Page 21 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Dorian's hand was warm in mine. On his other side, Miles grabbed his fingers with casual affection, treating him like he'd been part of the ritual for years.

Ma bowed her head. "For family gathered, food shared, and the grace to keep each other safe. Amen."

"Amen," we chorused, and the circle broke as everyone reached for their forks.

I watched Dorian take his first bite of Ma's lasagna. His eyes opened wide. His vigilance slipped completely for a moment, replaced by something that looked like pure contentment.

Outside, professional killers documented our every move.

Inside, my family was adopting a wanted man over Sunday dinner.

And somehow, both things felt exactly right.

The serious interrogation began the moment everyone had food on their plates. Marcus cut into his lasagna with surgical precision.

"So, Dorian." He took a bite. "You consult. Anything federal?"

Dorian didn't miss a beat, forking up ricotta and pasta with perfect composure. "Nothing I can discuss in front of lasagna this good. Might violate several NDAs and ruin dinner."

James leaned into Marcus's shoulder, voice pitched just loud enough for the table to hear. "Your interrogation voice isn't as sexy as you think."

Dorian sampled a breadstick. "Mrs.—Ma, this is extraordinary. Did you make the bread from scratch?"

She beamed. "That would be Miles using a family recipe. My grandmother's formula, though we added rosemary because James mentioned he likes herbs."

"It's perfect."

Miles grinned. "About damn time someone brought home a man with actual manners. Matthew usually attracts strays who grunt through dinner and disappear before dessert."

I protested the characterization. "I've brought home exactly two people in the past three years".

"Two too many, apparently, since neither stuck around long enough to learn Ma's middle name." Miles gestured with his fork. "But this one, he knows how to appreciate artisanal carbohydrates. I approve."

Michael had been conspicuously quiet, commenting only on the salad dressing and asking whether Ma needed the wine bottle passed down. He tracked every gesture from Dorian.

Not curiosity. Evaluation.

I watched Dorian navigate the crosscurrents of McCabe family dynamics—responding to Ma's stories about the neighbors' ongoing property line dispute, laughing at Miles's impression of his most dramatic client, and asking James thoughtful questions about his research into the motivations of arsonists.

Alex reached for the wine bottle. "Dorian, what's your take on Matthew's cooking? I've seen him burn water, which makes me genuinely concerned for your nutritional welfare."

Dorian was diplomatic. "He makes excellent tea and knows how to scramble an egg."

Ma reached over and patted Dorian's hand where it rested beside his plate. "Don't you worry, honey. I'll teach you both some proper recipes. Can't have my boys surviving on takeout."

My boys. Just like that, Dorian had been absorbed into the family. Ma claimed him with the same casual authority she'd used to claim every stray animal, broken neighbor, and occasional boyfriend we'd brought home.

He spoke softly. "That's very kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it. It's self-preservation.

" Ma squeezed his hand once before returning her attention to her plate.

"If I don't feed you properly, Matthew will worry.

If Matthew worries, he gets that crease between his eyebrows that makes him look like his father.

I can't handle another generation of McCabe men who think brooding is a valid personality trait. "

I tried to protest, but Miles was already nodding sagely.

"She's got your number, brother. You do the eyebrow thing when you're stressed. Very dramatic. Very Irish Catholic guilt."

The conversation devolved into familiar bickering about who inherited what traits from which side of the family tree. Dorian listened with fascination.

Michael finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the genetic analysis. "Dorian, you enjoy outdoor activities? Hiking, camping, that sort of thing?"

"Some. I appreciate remote locations. Places where you can think without interruption."

"Solitude's important." Michael cut his lasagna with precise movements. "Gives you perspective on what matters."

Miles was in the middle of explaining his latest client success story—something involving a city councilman's fear of butterflies—when Michael's voice cut through the conversation with surgical precision.

"That sedan still out front? Two houses down. Windows tinted dark enough to hide a tank crew."

Ma rolled her eyes with the exasperation of someone who'd spent three decades dealing with overprotective males. "Oh, for heaven's sake. It's probably Mrs. Patterson's nephew visiting from Spokane. Or one of those Amazon delivery trucks that gets lost and parks wherever they feel like it."

Michael lowered his voice. "Amazon doesn't use black sedans with government plates."

I looked at Dorian. His face revealed nothing, but his breathing was slightly different.

The game had changed.

Ma did her best to refocus the conversation. "Well, whoever they are, they're missing an excellent dinner by sitting in a car on a perfectly nice evening."

She began collecting plates, and I caught her glancing toward the front window as she moved.

Miles, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet during the exchange, finally spoke. "You know, I once had a client convinced the FBI was watching his house. Turned out to be his ex-wife's divorce attorney gathering evidence for a custody case."

"This isn't a custody case," Michael said.

"No, probably not."

Alex glanced around the table. "Should we be concerned about anything specific, or is this general urban paranoia?"

Dorian finally spoke. "Sometimes people's work follows them home. Usually, it's nothing. Once in a while, it's worth paying attention to."

Michael addressed us directly. "Your work or Matthew's work?"

Before Dorian could answer, Ma reappeared from the kitchen carrying a pot of coffee and wearing an expression that suggested she'd reached the limit of her patience with cryptic conversation.

She set the pot down with enough force to make the cups rattle.

"Whatever this is about, you'll handle it like McCabes.

Together. And safely." She fixed each of us with the stare that had terrified four boys into good behavior for three decades.

"No heroics. No stupid decisions. No getting yourselves hurt over something that might be nothing. "

"Yes, ma'am," we chorused automatically, the response hardwired into our DNA.

The dishes were cleared, and Ma had retreated to the kitchen to package leftovers when I caught Michael's eye across the dining room. He was standing at the window, ostensibly checking the street, but his posture had the controlled tension of someone preparing for action.

"Got five minutes?" I asked quietly.

He nodded once, already moving toward the back door. "Porch."

Dorian followed without being asked. The back porch wrapped around the side of the house, shielded from street view by Ma's prize-winning rhododendrons and the oak tree Dad had planted the year I was born.

The boards creaked under our weight. String lights Ma had hung last spring cast warm circles on the weathered planks, creating pockets of intimacy.

Michael positioned himself with his back to the kitchen window. "This about the sedan?"

"That—and what it's connected to," I said.

I looked at Dorian, who offered an almost imperceptible nod.

"There's a flash drive," I began. "Digital evidence of a network running black operations under humanitarian cover for years. Human trafficking, intelligence laundering, staged deaths—"

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "No surprises yet."

"Dorian was inside it. He was a courier, liaison, whatever they needed. Until he discovered what they were really doing and tried to get out."

Michael turned his attention to Dorian. "And the people watching our street?"

"They work for a man named Magnus Hoyle. Billionaire. Private intelligence contractor. He's been systematically eliminating former assets who pose security risks."

"Including you."

"Especially me. I have files that could expose fifteen years of operations. Bank records, personnel lists, operational logs."

Michael absorbed the information with the same expression he'd worn while eating dinner—neutral and patient. "How many people have you killed?"

"None directly," Dorian said quietly. "But I facilitated the work of others. I believed I was protecting people until I realized I was the threat they needed protection from."

Michael studied Dorian's face. "Are you the kind of guy who starts wars or ends them?"

"Hopefully, the latter."

Michael leaned against the wall. "You're lucky Ma likes you, and Matthew hasn't steered me wrong yet, though he's come close a few times."

Michael uncrossed his arms, his posture shifting from interrogation to something more collaborative. "I know a guy. FBI. Internal Affairs—works on corruption cases out of the Seattle field office. He owes me a favor from when I helped him nail a dirty narcotics detective three years ago."

"And he's clean?" Dorian asked.

"Clean as they come. Danny Ho. Lost his partner to a dirty cop's tip-off early in his career, and he's been hunting corruption ever since.

" Michael pulled out his phone, scrolling through contacts.

"He's also got access to federal databases and the kind of resources that could help us understand exactly what we're dealing with. "

I cringed. "We'd be expanding the circle. More people at risk."

"We'd be gaining leverage," Michael corrected. "Right now, you're reacting to their moves. That's how you lose."

"You sure about this?"

"I'm sure about family. I'm sure about not letting my brother get hunted through the streets by people with unlimited resources and flexible ethics. We need eyes and leverage. We're not staying passive."

Dorian straightened slightly. "What kind of timeline?"

Alex appeared in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. "Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help but overhear." He handed one cup to Michael. "As one of the men here without McCabe DNA, can I voice the obvious concern?"

He looked at Dorian directly. "No offense, but you've brought killers to a family dinner.

These aren't white-collar criminals or street dealers.

They're professionals with institutional backing.

" His voice stayed calm but firm. "The smart play is to get Dorian into federal protection and let the FBI handle this. "

Michael set down his coffee. "Alex is right about the risk, but they've already made it personal by threatening family. Walking away now just means we get eliminated separately instead of having a chance to fight back together."

Alex rubbed his temples. "I know that look. You've already decided." He sighed. "Fine, but we do this smart. Full operational security, federal coordination, and exit strategies at every stage."

"Tomorrow, we start moving pieces. Danny owes me lunch anyway. I'll feel him out and see what kind of support we can access without triggering official channels."

The back door opened, and Ma appeared carrying a plate with the cookies James provided us as our contribution to the dinner. Her timing was impeccable—or maybe she'd been listening.

"Figured you boys might need fuel for whatever you're planning out here." She set the tray on the porch table Dad had built from salvaged deck boards.

Without saying more, she disappeared back into the house. Michael spoke. "So, tomorrow we stop playing defense and start hunting the hunters."

Alex waited until the door closed. "Ma doesn't know what she's agreeing to help with. None of your family does, not really." He looked at Michael. "If this goes wrong, she could lose all four of her sons in one night."

His voice cracked just slightly, and he looked away like he hoped we hadn't noticed.

I lowered my voice. "Then we make sure it doesn't go wrong."

Alex looked from Michael to me and back again. "You're not thinking clearly. Either of you." He gestured toward Dorian. "Three days ago, you were strangers. Now you're willing to risk your family's lives for him?"

"Yes," I answered without hesitation.

Alex nodded slowly. "Okay. Then we'd better make sure he's worth it."

I turned toward Dorian. "You okay with this?"

He picked up a cookie. "I've been running alone for eight months. Having backup—yeah, I'm okay with this."

The night settled around us. Tonight, we sat on my mother's back porch, drinking coffee and eating cookies. Tomorrow, we'd take the fight to people who thought they could hunt us with impunity.