Page 11 of Handful

The table went still. Not surprised — everyone had seen this coming for a year. But hearing it said out loud at church was different from knowing it was coming.

“We’re clean on every line item. First full quarter. Glitch has confirmed, Indira’s confirmed, the books are confirmed.” He looked around the table. “This is what we said we’d do when King stepped down. That shit’s behind us now.”

Colt tapped the table once. Holden did the same. Around the table, the rest followed — tap, tap, tap. The club’s version of a vote that didn’t need a vote.

“Which means now we look forward.” Dutch tipped his chin at Glitch. “Keep going.”

“The exec-protection vertical,” Glitch said, pulling a page from one of his piles. “Indira and I ran the numbers last week.” He slid copies down the table. I took one. Columns, percentages, client names I didn’t recognize. “Corporate protection. Higher margin than residential. Tech-heavy on my end — advance surveillance, comms, counter-intel. Field-heavy on the operational side.” He glanced at Dutch. “We need a field lead for this.”

Dutch was looking at me.

I looked back. Maya shifted against his chest, made a small sound, and settled. Dutch didn’t look down. His hand automatically adjusted on her back.

“Moving on,” Dutch said, still looking at me. He didn’t elaborate.

“The Portland storage property,” Glitch continued. “Owner’s ready to sell. Number’s fair. I’d buy it at that price.” He walked through the details — location, square footage, zoning. Dutch asked two questions. Colt asked one.

“The garage expansion,” Glitch said. “Three additional bays. Room for the fleet maintenance and the new detail rigs. I’ve got a contractor lined up. Indira vetted him.”

“How much?” Colt asked.

Glitch told him. Colt’s eyebrows went up about a quarter inch.

“It pays for itself in twelve months,” Glitch said. “If we land the Portland exec-protection contracts, six.”

“Vote,” Dutch said.

The table voted. Unanimous. Dutch hit the gavel.

Maya woke up.

She didn’t cry. She just opened her eyes — dark, like Indira’s — and stared at the room with the unfocused intensity of a newborn. Her fist tightened on Dutch’s collar. He looked down at her and his whole face changed. Not softer, exactly. Just, I don’t know, a look that I had never seen on his face before.

“You’re early,” he murmured. “We’re not done yet.”

She made a sound and Dutch’s hand moved in small circles on her back until she settled again.

The moment was interrupted by a knock on the door. Interrupting church was unheard of. The room looked at Dutch.

“Enter,” Dutch called.

The door opened. Indira. Hair pulled back, no makeup, one of Dutch’s flannels hanging off her shoulders over a tank top. She looked past the table — past Colt, past Holden, past me — and found Dutch at the head with Maya on his chest.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said.

“You needed sleep. Maya came to church.” He said it with a straight face. “Learning about the democratic process.”

Indira walked to the head of the table. Dutch lifted Maya out of the sling with both hands and passed her across. Indira settled her against her shoulder. Maya made a gurgling sound, and pressed her face into Indira’s neck.

“She’s been good,” Dutch said. His voice had dropped to the register he kept just for her. “Slept through the first half. Woke up for the vote.”

“She’s her father’s daughter.”

“Then we’re in trouble.”

Indira grinned at him in acknowledgment, then turned toward the door.

Dutch turned back to the table. “Back to business. Anyone got any other new revenue plays?”