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'dshown 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.
Chapter nineteen
Matthew
The Federal Building stood firm like a bully ready to fight—eleven stories of reinforced glass and bureaucratic muscle, nearly empty after hours but still humming with secrets. I stood at the top of the entrance steps, hands shoved in my hoodie and breath sharp in my throat. I glanced around—no one visible.
Seattle didn't sleep so much as go silent after midnight. The city around me held its breath—no foot traffic or hum of late-night conversations. Only the dull grind of a metro bus crawling uphill three blocks over.
My burner phone read 12:01. I rechecked it, not for the time but for the vibration that hadn't come. Not yet.
