Page 131 of Beyond Protection
"Breakfast in twenty minutes," she said, taking in the scene with one comprehensive look. "Coffee's on."
She left and closed the door behind her.
Mac started laughing—quietly at first, then louder. "Oh, my god."
"She didn't say anything."
"She didn't have to. That look."
"I've faced armed suspects who scared me less."
"Welcome to the family." He swung his legs off the bed. Stood. Stretched. His shirt rode up, showing a strip of stomach and the hollow of his hip. The adhesive marks from yesterday's wire had faded to faint pink lines.
I got up. Found my shoes. Started building the day's armor piece by piece—professional distance, tactical focus, the version of myself who could do this job without letting desire compromise judgment.
"Ready?" he asked.
No. Not even close, but I nodded anyway.
"Let's go."
In the kitchen, Ma stood at the stove flipping something. She glanced up when we entered.
"Sit," she said. Not a request. "Both of you."
They'd already set the table. Four plates. Michael sat in the corner nursing black coffee, his laptop open to what looked like building schematics. He nodded when he saw us.
Michael's nod meant I was part of this—not hired muscle, but someone who belonged at the table when his family was in danger.
Ma put plates in front of us. Bacon, eggs, toast scraped black at the edges. "Eat."
"Ma, I'm not really—" Mac started.
"Eat anyway. You're too thin, and you're about to have a very long day." She poured coffee into mugs. "You too," she said, looking at me. "Don't make me say it twice."
"Yes, ma'am."
I ate. The bacon was so crispy it shattered. The eggs were slightly rubbery but still comforting.
Mac picked at his toast. I watched him spread butter with surgical precision—each stroke perfect, covering the edges.
The front door opened. Cold air rushed in, followed by voices.
Michael stood. "That's Clairmont."
My spine straightened. Time to engage professional mode—shoulders back, expression neutral, the mask I wore when someone needed to see competence instead of the man underneath.
Detective Clairmont entered with another officer. Her eyes landed on me. Narrowed.
"Price."
"Detective."
"Let's move this to the dining room," Michael said. "More space."
We relocated. Ma followed with the coffee pot. The dining room table—same one that held Thanksgiving dinner—now held maps and surveillance photos.
Clairmont spread everything out with practiced efficiency. "Here's what we know."
