Chapter 19
Five AM felt right. Normal. Even if nothing else about this situation was.
Cory sat at the kitchen island, second cup of coffee steaming in front of him, listening to the sounds of Knight Tactical headquarters coming alive. Well, one sound specifically—Izzy moving around in her suite down the hall. Shower running. Drawers opening and closing.
He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was hyperaware of her morning routine after only one night of protective custody.
She emerged a few minutes later in workout gear—black leggings, loose tank, hair pulled back in a ponytail that swayed as she walked. She headed straight down the stairs for the gym area without a word, just a brief nod in his direction.
He followed. For security purposes, obviously. Someone had tried to kill her yesterday. She shouldn't be alone anywhere, even in a secure building.
The gym was…amazing. Like Disneyland, only for Crossfit freaks. Like everything else Knight Tactical did, it was top-of-the-line. Izzy went straight for the heavy bag, not bothering with wraps or gloves. Just started hitting.
Cory forced himself to focus on his own workout, but his eyes kept drifting back. She moved like a fighter—channeling emotion into every strike. No wasted motion, no wild swings. Just controlled power that spoke of training and discipline.
An hour later, they reconvened in the kitchen. Post-shower, she looked more awake, less like she wanted to punch the world. He started making eggs. She puttered around making toast, both of them moving in the space with careful awareness of the other.
"Sleep okay?" he asked, sliding eggs onto two plates.
"Like a baby." Her tone said otherwise. "You?"
"Fine."
They ate in companionable silence. Cory found himself thinking about the last time they'd shared breakfast—unicorn sprinkles and Chantal's delighted laughter. Luz making sure everyone had enough to eat. That warm, chaotic family moment that felt like a lifetime ago instead of just days.
"What?" Izzy asked.
He realized he'd been smiling. "Just thinking about pancakes."
"Pancakes?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Unicorn sprinkles, actually."
Understanding softened her expression. "Chantal says they make the pancakes magical."
"Smart kid."
"Yeah." Her voice went quiet. "She is."
The sharp buzz of the doorbell shattered the moment.
He moved to the security panel, Izzy right behind him. The monitor showed two people in dark suits, that particular federal swagger unmistakable.
"FBI," Izzy said flatly.
Cory looked down at himself—yesterday's jeans, work boots, flannel shirt he'd grabbed from his go-bag.
He looked like he was ready to chop wood, not face federal agents.
Beside him, Izzy wore her Knight Tactical uniform—black tactical pants, company polo with the logo embroidered on the chest. Professional. Put-together.
And highly dangerous.
They met the agents downstairs at the hangar’s man-door. Debartolo and Preston, their credentials said. Both gave Cory's casual attire a quick scan, dismissal flashing across their faces before they schooled their expressions.
"Ms. Reyes," Debartolo said, pointedly not acknowledging Cory. "We need to ask you some questions about the aircraft incidents."
"Of course." Izzy stepped back. "We can talk in the conference room."
We. She'd included him without hesitation. The agents noticed, exchanging glances.
"You’re Fraser?" Preston asked, tone suggesting he'd already categorized Cory as the help.
"Chief Cory Fraser, Hope Landing PD. I'm the investigating officer."
"Were," Debartolo corrected. "This is a federal matter now. Plus, we heard you’re on the beach."
"I’m on personal leave, not administrative.”
The agents exchanged glances. “For now,” Debartolo said.
Preston grinned. "Lead the way."
The Knight Tactical conference room was set up for mission planning—large table, wall-mounted screens, maps covering one wall. The agents settled on one side, Izzy and Cory on the other. Us versus them, clearly delineated.
Debartolo pulled out a tablet. "Let's start with the helicopter." He jutted his chin at Izzy. "You were the last person to perform maintenance on it?"
"Yes." Her voice stayed steady. "Full inspection, signed off the morning of the crash."
"And you found nothing wrong?"
"Nothing. It was in perfect condition."
They walked through the maintenance procedures. Cory watched the agents work—competent but impersonal, following a script. They didn't know Hope Landing, didn't understand the dynamics at play.
"Now, the Cessna," Preston said. "You didn't work on that aircraft?"
She threw them a look. “Agents, there’s no way you didn’t check the paperwork. I’ve never worked on that Cessna."
Debartolo tapped the tabletop. “All that means is you never signed off on the aircraft.”
Preston leaned forward. "Ms. Reyes, why were you at the scene immediately after the emergency landing?"
"Chief Fraser brought me in as a consultant. My expertise—"
"Yes, we're aware of your expertise." Debartolo's tone suggested what he thought of it. "Ms. Reyes, are you aware that Mountain Angel has been officially grounded pending investigation?"
Izzy shrugged, but Cory could see the news affected her. “Standard procedure,” she responded.
"Exactly." Preston watched her reaction with clinical interest. "There’s more. We’ve been instructed to inform you that Investigator Osgood has suspended your aviation mechanic’s license pending the outcome of this investigation."
Cory saw her hands clench under the table, knuckles white. But her face remained calm.
"Just routine," Debartolo added with false sympathy. "I'm sure you understand."
"Now," Preston leaned forward, "let's talk about the bomb."
"What about it?" Cory interjected, not liking where this was headed.
Preston didn't even look at him. "Ms. Reyes, you have extensive experience with explosives from your military service, correct?"
"Affirmative.”
Preston and his partner shared a look. They were clearly aware of Izzy’s Special Ops background. "Enough to build a simple car bomb?"
The question hung in the air like a lit fuse.
"The device was crude," Preston continued. "Amateur work. Too little explosive, poorly shaped. Almost like someone wanted it to fail."
"Are you seriously suggesting—" Cory started.
"It's a valid question," Debartolo cut him off. "False flag operations aren't uncommon. Deflect suspicion, gain sympathy..."
Cory expected Izzy to explode. To unleash that fierce temper he'd seen glimpses of. Instead, she went quiet and cold, ice forming in her dark eyes.
He was the one who snapped.
"Are you seriously suggesting that she bombed her own vehicle?
" He leaned forward, forgetting his casual clothes, forgetting everything but the rage building in his chest. "A decorated veteran, a single mother, a woman with an impeccable service record—you think she risked her life and her daughter's future? "
The agents blinked, surprised by his vehemence.
"Chief Fraser—" Debartolo began.
"No." Cory was just getting started. "Let me explain something about that bomb.
It was sloppy work, yes. Amateur construction, poorly executed.
You know what Isabella Reyes is? A perfectionist. A master mechanic who can tear down an aircraft engine blindfolded.
If she wanted to fake a bombing, you'd never find evidence.
If she wanted to build a real bomb, we'd both be dead. "
Izzy's hand touched his arm, gentle pressure. "Chief Fraser's right," she said calmly. "But I understand you have to explore all possibilities. That's your job."
Her reasonable tone while he was hot made Cory realize how far he'd let his temper slip. This wasn't like him. He was the calm one, the by-the-book chief who never let emotion cloud judgment.
But this was Izzy they were attacking. Izzy who'd made him pancakes with unicorn sprinkles. Who'd trusted him with her daughter. Who was trying so hard to hold it together while her world fell apart.
Debartolo actually addressed him properly for the first time. "Chief Fraser, we appreciate your... perspective. We're simply being thorough."
"Thorough," Cory repeated flatly.
"Ms. Reyes," Preston shifted topics, "we'll need all your maintenance documentation for Mountain Angel. Records, logs, work orders. Everything."
"They’re stored in the Mountain Angel facility."
Debartolo raised one thick, dark eyebrow. “I doubt that. Are you saying you don’t keep personal records?”
Cory was ready to punch the guy in the snout but Izzy kept her cool. “My records are stored at the facility. All. Of. Them.”
The man grunted. “You better hope so. And you're not to leave town while the investigation is ongoing."
"I understand."
"Good." Both agents stood. "We'll be in touch if we have further questions."
They packed up their tablets and notepads with efficient movements. At the door, Debartolo turned back.
"Oh, and Ms. Reyes? You're not under arrest at this time. But I would suggest you retain counsel."
The words at this time hung in the air long after they left.
Cory and Izzy sat in silence for a long moment. Then she laughed, short and bitter.
"Thanks for defending my bomb-making skills. I think."
"They're idiots if they seriously consider you a suspect."
"They're doing their job." She stood, started gathering the papers she'd pulled out during questioning. "Just like you would."
"I wouldn't—" He stopped. She was right. He would have to consider all angles, even the unlikely ones. That was the job.
"Come on," she said. "We've got research to do. Someone's trying to frame me, and the FBI's helping them do it."
They headed back to the workroom, settling at separate computers. Neither were researchers by nature—he was used to having deputies handle the paperwork, and she clearly wanted to call her team but wouldn't burden them during their Alaska mission.
The hours dragged. Cory made coffee. Izzy made sandwiches. They worked in parallel, occasionally sharing discoveries that led nowhere. The comfortable silence from breakfast had evolved into something else—partnership, maybe. Or just two people united against a common threat.
He was deep in FAA incident reports when the pounding started.
Loud, aggressive, someone beating on the main door like they wanted to break it down.
Izzy was already at the security monitor. Her whole body changed when she saw who it was—warrior to worried mother in an instant.
"Andrew," she breathed.
The pounding intensified. Even through the monitor, Cory could see the man's face was red, fists hammering with rage.
"I'll handle it," Cory said, already moving.
"No, I should—"
"Together then." He wasn't letting her face her ex alone. Not after yesterday. Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.
They headed down the stairs, Andrew's pounding echoing through the building like war drums. At the door, Cory put himself slightly in front of Izzy.
"Let me lead," he said quietly.
She nodded, but he could feel her tension buzzing like electricity in the air.
“I know you’re here, Iz. Open up.” The pounding got louder, Andrew's muffled voice carrying through the steel door. Demanding. Threatening.
Cory took a breath, squared his shoulders and reached for the handle.