Page 43 of Beyond Protection
He removed his hand, leaving warmth where his palm had been.
"Okay," he said. "But I'm holding you to the coffee. No backing out when you realize how many civilians can fit in one building."
"You hired me for it."
He smiled. "God, you're exhausting."
***
I heard the hiss of steam wands and the industrial roar of grinders. The sound of simultaneous conversations layered over the equipment noise.
I took a deep breath, smelling burnt sugar. The aroma of coffee was so strong it coated my throat.
Two stories of copper casks rose like industrial sculpture, pipes gleaming under Edison bulbs wrapped in festive holiday garland.
Christmas music played under the machinery noise—"Christmas Time Is Here." Someone had decidedA Charlie Brown Christmasfit the aesthetic.
I turned my head to examine the essential details.
Three exits. Main doors, back hallway, and employees only behind the roasting equipment. Twenty-three people were visible. Six faced the door.
Woman in the corner. Laptop open, not typing. Her eyes flicked up when we entered—held one beat too long before dropping back to her screen.
Mark her—continuous monitoring.
"Breathe," Mac murmured beside me.
"I am breathing."
"You're working." He touched my elbow, steering me toward the counter. "Coffee first, tactical assessment second."
The line moved. The barista's eyes did the same thing the woman's had—flicked to Mac, held, widened.
Recognition.
"This is chaos," I said quietly.
Mac read the menu. "This is coffee."
"There are too many variables."
"You want to leave?"
It would be wise to pull him out. Too many people. Too many angles.
"No," I said. "We stay."
Mac ordered something complicated—a Chestnut Praline Latte with extra whipped cream and cinnamon dolce sprinkles. He said it without irony, and the barista didn't blink.
"Holiday special?" I asked when he stepped aside.
"Don't judge. It's December. I'm allowed." He grinned. "Besides, it tastes like Christmas threw up in a cup. In a good way."
I ordered drip coffee, black. He paid before I could reach for my wallet.
We moved to the pickup area. Mac leaned against the counter, watching the roasting equipment.
His shoulders had dropped two inches since we entered. The brittle hypervigilance that had been building in him for days had eased enough to see the person underneath.
