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Holden

H er laughter hits me first, soft but distinct enough to make me freeze mid-step.

I know that laugh. It’s quieter than the one she uses with Park or Tate and less guarded than the curt, polite chuckles she forces when someone cracks a joke.

It’s natural, effortless, and cuts through me in a way it shouldn’t.

I round the corner, and there she is.

Agent Arden Williams. She’s sitting on the edge of Beckett’s desk, legs crossed at the ankle, with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in her hand like she’s sitting in a break room instead of one of the most secure buildings in the country.

Her shoulders are relaxed, and her posture is casual in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen. There’s no rigidness, no tension, just... calm.

And Beckett, of course, is eating it up.

He’s leaned back in his chair, one arm slung across the backrest as he says something I can’t hear.

Whatever it is, it earns him another smile. Not a full one, but enough. It’s small, faint, and not meant to mean anything. But I hate it anyway.

My fists tighten at my sides.

I have no right to feel this way. None. She’s not mine. Hell, half the time, we barely tolerate each other, and I’m fine with that.

I’ve told myself I am. But seeing her like this, comfortable and at ease with him , is a different kind of hell.

Beckett catches something in her expression and leans forward, gesturing with his hand as he talks. The way he looks at her, like she’s a mark and he’s already figured out a way to execute, makes my jaw clench.

He’s always had this way of inching too close to the line. It’s like he enjoys testing limits. Like he enjoys pissing me off.

We go back—me, him, Tate but that history feels distant now, overshadowed by all the shit that came after. Beckett’s been competing with me for years for everything. Promotions, respect, trust. And when I thought he couldn’t take more, he went after Sydney. My ex.

I’ve been looking for an excuse to hit him ever since. But right now, I don’t need one.

Williams shifts slightly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. Her gaze flickers toward the doorway, and the moment her eyes meet mine, something shifts. The light in her expression dims, the faint trace of a smile disappearing like smoke.

Her back straightens, shoulders snapping into their usual posture as her walls slam back into place.

Good. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Professional. Distant. Unaffected.

But I saw the difference. Saw what it looks like when she isn’t wound so tight or bracing for something. And I can’t unsee it.

“Everything okay?” Tate’s voice breaks through the haze. He’s behind me, his tone laced with that usual edge of amusement he gets when he knows I’m on edge.

“Fine,” I grit out.

Tate chuckles softly, stepping around me. He glances at Arden and Beckett, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a smirk, but it’s forced. “They sure look cozy,” he murmurs under his breath, low enough that only I hear.

I ignore him.

Williams focuses on her sandwich now, her fingers steady as she tears off a small piece and pops it into her mouth. Beckett leans back again, clearly enjoying himself, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Either way, it doesn’t sit right with me.

I force my gaze away, dragging myself back to reality. We have work to do, and I’m not about to let her, or him, distract me from it.

“Let’s go,” I say to Tate, my voice sharper than I intended. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. He knows better.

As we move toward Nerd Hall, I glance back one last time. She hasn’t looked up again, but I catch Beckett watching me, his lips twitching into something between a smirk and a dare.

The urge to break his nose is almost overwhelming.

But I turn away and keep walking, pushing the thought of her, of them , out of my mind. Or at least, I try.

The night agent’s station is buried in a mess of tech and surveillance feeds. The room is dimly lit, screens casting a blue glow, and the agent on duty barely looks up when we walk in.

“Got something for you,” he says without missing a beat. “Undercover agent made contact a few minutes ago. They’ve picked up chatter about a potential attempt on President Carter.”

I exchange a look with Tate, my pulse already quickening. “Details?” I ask, stepping closer, trying to keep my tone steady.

The agent pulls up a message on his screen. “Nothing solid. It’s vague, but something about it is off. They bypassed the normal channels. And instead of going through the usual route, they insisted the information be relayed directly to Agent Harris.”

I narrow my eyes, that knot tightening in my stomach. “Harris?” That doesn’t make sense. “Why him?”

The night agent shakes his head, clearly as puzzled as I am. “No idea. But they were adamant. Said it had to go to him and him only.”

My gut churns. Something is wrong here. Harris is a reliable guy, but why go out of their way to reach him, especially when we’ve got standard protocols in place?

Tate folds his arms, his expression hardening. He’s thinking the same thing. “Does Harris know?”

“Not yet,” I say, already moving. “But he’s about to.”

As we head down the hallway, the unease claws at me. Something about this feels bigger than just another threat.

There’s a missing piece, and I don’t like not knowing what it is.

***

The air in Harris’s office is always stale and uncomfortable as fuck. Too quiet. Too cold.

I step in, shutting the door behind me with a controlled click, my eyes immediately finding Harris at his desk.

He doesn’t look up. He just sits there, calm and unreadable as always, scanning whatever file is in front of him like I’m not even in the room.

I clear my throat, shifting the folder under my arm. “Got something from the night agent last night,” I say.

Harris doesn’t flinch or show any sign that he’s heard me, but I know he’s listening.

“He passed along a code. ‘Nightwalker.’”

That gets him. Barely. Just a flicker, the smallest shift in his posture, almost imperceptible. But I see it. After all this time, I know when Harris’s calm cracks even a little. He lifts his head slowly, his gaze locking on mine, his expression smooth as always. “I see.”

That’s it. No follow-up. No sign of surprise. Just those two words, spoken in the same neutral tone that’s always rubbed me the wrong way.

Like he’s already two steps ahead of me. I stand there, waiting for more, but he offers nothing.

I narrow my eyes, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “What’s it mean?” I ask, keeping my voice controlled. Pushing him too hard won’t get me anywhere, but I’m not leaving without something.

Harris’s eyes flick back to the file on his desk, dismissing me before he even speaks. “Not your concern, Grant.”

I bite down hard, teeth grinding against the restraint I’ve learned over the years. The old man has always played his cards close, but this? Something’s off, and he’s hiding it. I hate when people keep things from me, especially when I’m the one in the line of fire.

“It is my concern,” I say, careful to keep my tone respectful but firm. I was brought up better than to outright question a superior, but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever this is, it will land in my lap sooner or later.

Harris glances at me just long enough for me to catch the subtle edge in his expression. A warning. “No, Agent Grant, the two rookies I placed into your care are your concern. Making sure they don’t get the president or First Family killed is your concern until you’re told otherwise. Senior Agent or not, you still report to me. Don’t forget that.”

Dismissed. Just like that. This makes two times too much.

I give a stiff nod, forcing myself to keep my jaw from locking. “Understood, sir.” But the words are a lie. I don’t understand it, not one fucking bit. I turn to leave, every muscle tight, the itch of unanswered questions prickling at my skin.

As I reach the door, I glance back at Harris. He’s already back to his file, not a flicker of emotion in sight. It’s like nothing ever happened.

But I know better. I saw it. The way his posture shifted just slightly when I said “Nightwalker.” He knows something, and it’s not just some throwaway intel.

I don’t like being kept in the dark. Not by anyone.

Especially not by him.

“So what did he say?” Tate falls into step beside me, his usual easygoing manner only thinly veiling his curiosity. He’s been in the game long enough to know when something doesn’t add up.

“He didn’t know,” I respond. The lie slips out smoothly, but we both know it’s not the truth.

Tate raises a brow, his sharp eyes flicking to mine. There’s a brief pause, the kind that comes when someone knows they’re being fed bullshit but decides to let it slide. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, but doesn’t press further. He’s smart enough to know I’m not in the mood for digging deeper right now. I don’t have time for his questions when the ones in my own head are already piling up.

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension as we walk, but it lingers, coiling around me like a vise. I need to get out of here and blow off some steam before I storm back into that office and demand answers I know Harris isn’t going to give.

But that’s not how things work around here. No, you wait long enough, and someone slips. They always do.

“You got time for a sparring session?” I ask, more out of routine than actual hope. I could use the distraction, something to knock out this simmering frustration before it boils over.

Tate glances at me, and for a second, I see the hesitation before he speaks. “Not today, man. I have to take Nonna to dialysis.”

Right. His grandmother. She’s been sick for as long as I’ve known him, always something with her kidneys, in and out of hospitals. He doesn’t talk about it much. He’s never one for sharing anything too deep or too serious. But I know it weighs on him more than he lets on.

I give a short nod, respectful. “How’s she holding up?” It’s not much, but it’s enough to let him know I’m asking without prying. Tate’s the kind of guy who’ll give you a piece of himself when he’s ready.

“Same,” he says, his voice low, that familiar strain beneath the surface. “Some days are better than others.” He shrugs, trying to play it off, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I offer. It’s the kind of thing you say, but with Tate, I mean it.

He gives me a sideways glance, and for a split second, his guard drops. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

We reach the corner of the West Wing where my desk is located, and Tate’s already pulling out his keys, ready to head out.

“Don’t stay here too late, Grant,” he says with a nod before turning and making his way down the hall.

I watch him go for a moment before heading to my desk. My head’s still buzzing with what just went down in Harris’s office, the lingering tension gnawing at me, refusing to let go. I drop into my chair and pull up my laptop. Against my better judgment, I type in the code name: Nightwalker .

The screen flashes, and a list of files pops up. Most of them are restricted, locked behind layers of clearance I don’t have access to. I scroll, narrowing my search, until one file catches my eye. A classified document sealed tight above my pay grade.

Interesting.

I stare at the screen for a moment. Coincidence? I don’t believe in them. Not here. Not in this line of work.

I lean back in my chair, the gears in my mind turning. I already know who I need to call to get answers.

This time, I’m not waiting for Harris to slip up.