10. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The Nevada desert looks dead at night.
Miles of black highway. Dry wind. Empty land stretching endlessly beneath a moon bright enough to silver the mountains in the distance.
Perfect place for a ransom exchange.
Which probably explains why rich criminals keep choosing locations like this despite the fact half the Grayline team wants to die every time we leave humidity.
“I hate sand,” Wheels mutters from the driver’s seat of the armored SUV. “This whole state feels hostile.”
“You say that every time we travel west,” Matt says through the comms.
“Because I’m correct every time.”
Bullet sits silent beside me in the backseat, sniper rifle balanced calmly across his lap while his eyes track the darkness beyond the windows with the kind of stillness that usually terrifies people smart enough to notice it.
Unfortunately for him, none of us are smart enough anymore.
The SUV bumps hard over uneven gravel as we approach the abandoned processing plant currently housing one kidnapped billionaire’s wife and approximately six men stupid enough to think extorting her husband was a survivable long-term business plan.
Personally, I give them another hour.
Maybe two if they surrender quickly.
“Thermals still showing six?” Matt asks.
I glance toward the left monitor mounted beside my laptop. “Six inside. Two on exterior rotation. One heat signature upstairs separate from the others.”
“Wife?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?” Wheels echoes through the front seat. “That’s comforting.”
I ignore him on principle.
The processing plant blueprint glows across the main screen while surveillance feeds flicker beside it. Entry points. Motion paths. Weapons scans.
And in the upper right corner—Maeve.
The fundraiser feed runs silently above everything else.
Champagne-colored silk drapes against her body while crystal lights glitter overhead, her dark auburn hair curled and pinned elegantly above her shoulders tonight.
Beautiful in the kind of effortless way that doesn’t fully register at first until you realize your attention keeps drifting back toward her no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere.
I hate that I notice things like that now.
Not because noticing women is unusual.
Because I notice her.
Specifically.
The way she smiles with her whole face around certain people. The way she adjusts earrings when anxious. The way exhaustion settles behind her eyes faster lately.
My brain catalogs details about Maeve Gallagher automatically now whether I want it to or not. That should concern me more than it does.
“She’s at another fundraiser?” Bullet asks quietly beside me without looking at the screen.
Interesting.
Apparently I’m not subtle anymore either.
“Mm.”
“Fancy stalker behavior,” Wheels says immediately.
“It’s surveillance.” I don't glance up from the screen.
“You know her favorite tea.” Wheels murmurs.
“That’s operational awareness.”
Matt’s voice cuts through the comms before Wheels can continue his harassment. “Focus.”
The entire SUV settles instantly. That’s the thing about Matt. He rarely raises his voice because he doesn’t have to.
Everyone straightens anyway.
I shift attention back toward the mission feeds while the processing plant grows larger through the windshield ahead. Exterior guards rotating every forty-three seconds. Rear entrance unsecured. Upper east windows partially boarded.
Sloppy setup.
Military-grade weapons. Civilian-level planning.
Classic ego problem.
Beside the blueprint, Maeve laughs softly at something one of the donors says.
And there it is again. That strange tightness low beneath my ribs. Because she looks beautiful tonight, yes. But that’s not the part I can’t stop watching.
It’s the performance.
The way she moves through rooms like she was trained to make people comfortable before they even realize they need it. The ease in her body around everyone else. The careful warmth in her smiles.
And then—Ronan steps into frame.
Everything changes instantly. Most people would never notice it.
I do.
Maeve’s shoulders stiffen first. Then her smile shifts.
Not disappearing. Worse. Flattening.
Like someone quietly pulled her backward inside herself.
I tap my leg twice while I watch a few words pass between them too quietly for even enhanced audio to fully catch through the ballroom noise. Ronan says something. Maeve responds.
Then her expression goes distant.
Gone.
Like she’s physically standing there while mentally retreating somewhere else entirely. I stare at the screen harder without realizing it. There. That look.
I’ve been seeing it more often lately.
The same empty disconnected expression she gets after certain conversations with him. The one where she suddenly seems smaller despite standing perfectly straight.
I hate that look.
The realization lands fast and sharp enough to unsettle me.
Not concern. Not professional frustration.
Hate. Actual hate.
Something cold moves low in my chest while Ronan removes the plate from her hands and passes it to a waiter without even looking at her.
My jaw tightens instantly.
What the fuck was that?
Maeve’s fingers flex once at her side before she smooths her expression again for the surrounding guests.
Smile restored. Performance resumed.
Like nothing happened.
“She’s dissociating.” The words leave my mouth before I fully realize I’m speaking aloud.
Silence crackles briefly through the comms.
Then Wheels says carefully, “You know that’s somehow creepier than the stalking, right?”
I blink once. Huh. Maybe.
Before I can answer, Matt’s voice snaps sharply through the headset. “Movement east side. Skee, eyes up.”
The mission slams back into focus. Thermal feed. Weapon signatures. Guard rotation shifting.
I shove the Maeve feed smaller into the upper corner of the screen and lean forward slightly while adrenaline settles cold and familiar through my bloodstream.
There you are. This part I understand.
“Exterior rotation changed,” I say quickly while fingers fly across the keyboard. “Guard three moved off pattern. He’s checking the northeast entry.”
“Made?” Bullet asks calmly.
“Negative. Probably piss break.”
“Classy.” Bullet huffs beside me while shifting his rifle.
I pull up secondary drone footage while the SUV lights cut out completely around us.
Darkness swallows the desert instantly.
And somewhere in the corner of my laptop screen, Maeve Gallagher keeps smiling at strangers while looking completely alone.
***
By the time I get back to my apartment after Nevada, my brain feels like static.
The mission ended clean. Hostage recovered. Minimal casualties. Matt satisfied. Which meant technically it counted as a good week for Grayline.
Still, something restless sits beneath my skin tonight, impossible to settle no matter how many systems I monitor at once.
The Office plays in the background while I sit sideways on the couch in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, one foot hooked beneath the opposite knee. My laptop glows beside me with Gallagher estate feeds running across one screen while Ronan’s financial records crawl slowly across another.
Money laundering. Shell companies. Offshore routing.
Nothing concrete enough yet.
But something is there.
I know it.
At the top corner of the surveillance feed, Maeve moves slowly through the upstairs hallway in soft gray sleep clothes with a mug tucked between both hands.
My eyes drift toward her automatically.
Which is becoming a problem.
I don’t notice the apartment door opening until someone drops onto the couch hard enough to jolt the cushions beneath me.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Wheels says beside me. “Your situational awareness is garbage lately.”
I barely glance up from the laptop. “I saw you coming.”
“Bullshit.”
I point lazily toward the bottom corner of the television screen where the apartment building security feed runs silently beside The Office rerun.
Wheels follows the direction of my finger.
The camera shows him entering the building lobby four minutes earlier carrying takeout and wearing the exact same hoodie he’s had since deployment three years ago because apparently laundry is optional when you’re Raymond Barlow.
“…Okay that’s fair,” he admits.
“I literally unlocked the front door remotely.”
“Honestly somehow that’s creepier.”
He steals the beer sitting on the coffee table and leans back into the couch like he lives here while I go back to scanning financial reports.
“You’ve got the personality of a haunted Ikea showroom in here,” he mutters while looking around.
“That feels unnecessarily specific.”
“You have gray curtains.”
“They’re practical.”
“You own one plant and I think it’s dead.”
I glance toward the windowsill.
Huh. It is dead. Interesting.
Wheels follows my line of sight before snorting loudly. “Jesus Christ.”
“I travel.”
For about thirty seconds, neither of us says anything.
Then he looks at me. “You’re doing it again.”
I don’t look up. “Doing what?”
“The weird staring thing.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re emotionally cyber-haunting a redhead.”
“That is not a sentence.”
“It absolutely is.”
I exhale slowly through my nose while typing another command line.
Beside me, Wheels watches the surveillance feed quietly for a second too long.
Maeve disappears into the guest bathroom upstairs. The only room in the house without cameras.
My chest tightens automatically.
Unfortunately, Wheels notices that too.
“There it is,” he says.
I glance over finally. “What?”
“That face.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The one where you look like somebody just kicked a puppy emotionally.”
“That’s not a real expression.”
“It is now.”
I hate that he’s observant when he wants to be.
Wheels twists slightly on the couch to face me more fully. “Seriously, man. What’s going on with you?”
The question settles heavier than it should. Mostly because I don’t have a good answer.
Rain taps softly against the apartment windows while Michael Scott screams about bankruptcy in the background.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally.
Wheels goes still beside me. Not joking now. That alone feels dangerous.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I scrub one hand down my jaw slowly, eyes drifting back toward the laptop screen again. Maeve still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.
“She just…” I pause. “Something feels wrong there.”
“With Gallagher?”
“With all of it.”
Wheels waits. And because he’s one of the only people on earth capable of sitting through silence without forcing it smaller, I keep talking.
“At first I thought maybe Gallagher was just controlling.” I shrug lightly. “Rich men get weird about appearances. Security. Image.”
“And now?”
I stare harder at the screen. “Now I think she’s disappearing.”
The words leave before I can rethink them.
Wheels’ expression shifts slightly. Not mocking anymore. Not teasing. Understanding.
“That’s dramatic as hell,” he says carefully.
“I’m aware.”
“But?”
“But I watch her around other people.” I lean back harder into the couch cushions. “She’s there. Fully there. Then he walks into the room and suddenly it’s like…” I struggle briefly for the wording. “Like she starts editing herself in real time.”
Wheels is quiet for a moment after that. “Well that’s deeply horrifying.”
“Correct.”
“And now you’re cyber-stalking her because your brain thinks it’s protecting her.”
“It’s surveillance.”
Wheels stares at me.
I stare back.
“…You hear how insane that sounds, right?” he asks finally.
Honestly? A little.
I lean forward to grab my beer from the coffee table only to realize Wheels already drank half of it.
Rude.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I admit quietly.
That gets his attention more than anything else so far. Because Keaton Vance understanding things is generally one of the more reliable laws of nature.
Wheels shifts farther into the couch, one arm stretching across the back cushions while he studies me carefully.
“You like her.”
“I barely know her.”
“You know what tea she drinks.”
“That information arrived incidentally.”
“You know her sleep schedule.”
“She paces when anxious.”
I hate this conversation.
Wheels laughs before nudging my shoulder once with his fist. “Man, all of us are emotionally screwed up.”
“That feels medically accurate.”
“Before the military we were already disasters. Then the government gave us trauma and weapons.”
“Excellent long-term strategy.”
“Honestly? Probably not.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly.
Wheels grins immediately like he won something. “There you are,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been disappearing into your own head lately.”
The comment lands harder than expected. Because he’s right.
Everything lately feels split between: real life and the Gallagher surveillance feed.
Like half my brain permanently lives inside that estate now.
And the worst part?
I’m not entirely sure I want it back.
Wheels glances toward the laptop again where Maeve finally emerges from the bathroom with red-rimmed eyes and a carefully blank expression.
Something cold twists beneath my ribs.
I sit forward automatically.
Wheels watches the movement, saying nothing. “There it is again.”
I don’t look away from the screen. “What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you care.”
Silence settles heavily between us.
Onscreen, Maeve disappears down the hallway toward the master suite.
And for the first time since this whole thing started—I realize Wheels might actually be right.