Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Mack stood at the kitchen counter watching Alyssa draw.
She’d been at it for over an hour. Bent over her sketchbook at the table, charcoal pencil moving across the page in quick, economical strokes. She’d barely moved except to turn pages, her focus absolute. This was how she processed things too big for words.
The grief was still there. He could see it in the careful control of her posture, the way she held her shoulders like they might break if she let them relax. But the immediate crisis had passed. She was functioning. That was something.
He remembered that, like him, she’d always been a morning person. Her creativity had always been at its peak as soon as she woke. She’d be so focused on her work that she’d often forget to eat.
Looking at her in the morning light, watching her disappear into her work, brought a soft smile to his lips. He’d always loved when she was unguarded like this—he just wished it was under better circumstances.
His stomach growled. Damn, he was hungry. More than that—she had to be hungry, too. When was the last time either of them had eaten? The party last night? Twelve, maybe thirteen hours ago.
He opened the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, bacon, and bread. Cooking was something he could do. Something concrete and useful that didn’t require him to navigate the complicated territory of what had happened between them in the past few hours of the morning.
The smell of bacon must have reached her because she looked up, blinking like someone coming out of a trance.
Her hair was still loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing his shirt and sweatpants.
In that moment, she looked so much like the Alyssa he’d known that his chest did something he refused to acknowledge.
“You’re cooking,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, raw from crying.
“You need to eat.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah.” He cracked eggs into the pan, watching them sizzle. “I do.”
She closed her sketchbook and came to the counter. “What can I do to help?”
He put her in charge of the toaster—a small, manageable thing. As the smell of food and a fresh pot of coffee filled the air, they worked in silence, the natural rhythm they’d enjoyed when they’d been together sliding into place as if they’d never been apart.
At the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and toast, felt both surreal and oddly normal. Like they were pretending at domesticity in the middle of a crisis, or maybe as if the crisis had forced them into a version of intimacy they’d lost the right to.
“This is good,” she said after a few bites.
He nodded. Ate. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with things neither of them was ready to say.
She broke it first. “I have a consultation scheduled with the FBI field office in Billings two weeks from now.” She was looking at her plate, not at him. “Forensic sketch artist work. Cold cases, age progressions, that kind of thing. It’s my first federal contract.” A pause. “Was, anyway.”
He heard the disappointment in her voice, understood what she wasn’t saying. Her future was on hold.
“That’s good work,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Important work.”
“I thought so.” She pushed eggs around her plate. “I wanted to prove I could do something that mattered. Something real. Not just party sketches and caricatures at festivals.” She looked up at him. “I wanted to prove I could build something on my own.”
The unspoken part hung between them. After everything fell apart. After I walked away from you.
He took a drink of coffee to give himself time to choose his words. “You did build something. This isn’t your fault.”
“Feels like it is.”
“I know.” He finished off his toast. “You’ll get through this.”
“What about you?” she asked. “What are you doing these days? Is it all undercover work with the FBI?”
The change of subject was deliberate, and he let it happen. Talking about his career was safer than talking about hers, or about blame, or about any of the other things circling them like wolves.
“Shadow Point Security is expanding. Garrett, our leader, is building out a second team to focus on undercover work and consultations with the FBI.” He set down his fork, found himself talking more than he’d planned to.
“There’s a team leader position open, and I’m in contention for it.
I’d run my own unit. The evaluation is in three weeks. ”
Her face brightened, despite everything. “Mack, that’s—you always wanted to have your own team. I mean, I know this isn’t the Marines, but you must be excited.”
She was right. He’d talked about it when they were together, those late nights when the future had felt possible and uncomplicated.
He’d been the best at his job in the Marines, and he’d loved it, but he’d always wanted more.
He didn’t want to just be a sniper. He wanted to lead his own team, to have that level of responsibility and trust. He wanted to do the work that mattered without someone else making all the calls.
“Yeah,” he said.
What he didn’t say was that when he’d found out Garrett was considering him for the new team leader position, the only person he’d wanted to tell was now sitting across from him, wearing his clothes and looking at him like she was proud of him.
That look made his pulse trip.
He’d loved the old Alyssa, the one who fit against him like she was made for him, who laughed at his dry humor, who made everything lighter just by being there.
This new Alyssa was more self-assured, more assertive. And he thought his heart might be in even more trouble with this version.
The realization was inconvenient, dangerous, and entirely inappropriate given that he was supposed to be keeping her alive, not cataloguing the ways she’d changed and deciding he liked them.
“You’ll get it,” she said with certainty. “The promotion. You’re good at what you do.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m serious. You’re—” She paused, searching for words. “You’re the most competent person I’ve ever met. When you’re in charge of something, it’s going to get done.”
The compliment landed in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he finished his coffee and stood to clear the plates. She helped without being asked, and they moved around each other in the small kitchen with the ease of people who’d done this many times.
“I need to shower,” he said when the dishes were done. “I won’t be long. If the sat phone rings, don’t answer it. Don’t answer any phone or go to the door, understand?”
She gave a weary sigh, nodded, and went back to her sketchbook. He gathered clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.
The hot water helped clear his head.
Alyssa was safe for now. The cabin was secure.
But that window was closing. She needed to give the FBI her statement and sketches.
That was non-negotiable. They wanted her cooperation, and refusing to provide it would burn bridges he couldn’t afford to burn.
The safe house would be ready by tomorrow night, hopefully sooner.
That was the smart play. Stay put until then, minimize exposure, and move her once into a location that could be held long-term.
But the FBI wouldn’t like waiting. Garrett wouldn’t like it if he refused to do this by the book. Claire was already worried about his judgment, about whether he was thinking professionally or personally.
And Blake was out there somewhere, knowing his sister had seen him with the cartel, knowing she could destroy everything he’d built with a single statement to federal agents.
All the reasons Mack didn’t want to drive her to the FBI office in Missoula today for a debriefing.
At least, that’s what he told himself. His judgment where Alyssa Bennett was concerned had always been questionable at best, and right now it felt less like sound tactical thinking and more like he was keeping her close because the alternative made his chest tight.
He turned off the water, got dressed, and pushed the thoughts aside. When he came out of the bathroom, she’d disappeared into the bedroom. The door was shut.
The sat phone rang.
“Hawk.” Claire’s voice was professional when he answered, but he could hear the edge underneath. “We need Alyssa in Missoula as soon as possible.”
The hair at the nape of his neck came to attention. “What’s happened?”
“Our UC was killed two hours ago. We no longer have his testimony. We need Alyssa’s and yours to confirm identities for the arrest warrants. The DEA is involved now and they’re pressuring me. This is bigger than the party.”
Mack looked out the window. The sky was painfully blue, the kind of clear day that suggested warmth while the air was still cold enough to freeze in your lungs.
“The safe house isn’t ready. Moving her now is risky.”
“We know. We’ll keep her in protective custody at the field office until it is.”
“No.” The word came out flat. Final.
“Mack—”
“The field office has a hundred people in and out daily: staff, agents, contractors, and cleaning crew. Any one of them could be compromised. I’m not bringing her into that.”
The silence that followed told him Claire was choosing her words carefully, which meant she knew he wouldn’t like what came next. “I understand your concern. But this isn’t a request. The FBI needs her cooperation, and right now, you’re the one standing in the way of that.”
He was. The professional consequences were stacking up like dominoes, and he could see exactly how this looked from the outside. Personal. That he might be compromised. Exactly the kind of judgment call that proved you weren’t ready to lead a team.
“Give me options,” he said. “Somewhere that’s not the field office.”
The bedroom door opened, and Alyssa came out. She’d brushed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. Her eyes were brighter. Her expression asked what was going on.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Claire said. Her voice lowered. “But Mack, this is the kind of call that affects the evaluation. You know that.”
“Yeah.” He looked at Alyssa, who was watching him with those green eyes that saw too much. “I know.”
He ended the call.
She was still watching him. Waiting. He owed her an explanation, but before he could give it, a buzzing came from the bedroom.
“That’s my phone,” she said, hurrying into the room.
He followed. “Who is it?”
She rustled through her bag and brought it out. He watched her face go still. “It’s Blake.”
Every alarm in his head went off at once. “Don’t answer it.”
She looked at him. “It’s my brother.”
“It’s a security risk.” He kept his voice level, the way he’d talk to any civilian who didn’t understand operational security. “Anyone monitoring his communications can trace a call. The cartel, the FBI, NSA. One call and they can start tracing your location.”
“I’m sure he’s worried about me. I need to answer it.”
“Blake is working for the people who killed Jenna.” The words came out hard, too sharp. “You think he’s worried about you right now?”
She flinched. The phone continued ringing, her hand gripping it tightly. He could see the decision forming, the old pattern of Blake-loyalty activating like muscle memory.
“If you’re going to answer it,” Mack said, forcing calm into his voice when what he wanted to do was take the phone and throw it out the window, “I’m listening in, and I need you do what I tell you to do.”
“You want to tell me how to talk to my own brother?”
He steered her into the kitchen, pulling out his cell. “I want to make sure you stay alive long enough to regret this conversation.” He grabbed her sketchbook and the charcoal pencil. “Put it on speaker. I’ll stay quiet. But if you need help, I’ll write.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The phone rang again, its loud sound echoing in the room as they stared each other down.
Then something in her face shifted, some decision made, and she nodded. As she hit the speaker button and set the phone on the table between them, Mack hit his voice recording app. “Blake?” she said.
“Alyssa. Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
His voice filled the room. Confident, smooth, the voice of someone who’d always been able to talk himself out of trouble. Mack’s jaw tightened.
Alyssa’s voice shook. “Blake, Jenna is dead.”
“I know. I know, Lyss, I’m so sorry. This whole thing is fucked up.”
Mack watched her face, saw how she wanted to believe the concern was real. He picked up the pencil, ready to intervene if she started going down a road he couldn’t let her walk.
Pay attention, Lyssa. Notice that he’s not saying what he’s sorry about. Not saying it’s his fault. Just that it’s fucked up.
She surprised him with the force in her voice. “Blake, what were you doing at that party? Those men—”
“I can’t talk about that right now,” Blake cut her off. His tone became more urgent. “Where are you?”
Mack wrote quickly, Don’t tell him.
Her eyes tracked the words. “I’m safe,” was all she said.
“Are you with Callan?”
The accusation hung in the air. Mack watched her decide whether to lie. She met his eyes across the table. “Yes.”
Blake’s voice changed. Harder now, the smooth veneer cracking. “Alyssa, for God’s sake, he’s using you. You know that, right? This is about that mission he botched. He still wants to destroy me, and you’re the way he does it.”
Mack’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He wrote: He’s lying.
“Mack saved my life,” Alyssa said, and Mack heard something in her voice he’d never heard when she talked to Blake—steel. “You were in a room with men who put a bounty on me. They killed Jenna, Blake! Don’t talk to me about who’s using who.”
Good. Mack gave her a nod. Don’t let him spin this.
Blake immediately changed tactics. He switched to the older brother voice—the protective one.
“Listen to me very carefully—whatever Mack is telling you, whatever the FBI is telling you, stay out of this. Don’t give them anything.
This is bigger than you understand, and if you get in the middle of it, I can’t protect you. ”
Alyssa reared back. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m trying to save your life.” Frustration and anger coated the words. “If you cooperate with the FBI, if you testify—Alyssa, I won’t be able to keep you safe. Do you understand?”
Mack wrote: He can’t keep you safe anyway.
She read it. Glanced up at him. She pressed her lips together, determination in her eyes when she shifted her focus back to the phone. “Listen, Blake. I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but don’t tell me what to do.”
He swore under his breath. “Stay out of my business, Alyssa. I mean it. Don’t make me choose between you and—”
He stopped. Didn’t finish the sentence. The silence on the other end stretched for three seconds, maybe four.
Then the line went dead.