Chapter 13 Marshall
MARSHALL
The bar didn’t advertise itself, and it didn’t need to.
Perhaps it had once had a sign or a name on the door, but it had long since fallen down or worn off.
The entrance was a brass-handled door beneath an unreliable streetlamp.
The kind of place that had once been a basement boiler room and still smelled faintly of coal dust.
Marshall pushed inside and let the warmth swallow him.
The lighting was low, almost reverent. Vintage Armed Forces recruitment posters papered the walls, edges curled and ink faded. Half a dozen veterans nursed drinks alone, jackets slung over chair backs. Quiet men who’d seen too much and learned not to talk about it loudly.
Ross McClain sat in the far booth, the one that wasn’t visible from the door. A tumbler sat in front of him, untouched. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his jaw said the opposite.
Marshall slid into the seat opposite him.
Ross didn’t waste time. “First thing. This meeting didn’t happen.”
“That’s becoming a theme lately,” Marshall said quietly.
Ross huffed a humorless sound. “Because our walls aren’t as clean as they used to be. I’m serious. No one at Black Tower knows this is happening.”
Which was why they were here, in a bar where the regulars knew better than to listen.
Marshall’s mind was swirling with possibilities as he observed his boss. Ross McClain was as unshakable as they come. The man had worked Secret Service for some of the highest risk targets. He’d personally foiled assassination attempts on the man who now resided in the West Wing of the White House.
But whatever was going on had McClain agitated.
It showed in the smallest flickers of his face—the brief tightening at the corner of his eyes, the barely there press of his lips before he caught himself.
Even his jaw, usually relaxed in its confidence, ticked once in a controlled, almost imperceptible shift.
He sat as if something heavier than he could name had settled on his shoulders, and his gaze swept the room in a slow, routine pass .
. . then returned a moment later, sharper, betraying a thread of worry he hadn’t meant to reveal.
Ross finally pushed the glass aside. His voice pitched lower.
“We’ve had three ops blown in the last three months.
Belfast. Moscow. Now Chicago. Different teams, different op sec protocols.
” He shook his head. “Even if ops aren’t completely sideways, there’s too much coincidence to shake it off. Someone inside Black Tower is talking.”
Marshall felt the pressure between his ribs tighten. “We’ve got a traitor?”
Ross studied him with an unnervingly perceptive look. One that had made him a successful agent and investigator long before Black Tower existed. “I trust Flint. And I trust you. And Will. Flint trusts Joey and my gut agrees. Beyond that? Everyone is on the board.”
Marshall absorbed that. Slowly. Carefully. “Ryder?” Surely Ross would tell him that he trusted his brother beyond question.
The corner of Ross’s mouth tightened, almost imperceptibly. If the person watching wasn’t an expert interrogator.
“I want to say yes. But we both know Ryder’s past. There are a lot of skeletons in that closet. And if Fiona was at risk? I think he’d burn the whole world down to protect her. Including Black Tower.”
Marshall couldn’t argue with that. Ryder’s moral compass hadn’t always pointed due north, but that man was as honorable as they came now that he’d found Christ. Ross must be seriously spooked if he was even considering Ryder as a suspect.
“Can I ask what makes you so sure you can trust Will and me?” Not that he couldn’t, but Marshall was curious how he ended up on the—very short—list of trusted operatives.
“Will is as black and white as they come. He won’t clock out fifteen minutes early without coming in thirty minutes early the next day to make up for it.
There’s a reason his handle is Square. And you?
” Ross smirked. “Marshall, you’re the most stubbornly loyal operative I’ve ever met.
Even when you’re ordered to stand down, you don’t quit.
You don’t walk away from people you care about, even when it costs you.
You’ve bled for this team. You’ve nearly died for this team.
And if someone put a knife to your throat and demanded you betray Black Tower? ”
Ross shrugged. “You’d tell them to take a hike, and you’d face the consequences head on.”
The words landed heavier than praise—because they weren’t flattery. They were the truth. Ross didn’t offer compliments. He made assessments. And Marshall felt that distinction settle under his skin like armor tightening into place.
“You know who you’d bleed for. And you know exactly how far you’d go to protect them.”
Marshall’s pulse thudded once, hard. Norah’s face flashed unbidden in his mind.
Marshall swallowed. Something old and familiar and uncomfortable twisted in his chest.
Ross continued, quieter, “I’ve only met a handful of people like that in my life. Men whose integrity wasn’t a rule they followed—it was who they were when everything else got stripped away.”
Marshall let himself consider his boss’s assessment. Did he let his integrity—his duty—become his identity?
“That kind of loyalty has a price,” Ross added, quieter now. “Most people can fake it until it hurts. You’re not one of them. That’s why you’re on the list.”
Marshall swallowed once, the only outward sign the statement meant anything to him. “Thanks.”
Ross shook his head. “I should be thanking you,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Black Tower wouldn’t be what it is without someone like you behind the scenes.”
Marshall dipped his head in acknowledgment. “So, who is threatening our team?”
Ross exhaled, rubbing his thumb against the scar on his knuckle — a habit he had when he was weighing his words. “I’ll be blunt. There are only a few people with direct access to the intel files that were compromised on the Chicago op. Connor. Joey. Will.” He hesitated.
Marshall waited.
“And Jackson.”
His pulse dropped. And his gut was now somewhere on the grungy bar floor.
Ross held his gaze. “I’m not accusing him. But the data . . . it lines up more closely to his operational footprint than anyone else’s.”
Marshall’s voice was even, but the steel was unmistakable. “Jackson wouldn’t.”
“Probably not,” Ross said. “But I can’t operate on probably.”
A muscle jumped in Marshall’s jaw. He forced his hands to remain loose on the table. “Tell me exactly what you see.”
“The Syndicate shouldn’t have known where our teams were setting up. They shouldn’t have known when we were shifting surveillance patterns. They shouldn’t have known which safehouse we were using for that Chicago extraction.” He paused. “But they did. Every time.”
“So a leak,” Marshall said.
“A pattern,” Ross corrected. “Nothing blatant. Nothing recorded. But someone with clearance is either talking, being tapped, or being imitated.”
Marshall felt that coil tighten at the base of his spine. “Where does Jackson come in?”
Ross didn’t flinch. “Two of those compromised ops happened during windows when Jackson had legitimate access to the briefs—briefs the Syndicate later reacted to. That doesn’t mean he leaked them. It means the leak happened in a window where his clearance was active.”
“That’s not proof.” Surely there was someone else who had the same access at the same times as Jackson.
“It isn’t.” Ross’s voice softened. “It could be someone spoofing his access. It could be someone trying to paint a target on him. Or it could be coincidence. But we can’t rule him out, not until the pattern breaks.”
Marshall swallowed hard, the room narrowing for a beat. “And Summit?”
“Nothing’s leaked there,” Ross said firmly.
“Not yet. Whatever’s happening with Summit, it’s clean from our end.
But the closer we get to the Syndicate, the more likely it is that the mole—whoever it is—will get wind of it.
And if they realize Norah is the key?” His eyes locked on Marshall’s.
“That’s when this becomes catastrophic.”
Marshall closed his eyes for a second, just enough to center the spike of emotion so it wouldn’t explode sideways. His brother. His team. His woman in danger. And now this.
Ross watched him. “I’m telling you because you deserve to know. And because you’re the one person who won’t ignore the possibility or abuse it.”
Marshall nodded, slow and controlled. “I’ll clear him. One way or another.”
“I expect you will.” Ross leaned back, studying him again with that layered, almost fatherly scrutiny. “Now. Summit.”
Marshall shifted, grateful for the change of topic even if it wasn’t any easier. “Norah pulled new files. Plus, she got us a backdoor for Joey.”
Ross whistled softly. “That woman’s got guts.”
“She’s got integrity,” Marshall corrected. More sharply than he intended. “And she’s not backing off.”
Ross’s brow lifted. “And how do you feel about that?”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Ross smiled—just barely—like he’d expected the silence.
“Let me tell you something, son. I married a woman who sees every crack in the foundation before I do. Strong. Stubborn. Loyal to a fault.” His smile deepened.
“Your problem isn’t that Norah’s digging.
It’s that you finally met someone who won’t let you control every detail. ”
Marshall stared at the table’s worn grain. The truth sat heavier than the untouched whiskey between them. “She’s going to get hurt.”
“Maybe. But she’s also going to expose a lot of corruption.
” Ross folded his arms. “The job isn’t to stop her from being brave.
It’s to make sure bravery doesn’t get her killed.
I tried to hold Andi back when we were working Coulter’s election detail.
Not only did it almost cost me a future with her, it almost got me killed. ”
Marshall’s throat tightened—not with fear, but with the weight of love he still wasn’t ready to name aloud.
Ross continued. “We saw chatter today between Citadel and Morris. Summit’s ‘problem’ might need to be ‘cleaned up’ if it doesn’t stop.” His tone dropped to a gravity that hit bone. “They’re talking about Norah, Marshall.”
He already knew that. It still hit like a blow.
Ross added, quietly, “If you need to pull her out, I’ll back the call.”
He shook his head. “She won’t leave.”
“You tried?”
“She thinks no one’s watching her,” he said. “She thinks she’s fine.”
“Then we’ll make sure she’s fine.”
Marshall nodded, his throat thick with emotion. He trusted Ross’s word. And if Ross promised that the entirety of Black Tower had Norah’s back? She’d be okay.
“She’s headed back home for the weekend. My sister’s wedding.”
Ross huffed a quiet, knowing sound. “Convenient timing,” he said. “Almost like the universe is giving you a clean excuse to be in the right place.”
Marshall managed a faint smile. “Yeah. Convenient.”
He thought getting out of DC for a bit was a great idea. Spending the weekend trapped in wedding festivities with Norah tempting him to cross lines he shouldn’t? Not so much.
“Go. Get out of town and keep an eye on your girl. You might even think about dancing with her.”
Marshall felt his eyes widen and Ross laughed. “Oh man. You’re toast.”
Ross stood, shrugging on his coat. “One more thing.”
Marshall looked up.
“When a woman like Norah Winslow lets you stand close enough to protect her . . .” Ross tapped the table once. “Don’t waste it. You only get one second chance.”
Then he walked out, leaving Marshall alone with the untouched whiskey glasses, the weight of the investigation, and a heart that felt pulled in three directions at once.
Protect Norah. Clear Jackson. Unmask the mole before they lost the country to people like Senator Morris and the machine behind her.
He braced both hands on the table, bowed his head, and whispered the only prayer he had left.
“God . . . don’t let me fail them.”