Keaton （Skee）
I’m never nervous. That’s not ego. It’s fact.
Six years military. Three years Grayline.
More operations than I can count. Hostage recoveries.
Extraction jobs. Black-site surveillance.
Cartel tracking. Off-book government work nobody officially signed off on.
My pulse usually stays the same through all of it.
Steady. Controlled. Useful.
So the fact that my heart is currently trying to punch through my ribs while Maeve drives through downtown Chicago should probably concern me more than it does.
I pace once across the Grayline office before turning back toward the surveillance monitors.
Then pace again. My fingers tap rapidly against my thigh. One-two-three-four. Again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The operation went perfectly. Perfectly. Every camera rerouted correctly. Every security rotation manipulated on schedule. Gate cleared. Vehicle tracking disabled. Objectively speaking, this might actually be one of the cleanest unauthorized extractions I’ve ever run.
So why does it feel like I swallowed live ammunition?
On the monitor, Maeve stops at a red light downtown.
My pulse spikes instantly. I grab the keyboard automatically. Then stop myself.
Jesus Christ.
She can survive one traffic light.
Probably.
Still—my fingers hover over the controls anyway.
Because all I can think about is… what if someone recognizes the vehicle? What if Gallagher notices too early? What if someone follows her?
The thoughts hit rapid-fire now. Violent. Relentless.
And beneath all of them sits one truth I can’t seem to shake no matter how hard I try. I wanted her out of that house.
Not just because of the operation. Not because of Ronan.
Because every instinct in me kept screaming she couldn’t breathe there anymore.
The realization settles heavily into my chest while I stare at the live map tracking her movement through the city.
The office suddenly feels too small again.
Too quiet.
I shove both hands through my hair before dropping heavily into the desk chair.
Think.
Why are you reacting like this?
I’ve helped people before. Protected people before.
Hell, Nevada was just the other day and I coordinated an armed hostage recovery without blinking once.
But this?
This has my nerves lit up like a live wire.
Maeve turns onto Lakeshore Drive.
Closer to her parents now.
And suddenly another thought lands hard enough to still me completely.
I wanted to keep her safe. Not operationally. Not professionally. Personally.
The realization comes fast and brutal.
Because the second that thought forms, everything else suddenly starts rearranging around it.
The cameras. The texts. The obsession with her schedule. The rage every time Ronan corrected her.
It was never just surveillance. It was protection. And apparently my brain decided that long before I consciously caught up.
I lean back slowly in the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Well,” I mutter to myself. “That seems psychologically catastrophic.”
The office remains deeply unsympathetic.
Onscreen, Maeve grips the steering wheel tighter while morning sunlight catches against her red hair through the windshield. I'm thankful this car has video feed or I might be losing my fucking mind.
She still looks nervous. Like she expects someone to stop her any second. Something sharp twists low in my chest at the sight. Because she should not look scared leaving her own house. That thought alone nearly makes me physically ill.
I open the text thread again before I can stop myself.
You’re doing fine.
I stare at the message. Delete it immediately.
Absolutely not. Too much. Way too much.
I toss the phone onto the desk like it personally betrayed me.
Onscreen, Maeve finally pulls into the private drive leading toward the O’Donnell estate.
Relief hits me so fast I nearly laugh. There. Safe. For now. Then another thought hits.
My stomach drops.
Fuck.
Unless she has a reason for leaving—unless there’s some explanation—the second someone reports back to Gallagher that she disappeared from the estate without authorization, he’s going to lose his mind.
I sit forward sharply.
Would he hurt her?
The answer comes instantly.
No.
At least… I don’t think physically.
Ronan Gallagher doesn’t strike me as a man who loses control like that.
He’s worse.
Calculated. Cold. Punishing in quieter ways.
The thought of him laying a hand on her makes something violent rise instantly inside my chest.
My jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
The feeling arrives so suddenly it almost steals my breath.
No one hurts Maeve again. Like my brain already categorized her as someone I’m responsible for protecting.
Jesus Christ.
I surge out of the chair so fast it rolls backward into the desk behind me.
Think. She needs cover. An explanation. A buffer. Something to stop Gallagher from turning this into another punishment.
My eyes flick toward the clock automatically while my brain starts building scenarios at machine-gun speed.
Coffee receipts. Fake errands. Security reroutes. Possible witnesses.
I’m already reaching for my jacket before I consciously decide to move.
The realization hits halfway through shoving my arms into the sleeves.
I’m leaving the office. For her. Not because the operation requires it.
Because I physically cannot sit still knowing she might walk back into that house and pay for this.
The thought alone makes my stomach turn.
I grab my keys off the desk.
Then stop long enough to glance once more toward the surveillance feed.
Maeve’s vehicle disappears beneath the trees leading toward her father’s estate.
Safe. For now. But not protected. Not really.
Something cold settles firmly into place beneath my ribs.
No one will hurt her again.
****
An hour later, I’ve committed at least seven felonies. Possibly nine.
Honestly the exact number stopped mattering around the third traffic camera.
Chicago blurs past outside the windshield while I drive one-handed through downtown, laptop open across the passenger seat and surveillance feeds bouncing rapidly across the screen.
Coffee shops. Traffic lights. Parking structures. Storefront cameras.
Everywhere Maeve’s vehicle could have reasonably passed gets wiped clean one system at a time.
Not erased completely. That would look suspicious. No, this is cleaner.
Looped footage. Timestamp corruption. Tiny glitches no one will question unless they already know exactly what they’re searching for.
Which they won’t.
Because Ronan Gallagher will look for recklessness. Defiance. A mistake.
Not a ghost quietly guiding his wife through the city.
My fingers move rapidly across the keyboard while another security feed dissolves beneath a clean overwrite.
There. Now if someone tracks her route, it’ll look like she spent the morning drifting through downtown Chicago. Normal.
Not secretly escaping her own house because she couldn’t breathe there anymore.
The thought lands heavier than I want it to.
My phone rings through the speakers.
Matt. Of course.
I answer through the car system without looking away from traffic.
“What.”
“You know,” Matt says calmly, “most people answer phones with hello.”
“Most people also willingly go to brunch.”
“That’s not the defense you think it is.”
I snort while switching lanes.
Rain clouds gather low over the city skyline ahead while the laptop pings another successful overwrite.
“You at the office?” Matt asks.
“Um…” I've never lied to Matt and don't intend on starting now. Because Matt never asks questions he doesn’t already know the answer to.
There’s a beat of silence.
“I’m currently standing in the office,” he says mildly, “and unless you suddenly evolved invisibility, you’re not here.”
“Huge if true.”
“Keaton.”
I sigh dramatically. “Why are you looking for me?”
“Because I walked into the office and found your chair empty for the first time in six business days.”
“That feels exaggerated.” I roll my eyes even though he can't see me.
“There’s a plant growing beside your monitor now.”
“That plant is dead.” I glance at the computer monitor while sitting at a red light.
“That somehow makes this conversation worse.”
Outside the windshield, pedestrians rush across a downtown crosswalk while my fingers continue moving across the keyboard automatically.
Matt goes quiet for a second.
“You still working the Gallagher thing?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You sound weird about it.”
“I’m weird about most things.”
“Fair.”
The city hums around me while another storefront camera wipes clean from the system.
Matt waits. Not interrogating. Just listening in that quiet steady way he always does.
“You okay?” he asks finally.
The question catches slightly harder than expected. Because the truthful answer is… absolutely not.
Instead I shrug even though he can’t see it.
“Just trying to figure out Gallagher.”
“And?”
I stare out at the traffic ahead for a second too long. “And I don’t like him.”
The words come out flatter than intended.
Matt notices. “How much don’t you like him?”
“Enough.” Silence stretches briefly through the speakers.
“You think he’s dangerous?” Matt’s voice instantly changes and I know he will jump in if I need him.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Because I know what my instincts are telling me now even if I can’t fully prove it yet.
Matt exhales slowly. “Okay.”
That’s it. No questioning. No pushing.
Just okay.
Because that’s the thing about Matt.
When one of us says something feels wrong—he listens.
I can practically hear him thinking through the phone. “You gonna tell me where you actually are?” he asks after another second.
“Outside.”
“That narrows it down considerably.”
“Chicago probably.”
“Keaton.”
I grin slightly despite myself while turning onto the next street. “I’m handling something.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Most things I do sound suspicious.”
“Also fair.” Matt pauses again before his voice shifts slightly quieter. “You know you can ask for backup if you need it, right?”
The offer lands heavier than it should.
Because underneath the sarcasm and the bullshit and the constant threats of bodily harm, this team has always understood one thing better than anyone else ever will—None of us were built to carry things alone.
My grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. “If I need you,” I say carefully, “I’ll come to you.”
Matt is quiet for a moment. Then finally “Alright.”
Relief loosens something deep in me, instantly. Not because he approved. Because he trusted me enough not to push harder.
“That being said,” Matt continues calmly, “if you end up on the news today, Rachel says she’s not bailing you out again.”
“That happened once.”
“She still brings it up at dinner.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She married me. Her judgment’s questionable.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“There you are,” Matt says quietly.
The comment lands harder than expected. Because apparently even disappearing into cyber-stalking a mafia wife hasn’t stopped Matt from noticing when I’m not myself.
Dangerous man.
The call disconnects a minute later while I pull into the final stop on Maeve’s fabricated route, a small coffee shop tucked along the river.
Quiet. Local. Cameras already wiped clean. Perfect.
Rain taps softly against the windshield as I kill the engine and grab my jacket from the passenger seat.
Then, unable to help it, I glance once more toward the route map still glowing across the laptop screen.
I shove the laptop closed and head inside.
Warm air and roasted coffee hit me while soft music hums through the café. People type behind laptops near the windows while the barista looks up tiredly from behind the register.
Normal. God, I forgot places like this existed.
I step up to the counter. “French vanilla coffee,” I say. “To go.”