Chapter 6 Marshall
MARSHALL
The SUV’s engine idled low, heater humming against the cold creeping in through the windshield.
From his spot a block down, Marshall watched the mirrored face of Summit Capital throw back the city’s dying light—glass and steel reflecting gold like it didn’t know the rot under its foundation.
He’d been watching long enough for the caffeine in his paper cup to turn cold and bitter.
Every few minutes, another suit came or went, phone pressed to their ear, chasing numbers that didn’t matter.
He shouldn’t be here again. Joey’s protections were up, the damage contained, at least for now. But contained wasn’t the same as safe. And Norah Winslow had never been the kind of woman who stayed behind the caution tape.
He’d been parked there nearly an hour, watching through the windshield as the twenty-sixth floor lights flickered off one by one. The day staff had gone home. The grinders stayed late—the ones who didn’t know when to quit. Norah fell squarely into that category.
He told himself he was just making sure she left the building. That was all. Verification, not vigilance. Except he hadn’t stopped tracking the front entrance since she walked in that morning.
A faint vibration from the dash broke the silence.
President Coulter departs for two-week European trade summit.
He scanned the headline without thinking.
It was routine political fluff coverage, something unavoidable in this town.
Still, something in him logged it away in case it became relevant. Old habits.
The phone buzzed again, this time with a secure tone that let him know it was someone from Black Tower.
“Talk to me,” Marshall said as he answered.
“At ease,” Jackson drawled on the other end. “I’m here. Where are you?”
Marshall winced. Was it Thursday? They were supposed to watch the Patriots game tonight. “I need a rain check.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Jackson said. “Miranda was grumbling that your definition of downtime is surveillance.”
“Miranda should mind her business.”
“It’s just because she cares. Don’t you dare give her attitude for that.” Jackson paused. “Where are you, anyway?”
Marshall didn’t answer right away. The heater hummed softly, the city’s glow reflecting off his windshield. “Parked outside Summit.”
A low whistle came through the line. “So it’s true. Miranda said you went undercover as an investor the other morning and was kind enough to show me a picture. What was with the tie?”
“Miranda picked it,” Marshall said flatly.
Jackson laughed. “You looked like you were about to offer someone a mutual fund.”
“Cute.”
“Only if you ignore the part where you’re sitting outside the building after hours. You gonna tell me why?”
Marshall’s eyes tracked a reflection in the glass doors across the street. “Following a lead.”
“Name of the lead wouldn’t happen to rhyme with flora?”
Marshall’s jaw tightened. “Drop it.”
“I knew it.” Jackson’s tone softened. “You could’ve told me, you know. Joey’s overtime makes a lot more sense now.”
Marshall rubbed the bridge of his nose. Truth was, he didn’t trust himself to talk about Norah—not when just hearing her name knocked something loose in his chest. “It’s not personal,” he insisted. “It’s just a precaution.”
“Uh-huh,” Jackson said. “And I’m Tom Brady.”
He ignored the jab. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Well, I had plans with my big brother tonight, but the jerk bailed on me.”
Marshall exhaled, a small admission sliding out. “I really am sorry. I lost track of time.”
Jackson snorted. “So what’s the plan, Marsh? Sit out there all night until she leaves?”
Marshall’s gaze stayed on the third window from the left on the twenty-sixth floor. “I’m just making sure she gets home safe.”
“You do realize we’re supposed to observe people of interest, not babysit them.”
He didn’t look away. “Same thing tonight.”
There was a beat of silence on the line. “You can’t keep doing this, man. You know how it ends when you try to save someone who doesn’t want saving.”
Marshall’s grip on the phone tightened. He knew Jackson was referencing an operation in the Middle East. But he remembered another night, another goodbye, another version of her watching him walk away. He’d sworn he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He watched the lights in her office blink off, one by one, like falling dominos.
“Then I’ll make her want it,” he said quietly.
Jackson let out a long sigh—half concern, half resignation. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Copy that. Try not to get arrested for loitering.”
The line clicked dead.
Marshall sat for another minute, phone still in his hand, the Patriots game long forgotten.
The engine hummed low as he watched people filter out of the building.
A courier hauled catering boxes to a black SUV.
Two people met and embraced on the sidewalk.
Normal thing. Things that didn’t belong in the same universe as what he was doing.
It was a wonder he could even have a normal conversation.
His life felt so far removed from the people he watched, just existing in the serene ignorance of someone who didn’t realize the forces at play in the world.
He told himself it was just procedure, and that he was just keeping her safe until they confirmed the trail went cold. But at 7:48 p.m., when the revolving doors turned again and Norah stepped into the streetlight, every argument for control suddenly felt paper thin.
She had her blazer folded over one arm, heels clicking against the pavement, her stride brisk but too measured, like she was thinking more than walking. He remembered that look—the one she wore before an argument, before an exam, before every moment she pretended she wasn’t afraid.
Norah paused under the awning, thumb swiping over her phone, face lit by its glow. For a second, she looked like anyone else leaving work after too long a day. For a second, he almost let her be.
Then she crossed the street toward the Metro, and instinct overruled reason.
He killed the engine and got out. The air bit colder once he was moving, the city noise collapsing into the rhythmic click of her heels and the echo of his own footsteps following a half beat behind.
“Working late again?”
Norah stopped short, surprise flashing across her face before she smoothed it away. “Marshall.” Her voice came out quiet, even, but he caught the tension in it.
He gave a small, practiced smile. “You shouldn’t be here alone after hours.”
Her brows drew together. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on my schedule now.” Her eyes sparked, and for a second, he saw the same stubborn defiance that had once wrecked him. “You don’t get to decide what’s safe for me, Marshall. You never did.”
He almost smiled—not because it was funny, but because it was so perfectly her.
Always ready to swing, even when she didn’t know where the punches were coming from.
“You’re in deeper than you understand,” he said, voice low.
“Summit isn’t clean. And NorthBridge is—” He stopped himself.
Too much, too fast. “You’ve already shown up on the wrong radar. ”
“Then maybe you should stop watching it.” She stepped to move past him. “There is something up with the NorthBridge files, and I’m protecting Summit. That’s my job. And I’m very good at it.”
He shifted, blocking her. “Let me put it a different way.” His tone dropped another octave, quiet enough that only she could hear.
“There are people who’d love to make an example out of a mid-level analyst who pushed the wrong pattern at the wrong time.
You keep digging, and you’ll light yourself up for every one of them. ”
She tilted her head and the streetlight caught on the dark gloss of her hair. Her arms folded across her chest, bag strap pressing against her elbow. “Amazing. You still think you know better.”
He swallowed the frustration before it could show. Pride was cheaper than funerals. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, “and I’ll walk away.”
Her mouth twitched. “Yeah. You’ve had some practice with that.”
That hit harder than he liked. He shifted his stance, one hand tightening inside his pocket where she couldn’t see. She’s right. He could read a stranger’s tells in under a minute, but with her, he didn’t have to. He remembered every single one.
“Hale can’t protect you from this.”
Color crept into her throat. “I trust Richard, and he trusts me.”
He ignored the stab of jealousy at the familiarity with which she said his name. She cared about him. And that made Marshall nearly hate him already. “So now you’re trying to get proof.” His gaze flicked to her bag.
Her fingers curled around the strap, and she looked past him down the sidewalk. “Leave, Marshall.”
He stayed put. “Even Melissa told you to back off.”
Her head snapped back toward him. “You talked to Melissa?”
“Flint’s tip came from the SEC,” he said, tone calm, controlled. “Some people there talk when they’re worried. You called a friend. She did what she could. Now I’m doing what I can.”
“Controlling the variables,” she said softly, bitterness undercutting the words.
“Protecting the asset,” he corrected—and immediately regretted it. He could feel the words hang between them, heavy and ugly. “That’s not what I meant.”
Her eyes hardened. “No. You said exactly what you meant.”
He dragged a hand over his jaw. “You want me to say it differently? Fine. I don’t want you hurt. You specifically, No-No.”
The second the nickname slipped out, he wished he could snatch it from the air and stuff it back in. But it was too late for that. “There. Plain English,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I’m trying to protect you from your own bravery.”
She studied him for a long beat, the kind of silence that had weight. “I’m not brave, Marshall. I’m thorough. If I walk away from something like this, I’m not me.”