"You planning to wear that towel all day?"
I turned to find Michael in the doorway, still in his tactical gear from the night shift. His easy smile vanished as he read my expression. Nine years of SWAT operations had taught him to be an expert in body language—especially mine.
"What's wrong?" He crossed the room in three quick strides, all casual big brother teasing gone.
I handed him the letter, reaching for my clothes with my other hand. The familiar motions of dressing helped steady me and gave me something to focus on while Michael read.
"Jesus." The quiet intensity in his voice said more than cursing would have. "This is..." He looked up sharply. "And today's warehouse fire. You think they're connected?"
"Has to be." I buttoned my uniform shirt. "That little sketch is the burn patterns at the fire. It's the same precision and the same attention to detail. Someone who understands timing and patterns."
"Someone who's been watching you for weeks." Michael's tactical mind was visibly working through scenarios. "To get all these details, to know your schedule this well—"
The locker room door banged open again. My brother Matthew stood there in his paramedic uniform, dark circles under his eyes suggesting a busy night shift. "You two alive in here? Miles says he's got an hour between clients if we want to grab breakfast at Callahan's—" He read the tension in the room. "What happened?"
Michael and I exchanged a look that said volumes. Matthew was the most empathetic of us all, wearing his heart on his sleeve in a way that made him an excellent paramedic but sometimes left him exposed. Our instinct was always to protect him, even though he'd more than proven himself capable over the years.
Dad's voice whispered in my memory:The McCabe men don't carry burdens alone.
"Call Miles," I said quietly, tucking the letter into an evidence bag. "Tell him we'll bring breakfast to his office. We need somewhere private to talk."
Matthew's expression shifted to the focused calm I'd seen him use with accident victims. He pulled out his phone without argument, all traces of earlier exhaustion gone. Michael was already examining the envelope with professional attention.
I finished dressing mechanically, my mind circling back to the warehouse fire and the precision of it. Someone had beenwatching me for weeks, turning my daily routines into data points.
They'd made a crucial mistake. The McCabe brothers had been preparing for crisis our whole lives, learning from a father who'd taught us that family was the strongest foundation for facing any threat. We were four brothers who engaged in four different ways of protecting and serving. Whoever was watching had just made it personal for all of us.
I caught my reflection in the locker room mirror as I combed my hair—one of Dad's non-negotiable habits, even after the worst fires. The man in the mirror looked composed enough, but beneath that surface, unease had wrapped itself around my ankles, threatening to drag me down.
"Miles cleared his whole morning," Matthew said, pocketing his phone. His eyes hadn't left me since reading the letter, carrying that steady assessment he usually reserved for patients in shock. "You doing okay?"
The automatic "fine" died in my throat. Dad's voice echoed in memory:Lying to family is still lying, son."Not really," I admitted. "But I will be. Once we figure out what we're dealing with."
Michael nodded, tucking the evidence bag carefully into his tactical vest. "First step: coffee. Real coffee, not this station sludge. Then breakfast. Then we plan." His voice had the same quiet authority he used directing SWAT operations. "And you're riding with me, Marcus. Your truck's too easy to spot."
The familiar rhythm of tactical planning helped steady me. First, secure the team. Second: gather intelligence. Third, develop a response strategy. The same protocols that worked for fires and SWAT operations would work here.
Except, this wasn't a straightforward emergency with clear threat parameters and established response patterns. Someonehad studied me, learned my routines, and documented every habit I'd built to prepare myself for whatever crisis came next.
Matthew's shoulder brushed mine as we walked toward the parking lot. "Remember what Dad used to say when we had too many problems to solve?"
"Break them down into manageable pieces," Michael and I answered together. The shared memory painted a reluctant smile on both of our faces.
"Exactly." Matthew's voice was calm and steady, like the one he used in his ambulance. "So that's what we'll do. One piece at a time."
Late morning sunlight spilled across the station's parking lot, painting everything in deceptively ordinary colors. Somewhere in the city, a warehouse still smoldered, its burn patterns telling a story I was only beginning to understand. And someone was watching, recording, and planning their next move with terrifying precision.
Michael's SWAT vehicle beeped as he unlocked it. "You know," he said casually, though his eyes never stopped scanning our surroundings, "I've got some leave saved up. Might stick close to home for a while."
"Yeah?" Matthew slid into the backseat, already texting Miles our breakfast order. "Me too. Funny timing."
Something tightened in my throat. I wanted to tell them they didn't need to rearrange their lives, that I could handle this alone. But another memory surfaced: Dad sitting at our kitchen table after a brutal shift, letting Mom force coffee into him while we all pretended not to notice his hands shaking.Family's not a weakness, son. It's the foundation everything else stands on.
"Alright," I said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Let's see what Miles makes of all this. After coffee."
"After coffee," Michael agreed, starting the engine. "And Marcus? We're with you. No discussion needed."
Seattle's traffic flowed around us. Somewhere out there, someone thought they could use my patterns against me and make my structured world perilous.
