Page 27 of Buried Past (First in Line #3)

Chapter eighteen

Dorian

" T hought you might be thirsty." Ercan carried a paper cup, moisture beading on its exterior. The offer came wrapped in practiced courtesy, but his voice had changed—deeper now, scarred by whatever they'd done to him after I'd handed him over.

I started to lean forward as he held it out. Room temperature water, probably filtered, definitely uninteresting compared to the impossibility standing before me. "Appreciate the consideration. Though I have to mention, your hospitality coordinator needs feedback on the seating arrangements."

He claimed the chair opposite mine, producing a tablet and stylus with bureaucratic efficiency. He'd rehearsed all the elements, but underneath I saw glimpses of the kid who'd asked me about his sister and who'd trusted me to take him somewhere safe.

"I imagine you've experienced less comfortable accommodations during your career." He spoke with a touch of mockery.

"Depends entirely on context." I parted my lips, but then I paused without drinking.

My throat felt like sandpaper, but accepting anything from him might mean swallowing poison.

"Are we performing the preliminary social ritual, or would you prefer to advance directly to whatever conclusion you've already reached? "

His expression shifted toward something resembling genuine amusement. His gaze was older now, harder. They'd taken the bright kid who'd joked about American movies and carved something else out of what remained.

"Direct approach," he said, fingers moving across the tablet's surface. "I respect that. Always did."

The accusation in those last two words hit hard. Always did. Past tense. Before I'd destroyed whatever trust he'd placed in me.

The tablet's screen awakened under his touch, displaying what appeared to be a detailed file. Probably mine, though I wondered how much of its contents represented actual intelligence versus creative speculation. In my experience, institutional records contained equal measures of both.

I let him settle into his role, watching him arrange his props and assume his position. Every interrogator needed to feel dominant before the real work could begin. The key was allowing them that illusion while gathering everything you needed to dismantle it.

Your move. Show me what you think you know.

He scrolled through the file, stylus dancing across the screen. When he located his target, his entire frame shifted—spine straightening, jaw tightening incrementally. The change was minimal but unmistakable.

"You abandoned him, didn't you?" It was a venomous accusation wrapped in a question. "Your Matthew McCabe. The noble man who saves people. He didn't abandon you."

I stared back silently, examining his behavioral responses. His pupils dilated despite the harsh overhead light. His carotid artery pulsed visibly in his neck. He was executing a predetermined strategy.

"Wasn't aware gallantry had survived the smartphone era," I responded, tone remaining neutral. "Figured it expired somewhere between viral videos and algorithmic feeds."

He extracted a phone from his interior pocket, handling the device like precious cargo. The screen activated beneath his touch, revealing what appeared to be real-time surveillance imagery. He held it up for me to see.

It was monochrome footage, with a digital timestamp advancing in the corner. The Federal Building's primary entrance appeared, with those intimidating stone steps rising toward the glass doors. The frame was empty for several heartbeats, until—

Matthew entered the shot.

He advanced with measured determination. His arms were loose, posture erect, and gaze forward. Abandoning me was unacceptable, so he marched directly into peril.

The feed quality was good enough to capture intimate details: Matthew's jacket's asymmetrical drape suggesting concealed equipment, and a momentary pause at the threshold where he adjusted his stance while waiting for… what?

Darkness claimed the screen.

A sharp pain ran through my chest, but I kept my breath steady. Ercan documented every involuntary response, hunting for structural weaknesses in my emotional armor. Professional ethics required me to deny him that satisfaction.

Internally, yes—tension existed. That acidic burn of concern for someone whose welfare had transcended tactical considerations. But shock? None whatsoever. They'd always planned to weaponize Matthew against me. The only variable had been the scheduling.

"Compelling entertainment," Ercan announced, phone still angled toward me like a prosecutor sharing evidence in a courtroom. "This is the moment your emotional defenses disintegrate."

Ercan's words didn't land the way he hoped.

What he didn't understand was what I'd already been through, like the night I escaped Harborview Hospital after the freeway pileup.

I didn't break then. I wasn't going to break now.

I'd taken the freight elevator down to the loading dock, scrubs covering my hospital gown.

The doctors had done clean work on the bullet wound—neat sutures, proper dressing, and antibiotics pumping through my system via IV until I'd ripped it out.

The pain was manageable, more of a deep ache than the screaming agony it had been when I first woke up.

It was chilly and damp outside when I pushed through the service doors.

Mist made everything slippery, and my bare feet splashed lightly on wet concrete that reflected amber loading dock lights.

Each step sent vibrations through my torso, reminding me that moving too fast would tear something important.

The alley stretched empty except for dumpsters and a maintenance truck. One block beyond it, an engine was running.

It took only seconds. Hands grabbing me from behind. One of Hoyle's loyal assets. The blade—one clean cut.

I fell to the ground, the world spiraling around. And then… the unexpected savior.

After he helped me to his car, I stared at the Manchester United travel mug in Farid's cup holder, logo faded but unmistakable. He looked older when he turned toward me. New lines around his eyes. He had a scar on his temple that hadn't been there the last time I'd seen him.

Rain drummed against the windshield while I tried to process the impossibility of meeting him on the streets of Seattle. He checked his mirrors, hands moving like someone who'd learned to watch for hunters.

"They know you're here?"

"Not right now. But if they figure it out, we're both finished." He pulled a flash drive from between the seats. "Everything I could copy. Bank records, personnel files, and operational details. Enough to damage them, maybe even bring prison time."

"What happens to you?"

"Unknown variable. If I can help again, I will. But don't build plans around it. Next time we meet, one of us might not survive."

The memory dissolved, leaving me back in the metal chair with Ercan's satisfied expression wavering slightly. He'd expected tears, rage, and desperate bargaining. Instead, I watched him process my response as his confidence developed hairline cracks.

"You think you can save him?"

"No, you just told me everything I need to know."

The dynamic shifted. I leaned forward slightly, not enough to seem aggressive, just enough to change the geometry of the situation. He responded immediately—spine straightening, shoulders pulling back. Defensive.

"How many floors does Hoyle control in this building?"

"I'm not—"

"How recent was that footage? Live feed or recorded?"

"Listen—"

"What's your badge number again?" I tilted my head, studying his face with the focus of someone memorizing details for later use. "I didn't catch it when you came in."

He reached for his tablet, probably seeking the comfort of his script, but I pressed forward before he could regroup.

"Interesting choice, showing me Matthew on camera. Tells me you need me cooperative rather than dead. Tells me Hoyle's timeline just accelerated beyond his comfort zone." I paused, letting that sink in. "Tells me you're not as in control as you pretend to be."

"You're zip-tied to a chair in a warehouse," he snapped. "How exactly does that translate to—"

I leaned closer, close enough that he could smell the antiseptic still clinging to my skin.

"You're not in control," I said, settling back into my chair. "You just don't know it yet."

Ercan left without ceremony, clutching the tablet to his chest like armor. The lock engaged with a solid thunk, leaving me alone with the room's mechanical hum and the taste of my own blood.

I replayed the surveillance footage in my mind, frame by frame. Not only what I'd seen, but what had been conspicuously absent.

There was no tactical gear visible on Matthew's frame, but his jacket hung wrong on the left side—concealed carry, positioned for a cross-draw.

His stride was measured and slightly hesitant, yes, but his eyes had tracked the building's architectural details with the precision of someone conducting reconnaissance.

He'd paused at the entrance. It was after hours. He wasn't hesitating. He was calculating. Adjusting his position to optimize whatever came next.

Matthew knew. He had to know this was theater, and they dangled me on the end of the hook to reel him in. He'd come anyway, because abandonment wasn't part of his vocabulary.

He was running his own play, probably coordinated with his brothers, possibly with federal backing. The footage they'd shown me wasn't proof of his vulnerability—it was evidence of his commitment.

I tested the zip ties again, feeling for any give in the plastic. The chair's metal frame had sharp edges where the welds were ground smooth. With enough friction and time, I could work the restraints against those edges until they weakened.

Time. That was the variable everything hinged on.

How long before Hoyle's people decided I was a liability and no longer valuable alive? How long before they moved from psychological pressure to permanent solutions? How long before Matthew's plan—whatever it was—reached its critical phase?

I thought about Farid, likely still somewhere in Seattle, if alive, playing his own long game.

About Matthew's brothers positioning themselves around the Federal Building like pieces on a chessboard.

About Ma McCabe, who'd claimed me as family over Sunday dinner without knowing she was adopting a ticking time bomb.

This wasn't about revenge anymore. It wasn't about pride, professional satisfaction, or settling scores with Magnus Hoyle. It was about survival—not only mine, but theirs—the people who'd chosen to stand with me despite knowing the cost.

I rolled my shoulders, working circulation back into muscles that had stiffened during the interrogation. The zip ties bit deeper, but I felt the chair's metal edge starting to fray the plastic where I'd been working it.

For eight months, I'd been the ghost—invisible, untouchable, existing in the spaces between other people's lives. Surviving by staying small, staying quiet, and staying forgotten.

Not anymore.