Page 52 of Buried Past

"No, probably not."

Alex glanced around the table. "Should we be concerned about anything specific, or is this general urban paranoia?"

Dorian finally spoke. "Sometimes people's work follows them home. Usually, it's nothing. Once in a while, it's worth paying attention to."

Michael addressed us directly. "Your work or Matthew's work?"

Before Dorian could answer, Ma reappeared from the kitchen carrying a pot of coffee and wearing an expression that suggested she'd reached the limit of her patience with cryptic conversation.

She set the pot down with enough force to make the cups rattle. "Whatever this is about, you'll handle it like McCabes. Together. And safely." She fixed each of us with the stare that had terrified four boys into good behavior for three decades. "Noheroics. No stupid decisions. No getting yourselves hurt over something that might be nothing."

"Yes, ma'am," we chorused automatically, the response hardwired into our DNA.

The dishes were cleared, and Ma had retreated to the kitchen to package leftovers when I caught Michael's eye across the dining room. He was standing at the window, ostensibly checking the street, but his posture had the controlled tension of someone preparing for action.

"Got five minutes?" I asked quietly.

He nodded once, already moving toward the back door. "Porch."

Dorian followed without being asked. The back porch wrapped around the side of the house, shielded from street view by Ma's prize-winning rhododendrons and the oak tree Dad had planted the year I was born.

The boards creaked under our weight. String lights Ma had hung last spring cast warm circles on the weathered planks, creating pockets of intimacy.

Michael positioned himself with his back to the kitchen window. "This about the sedan?"

"That—and what it's connected to," I said.

I looked at Dorian, who offered an almost imperceptible nod.

"There's a flash drive," I began. "Digital evidence of a network running black operations under humanitarian cover for years. Human trafficking, intelligence laundering, staged deaths—"

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "No surprises yet."

"Dorian was inside it. He was a courier, liaison, whatever they needed. Until he discovered what they were really doing and tried to get out."

Michael turned his attention to Dorian. "And the people watching our street?"

"They work for a man named Magnus Hoyle. Billionaire. Private intelligence contractor. He's been systematically eliminating former assets who pose security risks."

"Including you."

"Especially me. I have files that could expose fifteen years of operations. Bank records, personnel lists, operational logs."

Michael absorbed the information with the same expression he'd worn while eating dinner—neutral and patient. "How many people have you killed?"

"None directly," Dorian said quietly. "But I facilitated the work of others. I believed I was protecting people until I realized I was the threat they needed protection from."

Michael studied Dorian's face. "Are you the kind of guy who starts wars or ends them?"

"Hopefully, the latter."

Michael leaned against the wall. "You're lucky Ma likes you, and Matthew hasn't steered me wrong yet, though he's come close a few times."

Michael uncrossed his arms, his posture shifting from interrogation to something more collaborative. "I know a guy. FBI. Internal Affairs—works on corruption cases out of the Seattle field office. He owes me a favor from when I helped him nail a dirty narcotics detective three years ago."

"And he's clean?" Dorian asked.

"Clean as they come. Danny Ho. Lost his partner to a dirty cop's tip-off early in his career, and he's been hunting corruption ever since." Michael pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "He's also got access to federal databases and the kind of resources that could help us understand exactly what we're dealing with."

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