Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
FLINT
Mallory arrived at the studio flanked by two FBI agents who looked like they’d been told, very explicitly, what would happen to them if anything went wrong.
Neither of them was Brewster. That was the first problem, though, it pleased me more than it should. The guy was doing his job, but he rubbed me the wrong way.
The second problem was that she didn’t look bothered by it. I might not like their relationship, but I also had no idea what the hell was going on.
Mallory and her escort parked in the garage beneath the building. My paranoia had the cameras up everywhere—including there. It was how I knew she’d arrived.
She stepped out of the black SUV with the same controlled economy she always had—chin level, shoulders squared, posture tuned to cameras even when there weren’t any aimed at her yet.
The agents flanking her were competent enough, but they didn’t know her.
Not really. They watched the perimeter. She watched the elevator bank.
Different instincts. Different stakes.
They bypassed the standard elevators and went straight to the executive, It allowed her to bypass stops at every other floor and limited her exposure.
It would bring her all the way up to me.
I left my office and headed straight for the hall and the elevators.
Staff was limited on the executive and studio floors and we’d been vetting the staff.
Once the doors opened to reveal her and the team, I met her gaze. “Mallory,” I said, keeping my voice even.
For a fraction of a second the mask slipped. It wasn’t fear, relief, or grief—it was exhaustion. Then a flicker of a smile touched her lips. “Flint.”
Just my name. No qualifier. No question or answers about Brewster’s locations. The omission seemed significant, but I wasn’t going to ask.
“You okay?” I asked.
She gave me a wry look as I motioned her toward the conference and the coffee, as well as food, I’d already had brought in for us. “Define okay.”
Fair.
The agents hovered, uncertain whether they were supposed to follow or wait. Mallory glanced back at them, then at me.
“I’m with him,” she said calmly. Not asking. Telling.
One of the agents hesitated. The other checked his earpiece. I watched the calculation play out—protocol versus optics versus the reality that Mallory McBryan was not a woman you physically corralled without consequences.
“Conference room,” I said. “Glass walls. Visibility. You can hold the hall.”
That settled it. They nodded and peeled off. Once Mallory was inside the room, I closed the door behind us and took a deep breath of the coffee filling the air. The hints of grease and pastries underscored it. But then, all I’d asked for were coffees and breakfast sandwiches.
Mallory exhaled—not shaky, not dramatic. Just the controlled release of someone who’d been holding tension in reserve.
“He’s in D.C.,” she said, preempting the question. “They called him last night, he was briefing first thing this morning.”
“I figured.”
She studied my face. “You don’t look surprised.”
“I’m not.” I passed her one of the coffees before taking a long drink of my own. The frothy milk helped my stomach. At the rate I was popping antacids, the coffee was going to eat a hole through me before anything else.
That earned me a look—sharp, assessing. “What are you thinking?” No accusation, but a weighted measurement of my observational skills. If I were younger, I’d have preened under that idea of her approval—of her interest.
“I don’t think anything Brewster does isn’t calculated for maximum effect whether it’s talking to his bosses, making a grocery list, or rearranging pieces on a chess board.”
She considered that. Then: “That’s not comforting.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t have any pretty platitudes to offer her. “It’s not meant to be.”
I waved her to a seat as I shifted to the wall of monitors. It wasn’t quite the control room in the studio, but it definitely gave us a full view of everything running at the moment.
The studio below was already buzzing—producers whispering, assistants moving with rehearsed urgency, screens lit with half-built graphics and rolling metrics.
Just a glance at the screens told me that her presence in the building had been noted.
People straightened, shot glances at the elevators, and checked their phones.
They knew she was here and were waiting for their first look.
Power did that. Then again, so did danger.
Around us, the glass walls gave us the illusion of privacy without actually granting it—at least from prying eyes. The triple-paned glass was soundproof. Mallory set her bag down and rolled her shoulders once, loosening tension she’d been carrying too long.
“You’re quiet,” she said before she finally took a drink of her coffee, though she ignored my invitation to sit. Despite the fact she wasn’t pacing, there was a kind of frenetic energy surrounding her.
“I’m thinking.”
“That usually means trouble.”
“Usually,” I agreed.
She turned to face me fully then, arms crossing—not defensively, but to anchor herself. The dress she’d worn on air yesterday was gone, replaced by tailored black slacks and a silk blouse she hadn’t bothered to button all the way. Professional. Composed.
Still dangerous.
“I know what they’re saying,” she said quietly. “About me.”
“Of course you do.” If she had tried to say the least surprising thing to me, that would have been it.
“They think I’m bait.” Hard to tell what she thought of that assessment, but the wrinkle of her nose said dislike was definitely topping the list.
“They think you’re leverage,” I corrected. Then flipped open the takeout boxes to pull out the grilled ham, cheese, and egg stuffed sandwich that smelled like heaven’s best of bad decisions. “There’s a difference.”
Her mouth tightened. “That’s worse.”
“Yes.” I glanced at her just in time to catch her making a face at me. Amused, I took a bite of one of the sandwiches, careful to not let any of the grease get on my shirt. In fact, I paused to wipe off my fingers and toss my tie back so it didn’t hang down, then leaned over the containers.
Better. Silence settled—not awkward, not empty. Charged. This was the line I’d shut years ago, one I’d sworn I wouldn’t cross. Hadn’t when I’d been married. Wouldn’t when she’d been involved and I got divorced. Kept it delineated clearly when I took the job and she started working for me.
“Eat,” I said, washing down a bite with coffee.
“Not really hungry,” she murmured, but she did sip her coffee as she began a slow pace of the conference room.
“You shouldn’t be alone today,” I said.
She paused, then tilted her head. I could just catch the motion from the corner of my eye. Despite her stare, I didn’t turn to look at her.
“I’m not,” she said.
We both knew she wasn’t talking about the agents.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The honesty between us was a thing you had to handle carefully. Like nitroglycerin. One wrong movement and everything went up.
“I’m not asking you to protect me,” she said.
“You would never,” I told her bluntly and earned a faint smile in return along with an almost helpless shrug. Like what did I expect?
That, I expected that, but I didn’t comment.
“I am asking you to keep working with me.” As loaded invitations went, that one threatened to crush me.
I let out a slow breath. “Those are not the same thing.”
“No,” she agreed. “But they’re adjacent.”
There it was. The edge.
I’d shut that door a long time ago because I knew exactly what was on the other side. Because once opened, it didn’t close again. Not cleanly. Not without cost. And because Mallory McBryan didn’t do half-measures.
The fact she was opening the door right now…
Before I could respond, Reardon shoved his way inside without knocking.
Because of course he did.
Mallory didn’t turn.
I did.
“Reardon,” I said. Flat. Neutral. A name stripped of courtesy.
“Flint.” His gaze slid between us, measuring distance, posture, alignment. He clocked proximity the way men like him always did—not to understand it, but to calculate how much it cost. “We need to talk.”
“We’re talking,” I said.
He smiled a little wider, as if indulging a child. “About optics.”
Mallory turned then, slow and deliberate. “If this is about yesterday’s numbers—”
“It’s about tomorrow’s,” Reardon cut in smoothly. “And the next day. And the day after that.” His attention locked on her now, undiluted. “It’s about whether Washington decides you’re still worth the exposure.”
I felt the shift beside me—the way her spine straightened, the way she didn’t step back.
“Careful,” she said. Calm. Cold. “You’re drifting from concern to threat.”
Reardon smiled faintly. “No. I’m still firmly in concern.” He spread his hands in a suggestion of geniality he’d never possessed. “Threats are explicit. This is just how things tend to go.”
“Concern doesn’t usually require leverage,” she replied.
Reardon’s eyes flicked to me, then back to her. “But everything uses leverage,” he said. “The only variable is who’s holding it.”
That was his tell.
Not fear. Not irritation. Hunger.
This wasn’t about compliance or caution or even ratings. Reardon didn’t want the story. He wanted possession of the voice telling it—wanted to decide when she spoke, how far she went, and when she went quiet.
“I’m not your liability,” Mallory said evenly. “I’m your asset.”
His smile thinned—not gone, just sharpened. “Assets depreciate,” he said. “Especially the volatile ones.”
I heard it then—the unspoken part he didn’t need to say out loud. And when they do, you divest.
The air between us went brittle.
Mallory didn’t blink. “Then you should be asking yourself,” she said, “how much it costs you when the audience realizes you tried to muzzle the only person telling them the truth.”
Reardon studied her for a long moment. Not offended. Not angry. Recalculating.
“Well,” he said finally, pleasant as ever. “That depends on whether you’re still telling it on our platform.”
He let that sit.
Then he nodded once, as if the conversation had already concluded in his favor. “Think about it,” he added. “I’ll expect your answer soon.”
He walked away without waiting for one.
Because men like Reardon never waited.
They assumed.
I stepped forward then. Just enough to shift the balance.
“She’s not up for internal speculation today,” I said. “Or external pressure.”
Reardon’s gaze snapped to me. Cold. Measuring. “You’re not her lawyer.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be the one who keeps your newsroom from bleeding out when this explodes.”
That landed.
He recalibrated. “We’ll revisit this.”
“You won’t,” Mallory said.
With something like irritation flickering over his face, Reardon turned an icy glare back at her. “You’re pushing too hard.”
She smiled. Not sweetly. “I’m pushing exactly as hard as I need to.”
Reardon held her gaze a beat longer, then nodded once. “Enjoy your autonomy while it lasts.”
When he left, the room felt cleaner.
Mallory didn’t speak right away. She moved to the window, staring out at the city like it owed her something.
“He thinks I’ll break,” she said finally.
“He’s wrong.”
That softened something in her expression. Just a fraction.
“Flint…” She hesitated. Rare for her. “If this goes where I think it’s going—”
“I know.”
“You don’t,” she countered. “Because if you did, you’d already be telling me to stop.”
I stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching.
“Listen to me,” I said quietly. “The only thing keeping us from crossing a line right now is that I shut that door a long time ago.”
Her breath caught.
“And if you open it?” she asked.
I held her gaze. “Then we don’t get to close it again.”
The words hung between us—heavy, intimate, dangerous. Her phone buzzed, and the moment broke.
She looked down, scrolling, brow furrowing. “The messages are wrong.”
“I know.”
“Too fast,” she continued. “Too clean. Like someone fed my voice into a machine. It’s just regurgitating it to underscore their agenda. Whatever the hell that agenda is.”
“Someone did,” I said.
She looked up sharply. “You think this isn’t just trolls?”
“I think you’re right about someone’s agenda. I also think it’s a lot more than one.”
That seemed to have chilled her.
Across the room, one of the agents knocked lightly on the glass. “Ms. McBryan?”
She squared her shoulders again. Armor back in place. “Yes?”
“Agents Hale and Brewster want you back at the safe house.”
“Time?” she asked me.
“Soon,” I said. “But not today. Take a day, let yourself grieve.”
“I can’t,” she admitted, a little hollow at that. “Not yet.”
The urge to comfort her was right there, but that wasn’t what she needed. With a sigh, I said, “Then take the time. We give this another day.”
She nodded, trusting me with the timing. That trust was its own kind of intimacy.
“And take the food with you,” I said, shuttling one of the takeout containers into her hands. “You need to eat.”
With a faint smirk, she said, “You worry too much.” Then she was stepping out through the door the agents held wide. I watched her go, professional distance restored.
I followed to watch her go and as the elevator doors closed, I blew out a breath. I was still watching the elevator indicator descend when my phone rang.
Brewster.
I answered without greeting.
“You need to lock the building down,” he said. No preamble. No explanation.
My spine went cold.
“Why?”
A pause—short, deliberate.
“Because Reardon isn’t the one applying pressure,” Brewster said. “And whoever is just made a move.”
“Mallory just left.”
“I know,” Brewster said.
A beat.
“I’ll take care of Mallory.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, every instinct I had catching fire at once.
Reardon needed dealing with.
But Brewster needed answering.
Whatever was coming next was already here.