Chapter 17
Eerily silent without its teams of big personalities, Knight Tactical headquarters felt like a tomb, only with electricity and more gadgets than a big box store.
Cory followed Izzy through the main hangar entrance. The space felt wrong. He'd been here dozens of times over the past five years. The place had always been alive. Tools clanging. Music blaring. Coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead.
Unless Christian Murphy was pulling hand-crafted cappuccinos with his industrial-grade Italian espresso maker.
Now their footsteps echoed through the empty space.
"Weird, right?" Izzy called over her shoulder, already heading for the stairs. "Like a school during summer break."
That was part of it. The missing testosterone was obvious—no deep voices arguing about weapons calibers, no weights clanging in the corner gym, no competitive jabs about who'd made the hardest shot.
But something else was gone too. The protective energy.
That sense of purpose that made groups like Knight Tactical more than just security for hire.
The sense of family.
Cory paused at the base of the stairs, taking in the space. Equipment lockers lined one wall. Planning boards covered another, maps of remote locations marked with tactical notations. The air still carried hints of gun oil and aviation fuel, coffee and sweat. Ghost scents of the absent team.
She was already halfway up the metal stairs, taking them two at a time like she was assaulting an objective.
He followed more slowly, noting escape routes out of habit.
Two exits on ground level, windows on the second floor—reinforced, but breakable with the right tools.
Defensive positions at the top of the stairs, good sightlines to—
Stop it. You're not planning a raid.
But old habits died hard, and being in Isabella Reyes' domain without her usual protective detail made his threat assessment reflexes twitch.
The second floor opened into a large workroom.
Multiple computer stations, walls covered with maps and satellite imagery, equipment he couldn't identify scattered across tables.
Izzy went straight to a specific terminal like a homing pigeon, fingers already flying across the keyboard before she'd fully sat down.
"All our analysis software is loaded here," she said, not looking up. "Better than whatever ancient programs the FAA's using."
Cory hovered awkwardly behind her chair, unsure where to position himself. Close enough to see the screen, but not close enough to seem... what? Interested? He was investigating a case, not—
Not noticing how her hair falls when she leans forward. Not catching hints of vanilla from her shampoo.
"Okay, look at this." She'd pulled photos from her phone, displaying them on the monitor in high resolution. Split screen: Bell helicopter servo assembly on the left, Cessna on the right. "Reed saw the surface damage and called it sabotage. Which, yes, obvious. But he missed the real story."
Cory leaned in. "Walk me through it."
She glanced up at him, a tiny smile playing at her lips. "Chief Fraser asking for help? Mark the calendar."
"I ask for help when the expert's available. Talk."
"Okay." She turned back to the screen, all business now. "Both servos failed the same way. Hydraulic lines compromised, specific pressure points targeted. Someone who understood the systems did this."
"We knew that already."
"Surface level, yeah. But look closer." She zoomed in on the Bell's servo, highlighting tool marks with her cursor.
"See these marks? Hesitation scratches where the tool slipped.
Here, and here. Too much pressure applied in the wrong spots.
This person was nervous. Maybe working in the dark. Definitely sweating bullets."
Cory could see it now that she'd pointed it out. Sloppy work, like someone practicing a signature they'd only seen once.
"Now watch this." She switched to the Cessna servo, same magnification. "Same basic technique. Same angles of attack, same pressure points chosen. But look how clean it is."
The difference was striking. Where the Bell showed nervous scratches and tool slippage, the Cessna's sabotage was almost surgical. Minimal marking, confident strokes, no wasted motion.
"They got better," Cory said slowly.
"Exactly." Izzy spun her chair to face him, eyes bright with discovery. "This isn't some master mechanic we're dealing with. This is someone learning on the job. The Bell was practice. By the time they hit the Cessna, they'd refined their technique."
Her phone buzzed on the desk beside the keyboard. Cory watched her glance at it, saw her expression darken like storm clouds rolling in. Her jaw tightened, fingers white-knuckling the phone as she read whatever was on the screen.
She stabbed at the screen with her thumb—deleting something, from the decisive gesture. The phone hit the desk with more force than necessary.
"Problem?" Cory asked, though her body language screamed the answer.
"Nothing I can't handle."
Probably not, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands had clenched into fists before she forced them flat on the desk.
Her ex. Had to be. Nobody else could put that particular mix of fury and fear in her eyes with just a text message.
She turned back to the screen, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. "So we've got someone hiring amateur saboteurs. MedFlight's the obvious suspect. They want Mountain Angel's contract."
"Whoa." Cory held up a hand. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Sure, MedFlight has motive, but—"
"But what? They show up at every incident. Their representative is salivating over our problems—"
"All circumstantial. Could be MedFlight. Could be someone with a grudge against Mountain Angel specifically. Could be insurance fraud. We can't fixate on one suspect."
She huffed out a breath. "Fine. You're right. We follow evidence, not assumptions."
"Even really logical assumptions."
The skinny mechanic from the hangar flashed through Cory's mind—that nervous energy, the way he'd kept edging toward the sabotaged parts. But no, too early to focus on one person. Evidence first, suspects second.
"Saboteurs for hire don't have learning curves," Izzy continued. "I've investigated suspicious failures for insurance companies. Real pros? They're ghosts. Perfect work every time."
"So whoever hired this person—"
"Wanted someone expendable. Someone desperate enough to take the job and skilled enough to access aircraft, but amateur enough that they won't be traced back to whoever's paying them."
The implications hung heavy between them. Hired help became loose ends. Loose ends got tied off.
"We need to find them," Izzy said quietly. "Before they strike again. Or before—"
"Before whoever hired them decides they're a liability." Cory pulled out his phone. "I'll put out a quiet alert to my deputies. Have them note anyone acting suspicious around the airport."
"Good idea." She saved her analysis, creating a file. "Cory, what scares me is the acceleration. In a couple days they went from nervous amateur to confident saboteur."
"I should update the FBI," Cory said finally. "They need to know about the learning curve. Reed’ll be working with them. I’ll call him."
"Think he'll listen?"
"He's competent. Just doesn't know Hope Landing, doesn't know who belongs and who doesn't." Cory watched her close the files, securing them. "We have the advantage there."
"For now." Izzy stood, energy crackling around her like static.