16. Alex
Chapter sixteen
Alex
T he wooden floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I paced the length of Michael's apartment. I couldn't decide whether the confined space was more like a fortress or a prison. I was certain it would be charming in different circumstances.
Michael hadn't spoken in twenty minutes. He moved between windows with mechanical precision, checking sight lines, adjusting blinds, and rechecking locks.
His tactical vest still lay across the kitchen table where he'd left it that morning, alongside the small go-bag he'd packed after spotting whoever had been watching us. The scene before me was military preparation translated into civilian space.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the vest, feeling the dense ballistic material beneath my touch. "You know, if we're going for the full bunker chic aesthetic, we should consider some sandbags for the windows." I gestured around the apartment. "Maybe a few more tactical flashlights."
Michael paused his surveillance circuit by the east-facing window. He turned toward me, momentarily puzzled, before recognition dawned.
"Are you making jokes right now?"
"Trying to." I shrugged, moving to the kitchen. "I'm considering starting a lifestyle blog: Panic Rooms with Room Service—How to Survive Assassination Attempts Without Sacrificing Creature Comforts. "
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm aware of that." I pulled my phone from my pocket. "What this situation needs is music."
"Alex—"
"No argument." I scrolled through my playlists on my phone, finding the one I'd created during my lowest moments after Marissa's death. "If we're going to be hunted by military-industrial complex assassins, we should at least have a soundtrack."
The opening guitar notes of David Bowie's "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" filled the apartment. I cranked the volume higher than necessary, letting Bowie's voice—desperate, yearning, ultimately hopeful—drown out the steady drum of rain against the windows. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me, pretending for a moment that we were just two men sharing music, not hiding from unknown threats.
I opened my eyes to find Michael watching me, his expression unreadable. I sang along to the chorus, purposely overdramatic, sweeping my arm through the air with theatrical flair. I wasn't a good singer—Marissa had compared my voice to "a wounded animal with remarkable pitch"—but I put my heart into it.
"You're not alone," I belted along with Bowie, pointing directly at Michael, who stood frozen by the window. "Give me your hand!"
Michael's eyes widened slightly, and I couldn't tell whether he was horrified or amused. Probably both.
"You think this is going to lift my mood?"
I replied in my best academic tone. "I think David Bowie understood sometimes you need to scream into the void. Or, at the very least, dance badly in your living room while the world burns."
"Is that what this is?" Michael gestured at my swaying. "Dancing?"
"I contain multitudes of rhythmic disappointment." I grabbed his hand, tugging him away from the window. "Come on, McCabe. The world's not ending in the next three minutes."
He resisted for a moment before allowing me to pull him into the center of the living room. He didn't dance—I hadn't expected him to—but he moved a half-step closer, his hand still in mine.
"You're really something else."
"So I've been told." I squeezed his fingers. "But you haven't left."
He opened his mouth to respond, his expression unguarded for once, when something shifted in the quality of the air around us. The silence was too perfect like the world holding its breath before a disaster.
The shattering glass sounded like a gunshot—sudden, violent, and unmistakable. The living room window exploded inward, sending crystalline fragments skittering across the hardwood floor. A rust-colored and pockmarked brick sailed through the jagged opening and thudded against the area rug, bouncing once before settling next to the coffee table.
Michael's reaction was pure instinct. One moment, I stood beside him, our fingers loosely intertwined; the next, I found myself pressed against the hardwood floor, his body shielding mine, arms curled protectively around my head. The music continued to play, and Bowie's voice became an absurd counterpoint to the violence of the moment.
"Stay down." Michael's breath was warm against my ear as he rolled off me in one fluid motion. He reached beneath the couch and produced a handgun I hadn't known was there.
"What—" My voice came out strangled as I pressed myself against the floor. My palm slid across something sharp, and a shard of glass sliced into my skin. "Michael—"
"Don't move." He stayed low, moving toward the window in a tactical crouch, gun leading the way. Cold air rushed through the shattered pane, carrying the scents of wet pavement and car exhaust. It raised goosebumps on my arms, threading through a tear in my sleeve where the glass had caught me.
I watched as Michael positioned himself to the side of the window frame, careful to avoid presenting a silhouette. He peered out at odd angles, never staying in one position long enough to make himself a target. Finally, he lowered his weapon slightly.
"No one visible. Probably hit and run."
I pressed myself harder against the floor, trying to slow the frantic pounding of my heart. I told myself it was fear—pure, reasonable fear—but beneath the shaking, something else flickered through me.
A visceralthrill.
It was sick, maybe, to feel it. It was the electric jolt of danger.
Along with it came the wild, reckless certainty that for the first time in a very long while, I wasn't drifting through life half-asleep.
Michael moved with dogged purpose across the room, and part of me—a small, shameful part—ached to follow.
I pushed myself up to sitting, wincing as my hand pressed against the floor. Only then did I notice the blood—bright crimson droplets forming a small constellation on the hardwood.
"I cut myself." I stupidly stared at my palm and the shard of glass embedded near the base of my thumb.
Michael was at my side instantly, gun tucked into his waistband as he took my hand in his. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined the wound. "It's not deep. Stay here."
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a first aid kit. The soldier had become a medic in the space of a breath. He knelt beside me, dabbing antiseptic on the cut with methodical care.
"The brick, is there—is there a message?"
Michael's jaw tightened as he secured a small bandage over my cut. "No message needed. The brick is the message."
Nobody had wrapped paper around it. They hadn't attached a threatening note with string or rubber bands like in the movies. It was only a brick—ordinary, unremarkable, and terrifying in its simplicity.
"It wasn't random." Michael's voice was low and controlled. "They know where I live and knew we were here."
I looked at the shattered glass scattered across the floor, glittering in the fading light like evil diamonds. Tiny shards had traveled as far as the kitchen doorway.
Internally, I cursed my trembling voice. "What do we do?"
After finishing bandaging my hand, Michael stood, moving to the broken window. He pulled the blinds closed and began picking up the larger shards of glass. "We adapt."
The music had stopped, leaving oppressive silence in its wake. I watched as a stray drop of my blood slid down my wrist, disappearing beneath the cuff of my sleeve.
Outside, the normal sounds of the city continued uninterrupted—distant traffic, the metallic clang of construction, and a dog barking. The world hadn't stopped turning.
"They're watching us right now, aren't they?" I asked the question even though I dreaded the answer.
Michael didn't answer immediately. He gathered the glass into a pile. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with barely contained rage.
"Probably. And if they're not, they will be soon. We need to move. This place isn't secure anymore."
Michael disappeared into the bedroom, returning moments later with a roll of duct tape and what looked like a folded tarp.
"Help me cover the window." He was already positioning the plastic sheet over the jagged opening. I held the edges while he secured it with rapid, precisely torn pieces of tape. The makeshift repair rustled with each gust of wind, but it blocked the worst of the draft.
"Grab your things again—anything you can't leave behind." Michael crossed the room to a cabinet I hadn't paid much attention to before. He entered a combination on a small digital lock. Inside was a small arsenal—another handgun, boxes of ammunition, and several items I couldn't identify.
"Should I be concerned that you have an armory in your living room?"
Michael didn't look up as he selected items and transferred them to his go-bag. "Former military, remember? This is standard preparedness."
"For most people, preparedness means extra canned food and flashlight batteries."
"I'm not most people." He zipped the bag closed. "Neither are the ones hunting us."
Michael crossed to the kitchen, retrieving his phone from the counter. His entire demeanor had shifted from the man who'd almost danced with me minutes earlier. Now he was all soldier, analytical and focused.
"I need backup." He scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering for a moment before he pressed call. The phone barely rang once before a voice answered on the other end—too faint for me to make out the words, but I recognized the voice. Marcus.
Michael's voice was low and steady. "It's me. Need your eyes. Situation at home base." He paused, listening. "Yes. Brick through window. Classic warning shot." Another pause. "No heat visible, but they're out there."
I couldn't hear Marcus's responses, but I watched as Michael's shoulders relaxed after hearing whatever his brother said.
"Forty minutes works. Back entrance, no lights." Michael glanced at me. "Yes, he's with me."
Michael ended the call and immediately dialed again. This time, his voice shifted slightly when the other party answered—still urgent, but with a different cadence.
"Miles. Need a favor, no questions." He spoke rapidly, outlining what had happened without embellishment. "No, don't call it in. This stays off the books."
I moved to the kitchen, wanting to be closer and understand what was happening. Michael's face was tight with concentration as he listened to his brother's response.
Miles must have made a joke despite the circumstances because Michael's mouth twitched briefly. Are you sure you're not just overreacting? You always were paranoid , I imagined Miles saying, trying to lighten the mood as I had earlier.
"It wasn't an isolated act." Michael's voice dropped lower. "They know exactly who and where we are."
Whatever Miles said next changed the atmosphere completely. Michael's spine straightened, and his face hardened into something I barely recognized.
"Thanks. Basement access, forty minutes. Come armed." He disconnected the call and turned to me. "My brothers are coming. We're moving to a more secure location."
I nodded, throat too dry to speak immediately. I'd watched as Michael transformed fully into this other self. He was a tactical specialist and the ultimate protector. It was both reassuring and terrifying.
"Your brothers. They're risking a lot for this. For... me."
Michael crossed the space between us, his hand cupping my cheek with surprising gentleness. The contrast between his touch and the soldier who'd just arranged an armed extraction was dizzying.
"For us," he corrected. "And yes, they are. That's what family does."
The thought of these men—men I'd only just met at Sunday dinner—putting themselves in danger because of what my research uncovered left me with a complicated mixture of gratitude and guilt.
"I never meant to drag anyone else into this."
"You didn't drag anyone." Michael's thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I made the call. I brought them in. They chose to come."
I leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his certainty, but it wasn't enough to smother the words rising in my throat.
"What if something happens to you?"
My voice cracked halfway through the question. I hated the sound of it, small and broken, but I couldn't pull it back.
"I don't think I could survive that."
Michael took my hand and anchored me with his grip. "Nothing will happen to me."
"And what are we doing when they get here?" I asked the question because I needed a way out of drowning in fear.
"We disappear for a while." He stared into my eyes. "You're not alone in this. Not for one second."
I watched Michael secure his apartment with practiced efficiency. Every few minutes, he paused to examine his phone, scrolling through what appeared to be security footage from somewhere in the building.
I organized my thoughts while removing a few unnecessary items from my bag. Best to leave some space. The weight of what was happening settled more deeply with each passing minute.
"Any sign of the bad guys?"
Michael shook his head without looking up from his phone. "Nothing on the cameras. That worries me more than seeing them."
"Because they've gone or because they're beyond the perimeter?"
"Both." He pocketed his phone. "They want us nervous, waiting for the next move."
"It's working."
A faint buzz emanated from Michael's phone. He pulled it out, studied the screen briefly, and then typed a response.
"Marcus and Miles are five minutes out. They're coming up through the service entrance. No signs of surveillance, but that doesn't mean it's not there."
"Your brothers—" I wanted to ask a question but couldn't formulate the words.
Michael glanced up. "What about them?"
"Are they—" I hesitated. "Are they like you? Military background and tactical training?"
A smile appeared on Michael's face. "Marcus was a Marine before fighting fires. Special operations. He's more paranoid than I am, if you can believe that."
"And Miles? The one who jokes?"
"Crisis counselor. Surprised us all when he decided to be a shrink. No military, but he grew up in the same house as the rest of us. Dad made sure all of us could handle ourselves." Michael zipped his duffel closed. "Matthew's an EMT. Couldn't make it tonight—he's on shift. We'll send him to keep Mom company. Sometimes, she worries."
The casual mention of their professions—all first responders of different varieties—solidified something I'd already sensed about the McCabe family. They were protectors by nature, people who ran toward danger rather than away.
I spoke softly. "They're risking a lot. I mean, I'm sure there are professional repercussions and legal trouble if this goes badly—"
"They know what they're doing and what's at stake."
Before I could respond, a series of soft, rhythmic taps sounded at the door—not a standard knock, but a signal. Michael immediately moved to answer it, positioning himself to block any potential line of fire while checking through the peephole.
He unlocked the door with fluid movements, opening it just enough for two figures to slip inside. Marcus entered first, expression grave and focused, followed by Miles, whose usual grin was notably absent. Both brothers moved with the silent precision of men accustomed to dangerous situations, though in different contexts.
Marcus spoke first. "Status?"
"No visual on hostiles since the incident." Michael fell into tactical language. "No digital intrusion detected in the building systems, but we should assume they have eyes somewhere."
Miles moved to the broken window, examining the damage with professional interest. "Clean break, single point of impact. Wanted you to hear it and feel it." He glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "They're sending a message, not trying to hurt anyone. Yet."
The clinical assessment made me shiver. Miles noticed and offered me a reassuring nod.
"Hey, Professor. Sorry we're meeting again under these circumstances."
I managed a weak "Thank you for coming."
Marcus moved to the kitchen, where he and Michael conferred in low voices, their heads bent together over what appeared to be a building schematic pulled up on Marcus's phone.
Miles moved closer to me, "Michael says you stumbled onto something called Project Asphodel."
"Yes, I—" I paused. "He told you what we found?"
"Broad strokes. Autonomous threat elimination system. Military applications. Horrible news for civil liberties and, apparently, history professors who ask too many questions."
"You're not surprised?"
"That the military-industrial complex is developing terrifying tech with zero ethical oversight?" Miles shook his head. "No. The surprising part is that my brother got himself tangled up with someone smart enough to uncover it."
Marcus approached from the kitchen. "We need to move. Now. Miles detected movement on the rooftop across the street."
Miles clarified. "Observer with equipment. It could be surveillance, or it could be something worse."
I wrung my hands together. "Worse as in—"
"Let's not find out." Michael shouldered his go-bag. "Alex, stay between Marcus and me. Miles will take point."
I nodded, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel. Michael must have sensed my anxiety because he paused, placing a steady hand on my shoulder.
"We've got you."
Marcus checked his weapon—a compact pistol I hadn't noticed until then—before moving to the door. "Service elevator to the garage. We positioned the vehicle for immediate exit."
Miles slipped out first, followed by Marcus. Michael gestured for me to follow, his hand pressing lightly against the small of my back. As I stepped into the hallway, the gravity of our situation became abundantly clear. Three trained men were risking everything to protect me because I'd uncovered something that powerful people wanted to keep buried.
The service elevator was utilitarian and smelled faintly of cleaning supplies. The McCabe brothers positioned themselves around me in a protective formation that seemed instinctual rather than planned. As the elevator descended, Miles caught my eye.
He spoke conversationally as if we weren't fleeing from potential assassins. "When Michael said he was bringing you to dinner, I figured you were his usual type—not the sharpest knife and a bit of a challenge."
Michael shot his brother a warning look, but Miles continued.
"Now, I get it. You're worth the trouble, Professor."
The elevator doors opened to reveal the dim concrete expanse of the underground garage. Marcus exited first, scanning the area before signaling for us to follow. We moved quickly between parked cars toward a dark SUV with tinted windows.
"Miles drives. I ride shotgun." Marcus waved a hand to direct us. "You two in the back."
As we settled into the vehicle, Michael's hand found mine in the darkness of the backseat. His fingers wove together with mine, squeezing gently as Miles started the engine and navigated toward the exit ramp.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe." Michael's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "Somewhere they won't think to look."
I held tighter to Michael's hand as the city blurred past. My fear remained, but beneath it, something pulsed electric and vital. For the first time in a year and a half, I wasn't merely surviving. With each mile that carried us deeper into danger, I was terrifyingly alive.