Epilogue - Mac
Six Months Later
I beat Eamon to the office by seven minutes.
I knew because I was watching the security feed when his gray Honda pulled in—the same car he refused to upgrade despite my offers. He parked in the corner spot, not his assigned one. Clear exit route. Old habits.
The warehouse we'd converted still smelled like fresh paint: exposed brick, iron beams, and windows facing Elliott Bay. My aesthetic filtered through Eamon's practicality. Clean lines, warm wood, and furniture people actually wanted to sit in.
The sign outside—THE GUARDIANS, brushed steel, simple—had been Eamon's only demand.
"People either trust us or they don't," he'd said. "A fancy sign won't change that."
He'd been right.
He walked through the door, took one look at the coffee pot. "That's not coffee. That's caffeinated hostility."
"Builds character."
"Builds ulcers." He poured a cup anyway. Two sugars, stirred counterclockwise exactly four times. I'd watched him do it at least a hundred mornings.
Through the eastern windows, Elliott Bay caught early summer sun, the water hammered flat and bright. Ferry trails cut white lines across the gray-blue. I could smell the market when the wind was right—salt and fish and roasting coffee.
Home.
Not the condo I'd sold the month before. Not Phoenix, where my agent still fielded offers I kept declining. Here. This brick-and-glass space that we'd built with my endorsement bonuses, a small chunk of my retirement fund, and a shared understanding that protection shouldn't feel like prison.
Footsteps on the iron stairs—the ones that announced everyone. Michael appeared on the mezzanine with case files and his travel mug.
"You're both psychotic," he called down. "It's not even seven."
"Says the man already working," I shot back.
He vanished into the glass-walled conference room, pinning photos to the case board: a senator's family, a tech CEO, and someone's daughter receiving concerning letters. We were booked through October.
Eamon crossed to the main case board, updating timelines in his precise handwriting. Morning sun caught the copper color in his beard. His left shoulder moved stiffly as he reached to mark a date. He saw me watching.
"Don't," he said without turning.
"Wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it." He lowered his arm slowly and rotated his shoulder. Grimaced. "It's worse in the morning. Gets better once I move."
I crossed to him. Put my hand on his back, my thumb finding the scar through his shirt.
"Bad night?" I asked quietly.
"Couldn't find a position that didn't pull." He turned to face me, and there was something raw in his expression. "Some mornings I can't lift my arm higher than my chest. The PT says it might always be like this."
"Does that bother you?"
"No." He reached for my hand and threaded our fingers together. "It reminds me what matters. That I made the right choice."
"Yeah," I said. "You did."
The door opened again. It was Miles. He was early for the crisis communication workshop he was teaching our new hires. Alex followed him with pastries, kissing Michael through the conference room door.
We settled into a usual morning rhythm. Phones. Emails.
My mother stopped by at 10:30 with tea and a lecture about the dying office plants.
"I'll bring replacements," she said, studying the struggling ficus. "With instructions. Written down."
She squeezed my hand—brief, warm—and left.
Eamon appeared at my shoulder. "Michael needs you upstairs. Client questions about venue access."
"Five minutes."
He wrapped an arm around me while waiting.
"You ever have second thoughts?" I asked. "About all this?"
He smiled. "Every day."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Every day I think about how close I came to saying no. To walking away." He lifted our joined hands, kissed my knuckles—the pressure was warm and deliberate. "And then I remember you told me you had faith in me from the beginning. You trusted me before I trusted myself."
I kissed him, tasting coffee and his mint toothpaste.
Michael leaned over the railing. "You two done?"
Eamon squeezed my hand once more and headed back to his desk.
I climbed the iron stairs, smiling.
My office doubled as command center and the face we showed the world. One wall was all screens—client feeds scrolling in real time. The senator's detail in DC, the tech billionaire's family in San Francisco, and security advance for a film festival in Vancouver.
I was wearing jeans and sneakers. Hair uncombed. The relaxed posture of a man who didn't miss the cameras.
Sometimes I still got phantom nerves before I checked my phone—the muscle memory of a life spent bracing for criticism and proof that I was performing wrong. Now, baseball was someone else's story.
I didn't miss it as much as I thought I would.
I missed the precision and discipline. The chess match of reading a pitcher, knowing when to swing, and when to wait. But I didn't miss being watched. Didn't miss the weight of representing something larger than myself.
Here, the only person I represented was myself.
An investor call came in at eleven. New York money wanting to help expand our West Coast operations, maybe open a Portland branch. The guy on the other end had done his research—kept mentioning my "unique perspective" and "built-in media connections."
Code for: you're famous and gay and you can sell that.
"Here's the thing," I said finally. "We're not interested in expansion right now. We're interested in doing this right. And doing it right means staying small enough to actually know our clients' names."
"But the market opportunity—"
I kept my voice calm and easy. "We appreciate the interest. If that changes, we'll call you."
I ended the call before he could counteroffer.
Eamon appeared in the doorway. He leaned his good shoulder against the frame.
"Turning down money," he said. "Bold."
"Turning down bullshit. Practical."
He crossed to my desk and spun my chair so I was facing him. His hands found my hips, thumbs pressing against bone through my jeans.
I pulled him down for a kiss. When we broke apart, he was still smiling.
He returned to his office, and I thought about the file that left an empty spot in my drawer.
Two weeks earlier, I'd taken it to Eamon and said, "I don't need to keep carrying this." We'd shredded it together, fed the pieces to the office shredder, and watched Vanessa Kensington's case turn into confetti.
She was in a psychiatric forensic unit outside Tacoma. Getting treatment she should've had years ago. Her art therapy output had made the news once, with intricate charcoal sketches of museum artifacts. People online called it haunting.
I called it proof that precision without humanity was merely empty technique.
I hoped she was getting better and that she understood what she'd done, and what she'd tried to do.
Eamon never asked if I thought about her. His silence meant he already knew the answer.
My phone buzzed.
Claire: New piece finished. Coming by Friday with plants. Don't water old ones before I get there.
The week before, she'd sent me a photo of her latest work—a bowl she'd let collapse on the wheel, then rebuilt and re-fired. She filled the cracks with gold.
Some breaks made you stronger. Some cracks let the light through.
Mac: Plants will survive until Friday. Probably.
The office phone rang—Ma, asking if we were coming to Sunday dinner, reminding me she was making Uncle Graham's stew, saying Eamon looked too thin in a way that meant she thought we both worked too hard.
"We'll be there," I promised. "And Ma? He's fine. We both are."
"You're doing good work, sweetheart." Her voice softened. "Your father would be proud."
Eamon appeared in my doorway again. "Michael brought me something. It's a request from the management of a K-pop group on a world tour. Violet Frequency."
"And?"
"And they need protection. High-profile. International. Credible threats. The lead vocalist is twenty-three and terrified."
I thought about being twenty-three and famous. About what it had cost me.
"You should take it," I said.
He turned to face me fully. "It's three months. I'd be gone most of that time."
"You'd be doing what you're best at. And I'd be here, keeping things running. Same as always."
"This is different."
"Because it's bigger? Or because you think I can't handle the office without you?"
"Because I'd miss you." Simple. Honest. "Three months is a long time."
"We've survived worse."
His laugh was soft. "Yeah. We have."
Later that night, we were still at the office. We had case files spread out on the conference room table—active clients, with details about the constant work of keeping people safe.
My phone rang. Michael's name was on the screen.
I put it on speaker. "You're working late."
"Says the guy still at the office." His voice was slightly edgy. "Got an update on that L.A. call. Violet Frequency's management wants to move fast. They've had two more incidents this week—someone breached hotel security in Tokyo, and they got a backstage surprise in Bangkok. The band's scared."
Eamon looked up from the file he was reading.
"They want our best on this," Michael continued. "Someone who can coordinate international security, work with local law enforcement in six countries, and handle the logistics of protecting five people in front of stadium crowds. Someone who understands what it's like being watched every second."
"That's a tall order," I said.
"That's why they're willing to pay what they're offering." A pause. "They need an answer by tomorrow morning."
I glanced at Eamon. He was studying the file Michael had sent earlier—glossy photos of five young men in stage makeup, press clippings in Korean and English, security reports that read like nightmares.
"Send everything you have," Eamon said. "Full threat assessment, their current security setup, and venue details."
"Already in your inbox."
"We'll have an answer by morning."
Michael was quiet for a moment. "Are you actually considering taking this yourself?"
"I'm considering what they need." Eamon's voice was calm and professional. "Not the same thing."
"Fair enough. Get some sleep. Both of you."
Michael hung up.
Eamon opened his laptop and pulled up the files. I watched him work.
"You don't have to do this," I said.
"I know."
"But you want to."
He looked at me. "I want to help them."
He scrolled through threat assessments. Concert venues across Asia, Europe, and North America. Millions of people who knew exactly where these five men would be and when.
I leaned against the table. "The lead vocalist. Kim Haneul. That's who needs it most?"
"Yeah. Stage name Han." Eamon pulled up a photo—young and handsome, styled within an inch of his life, but I saw something genuine underneath. "Twenty-three. Gets the most attention. The most threats. The most pressure."
"They need someone who understands what that's like," I said quietly. "Being watched all the time. Never being safe."
"Yeah." Eamon closed the laptop. Looked at me. "They do."
Outside, the city glittered—Elliott Bay dark except for reflected lights, the ferry crossing toward Bainbridge.
"I know precisely the man for the job," Eamon said.
***
Thank you for reading Beyond Protection, the fifth book in the First In Line series.