11. The Mason Experience
Chapter eleven
The Mason Experience
Melina
“This is a beast.”
Matt smile as he starts the ignition.
“She’s a good girl.” He pats the wheel like an old friend, then shifts into reverse.
I chuckle. “Oh, you’re one of those guys?”
“Damn right I am.”
The ride to the precinct is quiet for a few minutes. I gaze out the window, fingers drumming against my thigh. That’s when I see it—
“Jesus, Matt.”
His gaze flick towards me, following my stare to the fixed-blade knife tucked in the door pocket. “Planning on skinning something?”
A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You never know when you’ll need a good knife.”
“What else do you keep in here? Rocket launcher under the seat?”
He chuckles but doesn’t answer. Instead, he flips open the center console, revealing a Glock 19 nestled inside. “Truck gun.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t want to be caught unarmed while picking up milk.”
His eyes gleam with amusement. “That’s my backup. Primary’s on me.”
My face whips toward him. “Wait—you’re carrying right now?”
“Always.”
I exhale. “What else?”
“Check the backseat.”
I twist, peering over my shoulder, eyes narrowing at the rifle case secured behind the rear passenger side. “You’re kidding.”
He shrugs. “Daniel Defense MK18. Standard issue.”
“For what, an invasion?”
“Emergencies.”
A short laugh slips out as I shake my head. “You’re like a walking armory.”
“Preparedness is key, babe.”
I hum, leaning back. “Remind me never to cut you off in traffic.”
“Smart girl.” He chuckles, then pauses for a beat. “You ever shot one?”
“What, a gun?”
“No, a slingshot,” he deadpans. “Yes, a gun.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Matt. I’ve shot a gun.”
“Good. Ever carry?”
“Nope. Never really needed to.”
His smirk fades, jaw tightening. “You do now.”
A small shiver runs down my spine at the edge in his voice.“I don’t know…” I exhale, shifting. “It’s not like I’ve spent hours at the range. Just a few times growing up, a few times since.”
“We’re fixing that.” He studies me for a second.
“We are?”
“Yes.” His eyes settle back on the road. “We are.”
The late-morning sun hangs high, already warming the pavement as we pull into the precinct lot. Humidity thickens the air, city traffic humming in the distance. Not unbearable yet, but by midday it will be.
A man leans against a black truck, arms crossed, watching us approach with an easy confidence that gives him away instantly.
Steele.
He’s built like Matt—broad shoulders, sharp features—but where Matt carries a quiet intensity, Steele is lighter, more relaxed. A knowing smirk curves his mouth, green eyes missing nothing. There’s an air of casual amusement, like he’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t caught.
“Steele,” Matt says, clapping his shoulder as we approach.
“Mason,” he drawls, his gaze flicking to Matt’s hand at the small of my back. “And you must be Melina.”
I reach out. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine.” His grip is firm but careful, his features touched with curiosity. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
Steele chuckles. “He’s not much of a talker, but you’d be surprised what you can pick up if you know what to listen for.”
Matt grunts, clearly unamused.
“And what exactly have you picked up?” I ask.
His grins, but Matt cuts him off, guiding me forward with a steady hand. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Behind us, Steele lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as he falls into step. The station smells like burned coffee and old paper, fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on scuffed linoleum. I inhale deeply, forcing my nerves down.
Steele doesn’t hesitate at the reception desk. “Garrett Steele. We have a meeting with Detective Carter.”
The woman barely glances up as she checks her computer. “He’ll be right out. Have a seat.”
We head for the row of plastic chairs along the wall. I sink into one, Matt on one side, Steele on the other. Tension hums around us, but Steele looks unbothered. He exhales slowly, then shoots me a sideways look. “You’re awfully quiet, Roderick. You good?”
I huff. “Oh, I’m great. I love early morning visits to the police station. Really sets the tone for the day.”
Steele’s grin widens. “Get a fresh cup of precinct coffee in you, this place starts feeling downright luxurious.”
Matt scoffs. “I can smell it from here. Like it was brewed in 1996.”
“Vintage,” Steele fires back.
I smirk, shaking my head. “I think I’ll pass.”.
Then, the door to the main office opens, and a man steps out—a detective with a sharp gaze and a presence that makes you take him seriously before he says a word.
“Carter.” Steele stands, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Steele.” The detective returns his handshake with a firm nod. “We spoke on the phone.”
Wait—he already talked to someone? I shouldn’t be surprised. But still.
Carter’s attention shifts to me, his expression professional but not cold. “Miss Roderick. Right this way.”
We trail Carter through a maze of hallways and into a small, windowless interview room. The kind of place meant to make people sweat. I don’t get a chance to settle before the door opens again, and Officer Miller walks in.
I lean toward Matt, my voice low. “That’s the cop who took the report about my tire.”
Matt gives a slow, understanding nod. Miller wasn’t exactly helpful the first time. Now he leans against the wall, arms crossed, unimpressed. I can already tell how this is going to go.
Carter looks like a man who’s seen it all and then some.
Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Gray hair cropped short, sharp features marked by experience more than age.
His sleeves are rolled up, badge clipped beside a worn shoulder holster.
He doesn’t posture. Quiet authority does the talking for him.
Miller, on the other hand, looks like he checked out years ago. Stockier build, slouched as if sitting upright might kill him. Coffee-stained cuffs peek from under crossed arms. His face screams irritation—not just with us, but the world. He glances at the file as if the verdict’s already in.
Steele pulls a USB from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Everything’s on there. Cell tower pings, rental car records, a partial surveillance photo.”
Miller glances at me. “Like I told you before, Miss Roderick, there isn’t much we can do until a direct threat is made.”
Matt’s entire body goes rigid. His voice drops low, deadly calm. “What the hell do you call this?”
I lean forward, pull my phone from my bag and hand it over. “I received this text last night after he put a dead rat on my doorstep.”
Carter scans the screen. His expression hardens.
“Plus, the hang-ups. The car parked outside in broad daylight,” Matt starts, his tone measured. “That’s not a threat?”
Carter studies my cell a moment longer, then looks over. “He’s right, Miller. This is more than a flat tire.”
“The phone calls pinged off a tower two miles from her house,” Steele says.
Miller scoffs, shooting him a glare. “And how exactly did you get all this?”
Steele doesn’t blink. “Legally.”
Carter hands my phone to Miller. He reads the text, then shakes his head. “Still isn’t a direct threat.”
Matt’s patience snaps. “You’d rather wait for him to escalate?”
“Look, I get it. I do.” Carter exhales, rubbing his jaw. “But here’s the problem—without an ID, we can’t obtain a warrant or issue a protective order.”
He plugs in the USB, the laptop’s glow washing over his face as he scrolls through the files. After a moment, he turns the screen to Miller. “Surveillance still,” he says.
Miller snorts, unimpressed. “This could be anyone.”
“Alright.” Carter doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll start pulling fraud reports tied to that stolen card.”
Miller rolls his eyes. “That’s not going to tell us who’s following her.”
Carter shoots him a look. “You mind letting me handle this?”
Miller’s jaw works, but he doesn’t argue. He pushes off the wall and stalks out, tension breaking with the slam of the door.
Carter leans back, studying us. “You boys served?”
“Yes, sir.” Matt’s voice is steady.
“Which branch?”
“Army,” Matt says. “Special Operations.”
Carter’s gaze sharpens. “Rangers?”
“Started there.”
Carter nods slowly, respect threading through his tone. “Hell of a pipeline.”
Then he shifts his attention to Steele.
“Marine Raiders,” Steele remarks. “Got pulled into agency work after that. Not the uniform kind.”
Agency. My stomach flips. So, he really was a spy.
Carter studies him for a beat, then nods. “Special Operations all around, then.”
“Something like that,” Steele says.
“And now you’re with a PMC?”
“Yes,” Matt confirms.
“Government or private?” Carter asks.
Steele shrugs. “Depends on who’s paying.”
A quiet chuckle escapes Carter, but his expression sobers almost immediately. “Glad you’re both looking out for her. We don’t usually get back-up on cases like this.”
Matt’s jaw tightens. “Well, it’s not the kind of case we’ll let slip through the cracks.”
Carter nods, something unspoken passing between them—an understanding that only comes from men who’ve been through the same hell.
Then he turns to me. “We’ll do what we can.
I’ll have extra patrols run your street and flag your address for priority response.
Change your number, change your locks, and keep track of any calls or texts that come through.
We can also send a crime prevention officer to walk the property, make sure your security’s solid. ”
Steele cuts in before I can answer. “We’ve got that covered.”
My head turns toward him. We do? This is the first I’m hearing of it.
Carter keeps going. “We’ll subpoena the rental records, maybe get additional surveillance or an ID description. I’ll also follow up on the fraud reports I mentioned earlier. It won’t close the case on its own, but it builds a trail.”
It’s not enough, but at least he gives a damn. I draw in a steadying breath. “Thank you, Detective.”
He nods, pushing back his chair as we rise. One by one, we shake his hand.