Page 62 of Beyond Protection
The door locked behind me—solid click, deadbolt engaging.
Rain hit my face. Cold enough to sting. I swept the flashlight beam across the yard—left to right, methodically.
Trees. Fence line. Tool shed. Empty driveway.
I moved down the steps. Gravel crunched under my boots, announcing my position.
The property extended fifty yards before hitting a tree line. I walked the perimeter. Checked behind Michael's truck, around the shed, and along the fence.
At the fence line, I stopped.
The mud near the corner post was disturbed. Not animal tracks—it was a heel print. Human. Recent enough that the rain hadn't filled the impression.
I crouched. Swept the flashlight along the ground.
Three more prints. Leading from the tree line to the fence, then back again. Someone had stood there. Watching the house. Long enough to shift their weight multiple times.
The prints pointed toward the kitchen windows. Toward where we'd been sitting.
My pulse spiked. I pulled out my phone and I set a quarter by the heel print, taking four photos—overhead, oblique, tread close-up, and a wide for context. The tread pattern was distinct—work boot, size nine or ten.
While we'd been inside discussing Mac's stalker, someone had been outside. Watching.
Was it her?
I completed the perimeter check. Found no other prints. One set was enough. Beam off, I stood thirty seconds in the rain and listened—no breath, no fabric, only drip and distant highway.
I returned to the porch. Knocked—three times, pause, two times.
The door opened immediately. Michael stood with his weapon drawn, pointed down.
"Not clear," I said. "Someone was here."
Luna pushed past him, nose working. She trotted down the steps, sniffed along the path I'd walked. When she reached the prints, she growled. Low. Sustained.
Michael crouched beside the prints, examining them. "Fresh."
"Positioned for a clear view of the kitchen," I said. "Where we were sitting."
"You think—"
"Could be unrelated. Could be someone who knows you're former SWAT." I paused. "Could be Mac's stalker."
Luna stayed at the fence line, hackles raised, staring into the darkness beyond.
We returned to the house. Alex already had his laptop open. "I'm running pattern searches. Museums, galleries, conservation programs."
Michael's phone rang. He glanced at the screen. "Marcus."
He stepped into the living room, voice dropping low.
Alex pulled a legal pad toward him. "Let me help with this. Cross-referencing photos, building timelines. This is what I do. Finding narratives in fragments."
Every instinct said keep control. Work alone.
Every instinct also said I was out of my depth.
"Fine," I said finally. "Quietly. Nothing that creates a trail leading back to Mac."
