Page 4 of Anchor
Reid rolled his shoulder until it popped. “And the rest?”
Tuck looked at him. “Killian’s waiting.”
That was that.
The Ann Arbormain building wore Chase’s quiet signature without apology. The lobby was glass, the emblem etched in steel over a wall that didn’t feel like a wall. Reid let the building clock him, tag him, and clear him through the seams.
Upstairs, he entered the executive suite. A woman with no nameplate and an expression sharp enough to settle a skirmishwith a glance gestured toward the inner office. “They’re ready for you.”
Killian Moynihan was all stillness and angles, the kind of man who could run you through a wall just by asking if you had a minute. He didn’t rise when Reid entered. Beside him, Noah Paulsen leaned forward, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp as wire.
“Hanlon,” Killian said. “Sit.”
Noah slid two paper folders across the table. Decisions this serious never lived on a hard drive. “Your file,” he said. “Our file. Which one do you want me to believe?”
“Both,” Reid answered. “Different truths. Same man.”
Killian’s eyes didn’t move. “Good start. Here’s another: Tuck Hanlon opened this door for you. That doesn’t mean it stays open.”
“Understood.”
“Medical cleared you, pending labs,” Noah said. “Pete signed. Casey signed. Tuck would’ve signed in blood if we let him.”
“Don’t,” Reid said dryly. “He’ll try.”
Killian folded his hands. “Why Chase now? You’ve been drifting since you left the Navy.”
“Because first teams set the tone,” Reid replied. “And I’m done burning luck just to break even.”
Killian didn’t blink. “Tell me about failing.”
“Mali,” Reid said, steady. “Comms went dead. L.T. dropped. I stepped up because I thought wanting it was enough. We pulled out three hostages, but we lost one of ours. I carried him to the helo, and the second the skids touched dirt, I threw up behind them. That’s failure. Not the vomit, but the certainty. I don’t trust certainty anymore.”
Noah’s mouth ticked a fraction. Killian didn’t move, just tilted his head.
Noah slid a matte SIG P320 across the table with a holster that wouldn’t print under a tux if worn right. Beside it lay a slim case with a comms bud small enough to vanish.
“P320, nine mil, fifteen in the mag, one chambered,” Noah said. “Carry what you train with, qualify with what you carry. This comm cycles channels daily. Lose it, and you’ll be digging for it with a magnet and despair.”
“Ballrooms make better battlefields,” Reid muttered.
“We don’t disagree,” Noah said evenly. “If my voice comes through this bud, you listen. If I tell you to stop breathing, you consider hypoxia’s advantages.”
Killian placed a metal ID card and lanyard on the table. “Clearance access. Also, your key to the apartment on William Street. The tailor’s waiting for you downstairs. HR after that to pick up your licensing packet. Don’t bleed on the tux before Friday.”
“Friday?”
“The gala.” The weight in the word made it clear it was more than glitter. “You’re on the floor. Watch without watching. Listen like you’re holding a joke you’ll never tell.”
“And if something breaks?”
Killian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then we see if you’re as good as Tuck says.”
Noah flicked the comm into Reid’s palm like it was a ring.
“That a yes for the job?” Reid asked.
“That’s a yes for your new life,” Noah said.
