Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
MALLORY
The garage felt wrong the second the elevator doors opened. Not dangerous—yet. Just… off. Too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence, but from intention.
The two agents flanked me as we stepped out, their shoes echoing sharply against the concrete. No conversation. No idle murmurs into earpieces. No casual updates traded under breath. Every movement was precise, economical. Purpose-built.
Routine didn’t feel like this.
I slowed my stride just enough to notice the details—the black SUV idling near the exit ramp, engine already running. One agent adjusted his grip on the door handle as if timing mattered. As if I were already late.
I wasn’t.
I stopped walking.
The agents didn’t—at first. Then one of them glanced back. “Ms. McBryan?”
That was when I saw Flint.
He came out of the stairwell at a near jog, jacket still open, hair slightly out of place like he’d moved faster than he’d meant to. His gaze locked on mine immediately—not panicked, not uncertain. Focused. Sharp.
Something in my chest tightened. We’d just said goodbye and he told me to take the day. He hadn’t called to let me know he’d changed his mind. He shouldn’t be here, which told me something was wrong.
The agent closest to him stiffened. The other’s hand moved—not all the way, but close enough.
Weapons.
Just the suggestion of them, but unmistakable.
The air snapped tight.
Between one heartbeat and the next, weapons appeared in the agents’ hands, even as Agent Sterling wrapped an arm around me and lifted me off my feet.
Not gentle or rough for that matter, but efficient. He was already hurrying me to the vehicle.
My breath punched out of me as my shoes left the concrete. Instinct flared hot and fast, but I didn’t scream. I didn’t thrash. I had no idea what justification they were using for these acts.
“Hold up,” Flint said calmly, slowing his rush forward, hands raised. “I need to talk to Mallory.”
Sterling didn’t stop moving.
“Ma’am, we need you in the vehicle,” he said, voice tight, rehearsed. “Now.”
“No,” I said, flat and loud enough to carry.
Sterling tightened his grip reflexively.
I planted my palm against his shoulder and twisted just enough to hopefully throw his balance off to make him stop.
“Put me down,” I ordered. “Unless you’re arresting me.”
One of the other agents swore under their breath. His gun tracked Flint, not me. “Mr. Carter, stay right where you are please. I won’t warn you again.”
Fear ping-ponged through me at that very clear threat. Thankfully, Flint halted.
“Ms. McBryan—”
“Am I under arrest?” I demanded.
Silence.
That was answer enough.
Flint stayed fixed in place, hands raised, but he wasn’t looking at the agents. Instead, he focused on me even as he began to speak.
“Agent Sterling,” he said, tone clipped, professional. He knew the name. That mattered. “If you’re taking her into custody, you say so. If you’re not, you don’t get to move her like a package.”
Sterling’s jaw flexed. “We have orders.”
“Orders don’t override the Constitution,” Flint replied. “There’s a little thing called the fourth amendment, remember that?”
Sterling stiffened.
Despite the fact his hands were still raised, Flint’s expression was anything but conciliatory. “If the constitution doesn’t impress you, keep in mind, very little overrides optics. Not here. Not with cameras on every pillar.”
Every single agent, including Sterling, seemed to hesitate. “Ms. McBryan was cooperating—” he began.
“Key word there, I was. Put me down,” I said again. “Now.” I didn’t bother with the please. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t.
But young Agent Sterling, who still wore the shine of his service being a calling and not just a job didn’t hesitate for long, he put me down.
My feet hit the ground hard. I steadied myself without help, heart hammering but posture intact. I turned immediately—putting my back to the SUV, my front to Flint.
The agents adjusted their stances. Guns still up. Still pointed. No one wanted to be the first to cross the line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
Sterling exhaled sharply. “Ms. McBryan, we are trying to protect you.”
I swept a look toward the garage, then glanced at Flint, before returning my gaze to Sterling. “From what? We’re on a secure level. Building security has their eyes on us.” That wasn’t a guess. The executive level of the parking garage had cameras everywhere. Reardon was paranoid.
Who knew that would be a perk?
“Flint is not only my news director,” I continued, refusing to say boss. Technically, he was in charge of the network’s news programs—not me. Splitting hairs, but I appreciated the distinction right now. “He’s also my friend.”
Right now, that last piece was the most important one. At least for me.
“So unless there’s a direct threat—which is absolutely not coming from Flint,” I said, emphasizing the final point. “Why are you still pointing guns at him?”
He didn’t answer.
The other agent glanced at him, then at Flint. A silent exchange passed between them—calculation, liability, escalation risk. Then almost as one, they lowered their weapons and holstered them once more. Sterling’s ears actually flushed a little red at the tips.
Poor guy. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“I need to have a word with her,” Flint said, dropping his hands. It wasn’t a request. “Mallory?”
Sterling stared at him.
“I’m going to speak to him,” I told Sterling, backing up Flint’s play. Then, not waiting for the agent’s response, I asked over my shoulder. “Private convo?”
“Mostly,” he answered. “But I really don’t give a shit if they hear.”
That almost made me laugh. Almost. As it was, I couldn’t suppress the twitch of my lips. I could see the math working behind his eyes—command directives versus the nightmare scenario of dragging a nationally visible journalist into a car on a closed-circuit feed.
Finally, he nodded once. Sharp. Reluctant.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Gracious,” I muttered, what sympathy I had for the younger agent evaporating at that little gem of a pronouncement. I walked away from the agents and Flint met me halfway. They were still right there, but Flint took my arm and angled us both away from them and the cameras.
“Brewster called,” he said, in a low voice meant just for me. “Told me to lock the building down. Said Reardon isn’t the only one applying pressure.”
My stomach dropped. “And?”
“And,” he continued, giving that single word a significant emphasis before he seemed to verbally underline his next words, “whoever is, just made a move.”
“Could he possibly have vagued that up any more?” I asked. “Or is he saving specifics for a dramatic reveal?”
Flint’s mouth twitched once. Not amusement. Recognition. “He told me to lock the building down.”
I looked at the agents again—at how ready they still were.
“So rather than speak to me, he told them to just get me out of here.”
“He said he’d handle you,” Flint replied carefully.
That earned a short, humorless laugh. “Of course he did.”
Because Brewster always handled things. Controlled them. Cracked the whip and moved people where he wanted like a ringmaster who never asked if anyone wanted to be in the act.
“And you?” I asked, resentment boiling upward. “Are you here to handle me?”
Flint’s gaze held mine. Steady. Unbothered. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—slow, dark, unmistakably amused.
“No,” he said, dragging that single syllable out. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m here to make sure you stay in charge of the story.”
A beat.
“Good news director instincts,” he added lightly. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
The humor didn’t soften the warning even if it made me want to smile.
I exhaled slowly, temper threading itself into something colder and far more useful.
“So let me get this straight. Brewster thinks something’s coming.
Reardon’s already circling like he smells blood and is considering pulling something—not even five minutes after Colin was killed—and his solution was to quietly remove me from the building without bothering to tell me why. ”
Flint didn’t argue, which told me everything.
I turned back toward the agents, lifting my voice just enough to carry. “Change of plans,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”
Sterling opened his mouth.
I cut him off. “If there’s a threat to the network, I’m not watching it unfold from the back seat of an SUV. If something is coming, I plan to be right here.”
His jaw worked. He glanced at the other agent. At Flint. At the cameras.
Finally: “Ms. McBryan—”
“No,” I said pleasantly. “That was me being cooperative again by explaining to you what I was going to do, not me asking for permission. You should write it down. It doesn’t happen often.” At the rate Brewster was going, it wouldn’t happen again.
Period.
Sterling sighed. “Ma’am…” It verged on pleading.
Lips pursed, I shook my head. “If the threat was directed at me specifically, that would make sense to get me out of here. But this isn’t about me and the Unsub targets individuals, he’s hardly a bomber or a spree shooter.
” The idea just gave me chills. “So, no, I’m staying here where I can do the most good. ”
Flint’s hand closed around my arm—not pulling, not steering. Anchoring.
“We’re going back upstairs,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us or you can stay down here. Either way, we’re getting back to work.”
I let him guide me toward the elevators, pulse steady now, irritation settling into something sharp and focused. I didn’t glance back but when the elevator doors slid open, Sterling and two others followed us inside.
The elevator ride was too quiet.
Sterling stood rigid beside me, eyes fixed forward, jaw tight like he was bracing for impact. The others pretended not to watch us, which meant they were watching very closely. Flint stood just behind my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the steady heat of him without him touching me.
Anchoring. Not claiming.