I blinked. "That sounds exhausting."
"It was. But it got me through."
I turned back toward the window. "I didn't need lyrics to understand me. I needed lyrics that reminded me how to stay upright."
A beat passed.
Matthew said quietly, "You don't always have to be upright now."
I didn't answer, but I didn't turn the radio off either.
The gas station materialized around a curve in the highway like something from a different decade—two pumps, a weathered building with hand-painted signs advertising live bait and hunting licenses, and a gravel lot pockmarked with potholes.
Perfect.
Matthew pulled up to the rear of the building, positioning the truck with its nose pointed toward the exit road. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I spotted Marcus's vehicle—a dark blue extended-cab pickup.
Two figures stood beside the truck. One was clearly Marcus. The family resemblance was apparent, with his arms crossed, watching our approach with patient attention.
Beside him, a man with sandy hair gestured with precise movements while speaking, expressive hands cutting through the air like he was explaining complex data to an invisible audience.
That had to be James, Marcus's partner. Seeing them together made their dynamic immediately clear. Marcus anchored himself in stillness while James moved with restless intellectual energy. I'd seen it in mission analysts—people who saw patterns where the rest of us saw noise.
Matthew killed the engine and reached for his door handle. "Remember—Marcus is direct. James sees patterns. Between them, they'll figure out more than you tell them."
"Copy that." I checked my jacket pockets, confirming the placement of identification documents and the burner phone. "How much do they need to know?"
"Everything that matters. Nothing that doesn't."
The rain began again, a gentle sprinkle, as we exited Matthew's truck. Marcus approached with measured steps. When he reached Matthew, he pulled him into a brief hug, genuine, but over quickly.
Marcus spoke much like Matthew but with an undertone of authority. "You look like hell. When's the last time you slept?"
"Last night. Some." Matthew gestured toward me. "Marcus, this is Dorian. Dorian, my brother Marcus. And James."
James stepped forward, chewing his lower lip briefly before extending his hand. "James Reynolds. His grip was firm.
I braced for interrogation. Questions about my background, my intentions, and my relationship with Matthew. The protective scrutiny that came with badges and academic credentials.
Instead, Marcus reached into his cab and emerged with a stainless steel thermos. "Coffee. Real stuff, not gas station sludge." He offered it to me, and I accepted it with surprise. Themetal was warm against my palms, and when I unscrewed the cap, the aroma that escaped was rich enough to cut through the smell of gasoline and wet asphalt.
James tracked my movements as I took a sip—not suspicious, but observant, professional interest rather than personal judgment.
"You're riding with us." Marcus was already moving toward his driver's door. "Matthew, follow at the standard interval. We'll drop your truck at the usual place.
The usual place.Code between brothers, developed over decades of shared experience. I glanced at Matthew, who nodded once.
"See you in a few." Matthew squeezed my shoulder briefly before heading back to his truck.
Marcus's pickup was cleaner inside than out. He'd secured tactical gear in custom holders and mounted communication equipment within easy reach. James claimed the passenger seat, leaving me the jump seat behind them. As we pulled out of the gas station lot, James twisted around to face me.
"So." His hands moved as he spoke. "Matthew mentioned you're dealing with some complicated circumstances. Academic curiosity—what field of work puts someone in the crosshairs of professional surveillance?"
I sipped the coffee again, buying time to frame my response. "Information brokerage. Sometimes you learn things people would prefer stayed buried."
James's eyebrows rose slightly. "Corporate espionage?"
"Institutional. Humanitarian organizations with government contracts. They are places where legitimate operations intersect with less legitimate interests." I watched James's expression shift from curiosity to something sharper. "Pattern recognition becomes a survival skill in that environment."
