Chapter 18
Two hours and a lifetime later, Izzy hauled her third bag through Knight Tactical's entrance, nearly colliding with Cory as he came in with an armload of groceries.
"Sorry—" They both said it simultaneously, then did that awkward dance where they both stepped the same direction twice.
The problem wasn't the near-collision. The problem was Cory Fraser in civilian clothes.
Gone was the crisp uniform that screamed "authority" and "keep your distance." Instead, he wore dark jeans that fit him entirely too well and a gray henley that made his eyes look like storm clouds. He looked... normal. Approachable.
And dangerously attractive.
"Kitchen?" he asked, lifting the grocery bags.
"Yeah. Through there." She grabbed her own bags—mostly coffee and energy drinks—and followed him into the common area.
Knight Tactical's headquarters included a full kitchen designed to feed hungry operators between missions. Industrial-grade appliances, massive island, enough counter space to prep for an army. Which they often had.
Now it was just the two of them, trying not to bump elbows as they unpacked groceries.
"Cabinet?" Cory asked, holding up a can of soup.
"Wherever." She turned to shove her energy drinks. When she turned back, he was arranging the cans by type.
"Are you... alphabetizing the soup?"
He didn't look up. "It's more efficient."
"It's chicken noodle, not a filing system."
"Organization saves time." He placed a can of tomato soup in its apparently designated spot. "You'll thank me when you need minestrone in a hurry."
"When has anyone ever needed minestrone in a hurry?"
The look he gave her was so seriously offended that she had to bite back a laugh. Chief Fraser, Terror of Hope Landing's criminal element, personally victimized by soup disorder.
"You should get settled," she said, needing distance before she did something stupid like find him endearing. "The guest suites are down that hall. Take your pick."
He immediately headed for the suite nearest the stairs. Of course. Tactical position, clear sightlines, easy access to exits. She shouldn't have expected anything else.
Izzy chose one two doors down, far enough to maintain some privacy but close enough that he could reach her if—
No. Not thinking about that.
The suite was nicer than most hotel rooms—queen bed, full bathroom, even a small sitting area. Ronan had insisted on comfort for visiting operators and agency liaisons. She dropped her bags and took a moment to breathe.
Living in close quarters with Cory Fraser. Hiding from whoever wanted her dead.
This was insane.
She found him back in the kitchen, now organizing the refrigerator.
"You know," she said, leaning against the counter, "I have other options. Guys like Wilson who do private security. Former operatives who owe me favors. You don't have to—"
"I'm not leaving." He didn't even look up from his produce arrangement.
"You have an actual job. Police chief stuff. You can't just put your life on hold to babysit me."
"I'm not babysitting." He closed the fridge and faced her. "I'm investigating attempted murder and aircraft sabotage."
"Which is the FBI's job now."
"The FBI doesn't know Hope Landing. They don't know the players or the dynamics, who belongs and who doesn't." He leaned against the opposite counter, mirroring her pose. "Besides, this is... interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Different. Fun, even." His expression went from relaxed to mortified in record time.
"Fun?" Izzy couldn't help herself. "Someone trying to blow me up is fun? Wow, Fraser, you really need to get out more."
"That's not what I—" He dragged a hand through his hair, messing up its perfect regulation style. "I meant the investigation. Working together. Not the attempted murder part."
"Smooth recovery." But she took pity on him. "Speaking of the investigation, you can't actually work it. Not officially. Can't use city resources on an FBI case."
"I know." He pulled out his phone, scrolled to something. "I already arranged personal leave. Graceline's handling the day-to-day remotely. She's been wanting more responsibility anyway."
He'd taken vacation time. To protect her.
Izzy didn't know what to do with that information, so she fled to safer ground.
"Speaking of Graceline, I should tell my team about..." She gestured vaguely. "All this."
Her phone buzzed with perfect timing.
Zara: Heard about the explosion. You okay??? Need backup?
She typed back quickly.
No body parts missing. Just my beautiful ride. Have backup. All good.
Her phone rang immediately. Not Zara—Ronan. And from the sharp breath before he spoke, he was mad.
"You got BLOWN UP and didn't call us?"
"I didn't get blown up. My vehicle got blown up."
"Don’t even—"
"I'm fine, Ronan. Really. Cory Fraser was there, got me clear in time." She kept her voice light, but guilt twisted in her stomach.
"Fraser’s good people." Ronan's tone shifted, evaluating.
“He's actually been... helpful." She caught Cory's raised eyebrow and turned away. "I'm staying at headquarters. He's providing security."
"Just him?"
"It's enough."
Silence. Then: "You sure about this, Iz? We can be back in—"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "You have a job to do. Clients to protect. I've got this handled."
"If you need us—"
"I'll call. Promise."
Another pause. "Watch your six, Reyes."
"Always do."
She hung up to find Cory setting two mugs on the counter. Coffee. When had he made coffee?
"Your team?" he asked, sliding one mug toward her.
"Mother hens, all of them." She added sugar, noticed he drank his black. Of course he did. "They wanted to abandon the Alaska job."
"But you wouldn't let them."
"They have actual clients in actual danger. I've just got someone who can't build a proper bomb." She took a sip, perfect temperature. "How do we find him? The saboteur, the bomber, whoever?"
"FBI will be investigating that, too," Cory said. "Unless they decide to call in ATF. I doubt that’ll be necessary here. I have federal contacts who'll share what they can legally."
"I have contacts too. Less legal ones, but—"
"No."
The word was flat, final. She bristled.
"Excuse me?"
"No illegal intelligence gathering. Not yet." He held up a hand before she could argue. "We do this right first. By the book. If that doesn't work, then we'll discuss alternatives."
"I hate your book."
"My book keeps evidence admissible." His jaw tightened. "Which is why we're going to be smart about this. Use every legal avenue first. Promise me, Izzy. No calling in favors from questionable sources until we've exhausted legitimate options."
She studied him over her mug. He was serious about this, probably wouldn't let it go until she agreed.
"Fine. I promise," she conceded, but the fingers on her free hand were definitely crossed behind her back.
He relaxed slightly. "Good. Now, let's think through what we know. You're convinced it's MedFlight behind this."
"Who else benefits from Mountain Angel going under?"
"What if Mountain Angel folding is only collateral damage? Could be someone with a personal grudge against someone attached to Mountain Angel—or not." He held up fingers, counting. "Could be someone targeting one of the flight personnel. Or there could be some hidden motive we won’t see coming.”
"But different crews were involved—" She stopped, seeing his point. "Which would be a good way to hide the real target."
"Exactly." He looked pleased, like she was a student who'd finally grasped a concept. It should have annoyed her. It didn't. "We can't lock onto one theory too early. That's how you miss crucial evidence."
"So what, we just follow every possible lead?"
"We follow the evidence. Build theories that fit facts, not the other way around." He refilled his mug. "First rule of investigation: stay objective. Second rule: assume nothing. Third rule—"
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
"Ms. Reyes? This is Special Agent Debartolo, FBI. I need to interview you regarding the aircraft sabotage and the attempted bombing. I’m going to need you to come down to our temporary headquarters. You know the county building on Main?"
"I—"
Cory plucked the phone from her hand. Just... took it. The audacity.
"Debartolo? This is Chief Cory Fraser, Hope Landing PD. Ms. Reyes is currently under protective custody due to the attempt on her life. She'll be available for interview tomorrow morning at nine a.m. at Knight Tactical headquarters."
She could hear the agent’s surprise through the phone. "Chief Fraser, we really need—"
"Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. I'll be present during the interview." His tone brooked no argument.
He rattled off Knight Tactical's location, then hung up and handed her phone back like he hadn't just steamrolled a federal agent.
"That was high-handed," she said.
"That was necessary. You're not going anywhere at night when someone's trying to kill you." He rinsed his mug with irritating efficiency. "Besides, making them come here gives us home field advantage."
She wanted to be annoyed at his presumption. But he was right—having him there would be an advantage. His presence would keep the FBI from railroading her, and his questions might reveal what they knew.
"Fine. But if they arrest me, you're bailing me out."
"They're not going to arrest you."
"You sound very sure."
"Because whoever's behind this is getting desperate. The bomb was sloppy, emotional. They're making mistakes." He turned to face her fully. "We just have to be smart enough to catch them."
We. When had they become a we?
"Your legal methods," she said slowly, "got us FBI cooperation and federal intelligence sharing."
"And your observation skills caught the servo pattern that proves we're dealing with an amateur who's learning." He tilted his head. "Almost like we make a good team."
The words hung between them, loaded with more meaning than either wanted to acknowledge.
"I should check the perimeter," he said finally.
"I should review the servo photos again."
They fled in opposite directions, both pretending the air hadn't just shifted between them. But Izzy was hyperaware of his movement through the building, the sound of doors being checked, windows tested.
She pulled up the servo images on her laptop, trying to focus on tool marks instead of how Cory Fraser looked in civilian clothes. Or how he'd taken personal leave to protect her. Or how naturally he'd said "we."
Focus, Reyes. Someone's trying to kill you.
But as she heard him moving through the building, securing their position, she couldn't shake the feeling that the saboteur wasn't the only danger she needed to worry about.
The bigger threat might be the one making her coffee and alphabetizing her soup.