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 alwaysplanned 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. Newlines 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."
