Page 24 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter fifteen

Matthew

T he ambulance bay reeked of diesel exhaust and industrial bleach, familiar scents that usually settled my nerves. Now, they made my stomach clench. I carried my gear bag and headed toward the locker room, boots echoing off concrete that had absorbed three decades of emergency calls.

With the encouragement of Michael's FBI contact, I returned to work. Leaving Dorian in the apartment was difficult, but he insisted he would remain vigilant.

Kayla stood at her open locker, pulling on her duty jacket. She glanced up when I approached, raising one eyebrow, signaling commentary on the way.

"Back from your nature retreat?" She slammed her locker door hard enough to rattle the neighboring units. "You look like you spent the weekend wrestling bears instead of communing with trees."

I fumbled with my combination lock, fingers missing the numbers twice before the mechanism clicked open. "Didn't even get a mosquito bite."

"Right."

We moved to the rig for pre-shift inspection, falling into our usual routine. I checked oxygen levels while she tested the defibrillator.

I kept losing count. Was the oxygen at 2,200 PSI or 2,400? Had I already checked the suction unit?

"Matthew." Kayla's voice cut through my mental fog. "You're staring at that gauge like it's written in Sanskrit."

I blinked, refocusing. Full. Green. Good to go. "Sorry. Just making sure."

She moved to the medication locker, checking expiration dates. "So what's his name?"

My hand froze on the IV bag I'd been examining. "Whose name?"

"The guy who's got you twisted up." She didn't look up from the drug box. "You've been checking the same oxygen tank for five minutes, you forgot the stretcher restraints, and your shirt's half untucked."

I glanced down and stuffed the tail of my shirt back under my belt. When had that happened?

"It's complicated."

"Always is." Kayla closed the med locker and turned to face me. "You okay?"

Two days removed from watching Dorian sleep in my arms while rain drummed against cabin windows. Three days since Ma claimed him as family over Sunday dinner. Three hours from leaving him at home, while he promised to be careful.

"Yeah. Just tired."

The words came out flat. Kayla studied my face with the same attention she used to assess trauma patients, looking for signs of shock or damage that wasn't immediately visible.

She let it go. For now.

The radio squawked. "Unit Seven-Two, respond to 1247 Pine Street, apartment 3B. Lift-assist, elderly female, non-emergent."

Kayla keyed her mic. "Unit Seven-Two responding."

I moved toward the driver's seat, then stopped. My hands were shaking—barely perceptible tremors. Kayla knew me well enough to notice.

"I'll drive," she said quietly.

Mrs. Lemon was a simple call—eighty-seven years old, fallen in her bathroom and couldn't get back up. No injuries, only needed assistance to her favorite armchair and reassurance that calling for help wasn't a bother.

I'd signed the refusal form with handwriting that looked like it belonged to someone else, letters shaky and uncertain.

Now, Kayla was driving us back through Capitol Hill's maze of one-way streets while I pressed my forehead against the passenger window. My attention kept drifting to the rearview mirror.

A dark sedan had followed us since we'd left Mrs. Lemon's building. Not aggressive—just there. Maintaining the same three-car distance whether we hit green lights or got stuck behind a bus.

"Is that the same car from earlier?" Kayla's voice was casual, but her grip on the steering wheel had tightened.

I adjusted my mirror. "Might be."

"You make a new friend?"

"Not the kind I want."

Kayla didn't probe further, but I watched her posture shift—spine straightening, shoulders squaring. Three years of partnership had taught her to distinguish between my genuine concerns and paranoia.

We turned onto Broadway, the sedan flowing with traffic like it belonged there. Street performers had claimed the corner near the QFC, a guitarist with donations scattered in his case while pedestrians dropped coins between songs.

My phone buzzed.

Michael's name on the display. He didn't call during my shifts unless something was wrong.

The sedan continued maintaining its careful distance as we approached the station. In the side mirror, I saw the driver's silhouette—motionless, patient.

My phone buzzed again. Insistent.

Kayla parked and glanced at the display. "Answer it."

I stepped away from the rig toward the rear of the ambulance bay where conversations couldn't be overheard. Kayla remained by the vehicle, watching but keeping her distance.

"Danny Ho just called." Michael's voice cut straight to the point. "He confirmed it all. Your case is the missing piece they need to bring down Hoyle. Dorian is the ideal witness."

Cold spread through my chest. The ambulance bay seemed to tilt sideways. "Does the Bureau know where Hoyle is?"

"Not yet. But someone might."

As Michael continued talking, I turned toward the street and froze. The sedan was there, parked across from the station now, engine off, windows dark.

"—Danny thinks less than a day remains before Hoyle starts tying up loose ends. If they think Dorian's a risk, they won't just come for him. They'll look at everyone he's touched—people close to him, people close to you."

My stomach flipped. Michael confirmed it wasn't only about Dorian anymore. If Hoyle wanted to send a message, he'd make it personal. He'd go after the people who mattered most—my brothers, my mother, and maybe even Kayla.

"Matthew, you need to get to Dorian. Now."

The sedan's occupants were invisible behind tinted glass, but I felt their attention like weight against my chest. How long had they been watching? How much did they know?

"Matthew, you still there?"

I ended the call and pocketed the phone. Across the pavement, Kayla was studying my face with the intensity she usually reserved for trauma assessments.

"Gotta go," I called to her, already moving toward my truck.

"Matthew, wait—" She intercepted me at the bay exit, positioning herself between me and the parking lot. "What's going on?"

I debated lying. Didn't. "I think someone I care about is in trouble. And I think I'm already too late."

She nodded once. "You call me if you need backup. I mean it."

"I know." I gave her a faint smile, then pushed past her.

My hands shook as I fumbled with my truck keys. The engine turned over on the second try. As I backed out of my parking space, I saw Kayla in the station doorway, radio already in her hand.

The sedan's engine revved once, then fell silent.

I drove home with Michael's words echoing: Less than a day remains.

My building looked normal from the street—no obvious surveillance, no black vehicles at strategic angles—just another converted warehouse in Fremont.

I climbed the stairs with my keys ready, but didn't need them.

The door stood slightly ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped into my violated home. Overturned furniture. Broken dishes. A dark stain on the hardwood that might have been coffee or blood.

Dorian's burner phone lay on the kitchen counter, the screen cracked but functional, and there were seven missed calls and four text messages from an unknown number. The most recent message was a photo: Dorian zip-tied to a chair in what looked like a warehouse, conscious but beaten.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just stared at the phone like Dorian might speak through the screen.

My knees gave out, and I sank to the floor, the phone slipping from my hand and skidding across the hardwood.

I didn't reach for it. I couldn't. I just sat there, hands curled uselessly in my lap, heartbeat crashing in my ears.

Then I saw the note tucked under my salt shaker, written in block letters:

FEDERAL BUILDING. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. OR THE McCABES BECOME COLLATERAL.