Page 41 of The Last Call Home
Finnegan watches me like he’s not reading between the lines—he’s tearing the page in half.“Could you two work together, or do we have to pull you out of there?”
Derek cuts in before I can answer.His voice drops, rough with familiarity and the kind of loyalty that turns dangerous.“Listen, I don’t work with him on the field for a reason.”He jabs a finger at Finn, his husband.“I love him too much to concentrate when things go sideways.Also, I don’t want our wife to worry about the two of us at the same time.This guy has a history of getting lost during missions.”
“It was one time.”Finnegan rolls his eyes.“Not that I remember well.Remember, I have amnesia.”He grins, as if he just said the best joke, but no one is laughing.
“It lasted eight fucking years,” Decker reminds him.“That’s not the point.Cassian, can you separate the two?This mission is too fucking important to lose anyone—including you.”
“We can separate our personal life from a mission,” I say without hesitation.It doesn’t come out as a performance.It’s not bravado.It’s the only thing I know for certain right now.
Finnegan lifts a brow.“Are you two getting back together?”
And there it is again—another line crossed.That’s not his business.None of this is.I open my mouth, ready to tell him to fuck all the way off, but he beats me to it.
“I need transparency here,” he says, quiet but insistent.“It’s not just your safety.It’s the safety of every asset we send to Birchwood and every civilian caught in the crossfire.”
I drag in a breath.The air doesn’t help.
“There’s a possibility we might take things casual,” I confess, the words scraping past my teeth like they’ve been hiding behind molars this whole time.“If anything happens, I’ll file it with HR.If that’s what’s keeping you up at night.”
“It’s not only that.”Dereck groans.
“I hate casualties,” Finn says, voice like granite.“More so when they’re my people.I’m protective of them.You die, and I won’t be happy.”
“It’ll be fine,” I insist, even though nothing about this feels remotely close to fine.
Not the proximity.
Not the history I never outran, and definitely not the way Malerick still lingers in my system like an aftertaste I can’t rinse out.He’s in my bloodstream.Still clinging to the parts of me, I thought I’d buried six feet under logic and bad decisions.
But if they’re trusting me with this?
Then, I have to pretend I trust myself, too.
“Fine,” Finnegan says, already moving on.“I’m also sending you some things I found on Desmond Draven, head of the Hollow Syndicate.”
“We found his weakness?”
“There’s an heir.But we can’t trace much.His brother, who died thirty-some years ago, was supposed to take over the Syndicate.Instead, it went to Desmond.There’s a heir—probably his daughter— and some connection to the town ...I think.Do some digging while you’re pouring drinks, Harlan.”
“That’s easy.”I flash a smile, all bite and bravado.“Bartender by day, secret agent by night.Just slap it on a mug.”
“If you need people, let us know.”
“I might need a couple bodies to help me run the bar while they help me keep an eye on things.”I shrug, trying to look more casual than I feel.“Also, I’m buying a property near the lake.Could be a solid place to set up surveillance.”
Finn nods.“You’ve got equipment at your place, but if needed, you can always go to Mal’s or Atlas’s.”
That name halts me.
“Atlas is an asset?”
“Not exactly,” he says.“Sanford installed the equipment at his place just in case.It’s connected to the network.If we need Atlas to step in, you’ll have to manage him.He hasn’t done any fieldwork in years.”
“And we’ve come full circle to the start of this delightful conversation,” I mutter.“You want me to fucking babysit him.”
He scoffs.“Sure, let’s go with that.Call if you need anything—and be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?”I salute with two fingers and end the video call.
