12. Rowan
Chapter twelve
Rowan
M iles paced the floor for the third time in ten minutes. His bare feet whispered heel-toe, heel-toe—a rhythm matching my accelerating pulse. The warehouse amplified every sound: the traffic's distant hum and Charlie's nails clicking as he followed Miles.
"They'll be here soon," Miles said, not slowing. His hair stuck up where he'd been running his hands through it. "Marcus is always early. Military precision."
"Are you worried they'll disapprove of the damaged federal agent you've dragged into a family crisis?"
Miles stopped pacing. "I'm worried they'll try to lock me in protective custody until this blows over."
The intercom buzzed.
"That's them," Matthew called, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "I'll get it."
Miles straightened his shoulders. "Breathe," I told him.
"I am breathing."
"No, you're hyperventilating in a controlled manner. There's a difference."
Charlie bounded toward the door to greet the first arrivals. Marcus McCabe filled the doorframe with broad shoulders and a commanding presence. Behind him, a lean man carried a tablet, looking every ounce the rumpled academic.
"James," Miles said, moving toward them. "Thanks for coming."
James accepted a warm hug. "Wouldn't be anywhere else."
Miles turned to his oldest brother. Marcus's gaze swept the warehouse's defensive positions before landing on me.
"You must be Ashcroft." He extended his hand, offering a firm grip. "I've heard about your work."
"Some of it, anyway." I accepted the handshake while Charlie wound between our legs. "The parts that don't require security clearance."
"Marcus McCabe. This is James Reynolds, my partner."
Before any of us could say more, the intercom buzzed again. Different energy this time—urgent and protective.
Michael McCabe emerged, scanning the room before his gaze settled on Miles. Behind him, a man with dark hair and calm eyes radiated a steady presence.
"Jesus, Miles." Michael crossed the space in three strides, pulling his youngest brother into a fierce embrace. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Good to see you too, sunshine."
The man behind Michael approached more slowly, offering Miles a gentler hug. "We came as fast as we could. Michael barely stopped for gas."
"Eight-hour drive in six and a half hours," Michael said, releasing Miles but keeping one hand on his shoulder. "Luna's still carsick in the truck."
"You brought the dog?"
Alex spoke with affectionate exasperation. "Try leaving her behind when Michael believes you're in mortal danger. She howled for twenty minutes straight."
Michael shifted his attention to me. "So you're the podcaster who's got my baby brother chasing federal conspiracies."
"I like to say former federal agent, currently a podcaster. And your brother found me, not the other way around."
"Same difference if you both end up in the crosshairs."
Dorian materialized beside Matthew, carrying coffee mugs with practiced efficiency. "Everyone caffeinated? This might take a while."
The warehouse began to feel crowded—not from bodies, but from accumulated protective energy. Apparently deciding the tension was a little too high, Charlie dropped onto his back and wiggled hopefully.
"Attention whore," Matthew said fondly, crouching to provide the requested belly rub.
"Family trait," Marcus observed, glancing at Miles.
"I prefer enthusiastic entertainer," Miles shot back.
James settled into a dining chair, tablet already open. "Should we wait for your mother?"
"She's coming," Matthew confirmed. "Insisted on bringing food. Said she wanted to meet Rowan properly."
My stomach clenched. Being sized up by the woman who'd raised four protective sons felt like walking into a tribunal with no correct answers.
"Ma wants to meet Rowan?" Michael's eyebrows rose. "That's... significant."
"Why significant?" I asked.
"It means she doesn't see this as only a work problem," Marcus concluded.
Miles's face flushed. "Can we focus on the actual crisis?"
The intercom buzzed again. Backs straightened, and everyone cast expectant glances toward the door. Even Charlie scrambled to his feet, tail wagging.
"That'll be her," Matthew said.
My hands turned clammy. Seven years of federal service—briefing senators, testifying before Congress, facing organized crime—none of that prepared me for meeting the woman whose approval might determine my future.
The door opened, and Ma McCabe stepped in carrying two canvas bags. She was smaller than I expected—barely reaching Miles's shoulder—but she commanded the space like a general reviewing troops.
"There's my boys," she said, setting the bags on Matthew's table. "And their boys."
The brothers moved toward her in birth order—Marcus first for a quick kiss, then Michael, who lingered for her to pat his face and murmur something that unclenched his jaw. Matthew received a more extended hug, while Alex, James, and Dorian received warm acknowledgment of earned family status.
"Ma," Miles said when his turn came, voice cracking on the syllable.
She cupped his face, studying him intensely. "You haven't been sleeping."
"I've been—"
"And you've lost weight." Her thumb traced the hollow beneath his cheekbone. "When did you last eat real food?"
"Ma—"
"Don't Ma me, Miles Timothy McCabe. I can see your ribs through that shirt."
She quickly shifted her attention and focused on me. Every muscle tensed.
"You must be Rowan Ashcroft." She approached with measured steps, and I caught a light lavender scent. "I've heard about you."
"Mrs. McCabe." I extended my hand. "Thank you for coming."
Her handshake was firm. "Call me Ma. Everyone does."
"I'm not sure I've earned that privilege yet."
She released my hand and moved toward the grocery bags. "Has anyone fed these men actual food, or have you all been surviving on adrenaline and caffeine?"
"Ma, we don't have time for—" Miles started.
"We have time for whatever I say we have time for." She began unpacking containers with field medic efficiency. "Crisis management requires fuel. Brains don't work on empty."
A rich aroma of garlic and herbs began to fill the loft. "Sit," Ma commanded, gesturing toward the table. "All of you."
She served generous portions of lasagna on mismatched plates. When she reached me, she paused. "You look like you haven't been eating either."
"I eat," I said, aware of how defensive that sounded.
"Hmm." She set the plate before me. "We'll see about that."
The food was extraordinary. I took a bite and nearly groaned with pleasure.
"Better?" Ma asked, settling into her chair.
"Much better. Thank you."
She turned her attention to the overall gathering. "Now then. Matthew filled me in on the basics, but I want to hear it from Miles. All of it."
Miles straightened. "Ma, there are confidentiality issues—"
"Your client is dead, sweetheart. Confidentiality doesn't protect the dead—it protects the living. And right now, I'm more concerned about keeping you alive than your job's professional ethics."
Her bluntness—the casual acknowledgment of death while serving comfort food—revealed something essential about Ma McCabe. She'd buried a husband, raised four sons in dangerous professions, and learned to navigate grief without flinching.
Miles outlined the entire story, beginning with the death of Iris Delacroix. Ma listened without interruption, occasionally nodding, but her gaze kept returning to me.
"And you," she said when Miles finished. "What's your part in this?"
"I've been tracking similar patterns for years. Miles's case connects to a larger network targeting trauma victims." I met her gaze directly. "Someone needs to stop them."
"Someone like my son."
"Someone like your son and me. Together."
"You care about him," she said.
Her economical speech stole my breath. Around the table, conversations paused.
"Yes," I said. I understood that lying to Ma McCabe was impossible.
"How much?"
Miles made a soft protest. "Ma—"
"Enough to die for him?" she asked, ignoring Miles's embarrassment.
The question shocked me. It made me think about the surveillance equipment in Miles's apartment, Lucia's car sliding through guardrails into dark water, and the systematic way powerful people eliminated those they considered obstacles.
"Yes," I said quietly. "But I'd rather live for him."
Ma McCabe's expression didn't change, but her posture relaxed. "Good answer." She turned back to Miles. "And you? Are you willing to trust this man with your life?"
"I already have. And I will."
"That's not what I asked." Her voice sharpened with maternal authority. "Trust and survival are different things. Are you willing to put your life in his hands? Your future? Your ability to come home to this family?"
Miles looked at me.
"Yes," he said.
I was suddenly aware that this wasn't only about the investigation anymore. It was about whether I was prepared to become part of something larger than individual survival. Whether I could transform from an isolated former federal agent who trusted no one into someone worthy of a family's faith.
"Now, who wants to tell me what we're going to do about these bastards who've been spying on my son?"
The plates disappeared with military efficiency—Matthew and Dorian working in synchronized motion while the rest of us pushed back from the table. Ma McCabe claimed the armchair with clear sightlines to everyone, positioning herself like a presiding judge.
Marcus broke the silence, pulling out his legal pad. "We need a systematic approach. That means a clear threat assessment, resource allocations, and communication protocols."
"We should consider federal involvement," he continued, pen moving. "FBI, U.S. Marshals, someone with jurisdictional authority."
"Agreed," Michael said, leaning forward. "Miles needs protective custody until we neutralize this threat. Full witness protection if necessary."
Heat flared in my chest as I spoke. "Protective custody means removing him from the investigation entirely."
"Exactly." Michael met my gaze.