Page 50 of Beyond Protection
I pulled out and merged into traffic heading toward the waterfront.
Rare December sun filtered through breaking clouds, making the Christmas lights look less magical but more real. I saw the market ahead—crowds already gathering, vendors setting up, the whole chaotic ecosystem that would make keeping Mac safe exponentially harder.
We were both quiet until Mac said, "Let's go see some fish getting thrown."
I didn't tell him fish-throwing was a tourist show, scheduled at specific times, or that Pike Place would be a security nightmare. He already knew. We both knew.
The Santa hat's pom-pom blinked as I glanced in the rearview mirror. Red, green. Red, green. I was still wearing it.
Chapter seven
Mac
The crowd swallowed us as we entered Pike Place Market—tourists with cameras, couples holding hands, and a kid shrieking about the pig statue. Voices layered over each other, laughter, haggling, and someone singing "Jingle Bells."
For some, chaos is cover. For me, every shoulder brush was exposure. Every turned head held the potential for recognition.
Eamon's voice cut through the noise. "You good?"
"Yeah." It was an automatic response.
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push, adjusting his position. He moved closer, his shoulder almost brushing mine as we moved deeper into the market.
The vendor stalls pressed in on us—flowers in galvanized buckets, jewelry on velvet, and someone selling scarves that smelled like wet wool. Holiday lights wove through the ironwork overhead—white and gold, nothing garish.
We stopped at a corner where the crowd split. Some turned left toward the fish market, and the others right toward the lower arcade. Eamon scanned, and I pretended not to notice.
"Cider," I said.
He blinked. "What?"
"There's a vendor. Near the main arcade. They do spiced cider this time of year." I nodded toward the left corridor. "I'm buying."
"Mac—"
"Not up for debate."
His jaw tensed. It was that thing he did when he wanted to argue but knew he'd lose the battle. I'd learned that tell three days in. Along with the beard-touch when he was thinking, and how his voice dropped half an octave when he was worried but trying not to show it.
I'd studied Eamon since his arrival.
"Visibility risk," he said finally.
"Everything's a visibility risk." I started walking before he could counter. "Consider it an operational necessity."
Behind me, I heard him exhale.
We found the stall near the flower vendors, tucked under an awning strung with orange bulbs. The vendor was older, bundled in flannel and a Seahawks beanie, stirring a massive pot that sent the aroma of cinnamon and cloves into the cold air.
A chalkboard sign promised "Artisan Spiced Cider—No Artificial Anything."
"Two," I told her, pulling out my wallet.
"Cups or thermoses?"
"Cups."
She ladled the cider into paper cups printed with pine trees and added cinnamon sticks. She handed them over, and I passed one to Eamon.
