Page 4 of Catalyst

I am building a private security consulting firm in a town with limited cell service, one road, and a population that handles most of its problems with a phone call and a truck.

Baker would have laughed. He'd have leaned against the doorframe with that specific grin he saved for moments when I was being stubborn about something obviously impractical. 'Kane, you picked the one place on earth where nobody needs what you're selling.'

He'd have been wrong. This town needs exactly what I'm selling. They just don't know it yet.

A truck backfires on the street outside, and my right hand drops to my hip before my brain registers the sound. Muscle memory.

Baker has been dead long enough that I've stopped counting the months, and my body still reaches for a weapon every time something sounds like a gunshot.

I pull my hand back and press it flat on the desk. The wood is cool. The street is quiet. Nobody saw. Training that doesn't come with an off switch. I stopped apologizing for it the same week I stopped flinching.

I lock up and walk to the Ridgeline for a late breakfast. The morning rush is over, and the café has settled into the quieter rhythm of the mid-morning gap.

Paula is restocking cups. She glances at me, sets a mug on the counter, and goes back to what she was doing. No greeting. No small talk. Paula communicates through efficiency. She decided I was acceptable weeks ago, and further confirmation would insult both our intelligence.

Marc and Sela are in the corner booth with Rhys. He's got his back to the wall, coffee untouched, off-duty in posture and on-duty in everything else.

His gaze locks on me the second I walk in. The kind of focused attention that used to make me reach for my sidearm when it came from the wrong man. From Rhys, it makes me reach for something else entirely. The fact that I can feel the heat of his attention across a crowded café at nine in the morning is a problem I have decided to stop pretending is a problem.

Marc waves me over. I slide in next to Rhys, and his hand settles on my thigh under the table. Warm. Possessive. Automatic. His thumb presses into the inside seam of my jeans, and my train of thought derails so completely that I have to reconstruct it from wreckage before I can form a sentence.

Sela is eating eggs with the focused speed of someone whose break ends in twelve minutes.

"How's the office?" Marc asks.

"The filing cabinet sticks. The internet dropped twice this morning. The stove needs feeding every hour." I wrap my hands around the mug. "So. Progress."

Sela smiles. Marc doesn't. Marc shows approval the same way Paula shows acceptance—by not saying anything negative and moving on to the next subject.

"Carl's already planning another fundraiser for fall," Sela says. "Apparently last night only covered half the roof."

"Of course he is. Carl plans fundraisers the way other people plan military operations."

"Speaking of military operations." Marc leans back, arms crossed. "Got a call from the FBI field office in Anchorage yesterday. They want access to the department's case files from the Marshal investigation. Again."

Rhys's jaw tightens. The hand on my thigh goes still.

Sela's fork pauses. I set my mug down.

"They've had access for months," I say.

"They want more. Different analyst, new request, same bureaucratic runaround." Marc's voice is level, but the effort shows. "Every time they circle back, it feels less like follow-up and more like they're covering their tracks. Three agencies missed what was happening north of here for years. Nobody wants that in a report."

The table goes quiet. Rhys picks up his coffee and drinks. The gesture is controlled, deliberate. Whatever he's swallowing, it isn't coffee.

Marc's expression is one I've worn. The fury of a professional whose institution failed the people it existed to protect. He spent his career in Army CID believing the system worked. Then a federal official used that system to run a trafficking operation through a mining camp north of town. The system didn't just fail. It was weaponized. I carry the same scar from a different agency.

"How much access are they asking for?" I ask.

"Everything from the mining camp forward. I told them to submit it in writing." Marc glances at Rhys. "Your call, boss."

Rhys sets the cup down. "Submit it in writing. I'll read it when I'm ready to read it."

That's all. We move on. Sela finishes her eggs and checks her watch. Marc reaches for the bill and I let him take it.

Rhys's hand hasn't left my thigh. His thumb has resumed that slow, maddening pressure through the denim, and the man has the audacity to look completely unbothered while he does it. I am going to make him pay for this later. He's counting on it.

Outside, the street carries the unhurried rhythm of a town that runs on its own timing. A woman is sweeping the porch of the community hall. Hank's truck is parked crooked outside the hardware store. Two kids on bicycles race past the post office, and neither one is wearing a helmet.