Page 48 of Beyond Protection
"Pike Place?" he asked.
I set aside my professional concerns. "Pike Place."
His smile could have powered the city.
We headed for the stairs. Mac paused at the railing, looking down at the small tree on the counter below.
"Eamon." He pointed. "That ornament. The baseball."
Hanging from a lower branch—half-hidden behind felt croissants and tiny espresso cups—was a small white ornament. Hand-painted. A baseball with careful red stitching.
And a number: 23.
Mac's number.
"Was that there before?" he asked quietly.
I replayed our entrance in my mind. The tree. The coffee-themed decorations. Did I remember every ornament? No. I'd marked exits, threats, and faces. Not individual decorations on a tree I'd dismissed as set dressing.
"I don't know."
"It wasn't." His voice was flat. "I looked at that tree when we sat down. I notice baseball stuff. That wasn't there."
That meant someone had hung it while we were sitting fifteen feet away. Had walked up to the counter, reached into thebranches, and carefully hooked a custom-made ornament onto a tree in a crowded coffee shop.
While I was watching Mac's face instead of the room.
While my hand was on his wrist, feeling his pulse instead of tracking movement behind us.
"We're leaving," I said. "Now."
Mac didn't argue.
I moved first, positioning myself between him and the stairs. Three-step lead, eyes scanning the main floor as we descended. The woman with the laptop was gone and had been gone since before Mac's phone call. The timing registered—gone when the ornament appeared—but I couldn't prove a connection.
"Eamon." Mac's voice was soft and low. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing."
"You're hunting."
I was. Every face was a potential threat. Every person near the tree was a suspect. The barista who'd recognized him. The tourist with the phone. The man in the corner reading a newspaper—who reads physical newspapers anymore?
"We should go straight back," I said as we hit the ground floor.
"I know." But Mac wasn't moving toward the exit. He'd stopped at the holiday pop-up shop near the garage entrance. The rack of Santa hats caught the light, pom-poms swaying slightly in the ventilation current.
"Mac—"
"I'm not letting a stalker win." He picked up a hat with a light-up pom-pom. "I'm not letting whoever that is take this from me. From us." He set his jaw. "When's the last time you wore a Santa hat?"
"We don't have time for this."
"When?"
"Never."
"Never?" Fierce determination took over his face. "That's tragic. And I'm fixing it. Right now."
