry. Not very hungry."
"That's fear, not appetite." She sat down across from me and folded her hands on the table. "I've seen it before. Graham used to get the same look before difficult calls."
"I'll be fine."
"I know you will. You're competent, trained, prepared." She paused. "But you're also scared. That's good. That's what will keep you careful."
***
The afternoon settled cold and colorless. I sat on Ma's back steps with my equipment spread across my knees—tactical vest, magazines, each one counted and recounted until the numbers stopped meaning anything.
Fourteen hundred. Five hours until departure.
I thumbed the magazine release. Checked the spring tension. Slid it back into place. The mechanical click should've been satisfying. Instead, it only reminded me I was bringing a weapon to end a woman's delusion.
The back door opened.
Mac stood in the frame, backlit by kitchen light. He'd changed into dark jeans and a sweater that made his shoulders look broader.
He stepped onto the porch. Closed the door behind him. "Can I sit?"
I moved the vest. He sat close enough that our shoulders touched.
"I need to ask you something," Mac said finally. "And I need you to answer honestly."
"Okay."
"Do you have to go tonight?"
It was a heavy question. "Yes."
"Why?" His voice stayed steady, but I heard the cracks underneath. "Michael's going. Clairmont has a full tactical team. You could stay here. Stay safe."
"I can't."