Chapter 3
FALLON
Voices filter through the fog. Beeping. The antiseptic smell of a hospital mixed with something chemical that burns my nose. My eyelids feel like they've been glued shut, but I force them open anyway.
White ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights. A blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm.
Not the ocean. Not drowning. Not cold water closing over my head.
I try to sit up and pain explodes through my ribs. A cough tears from my chest, bringing up the taste of seawater and gasoline. My lungs burn like I inhaled fire.
The memory slams back with brutal clarity.
The grinding sound beneath my feet getting louder.
The moment I realized I'd made a mistake, that I should have turned back.
Then the flash of light, impossibly bright.
The world tilting as the explosion lifted the bow out of the water.
Flying through the air, hitting the surface hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
Cold. So cold. Sinking. Tangled in something that pulled me down. Lungs screaming for air I couldn't reach.
Then hands. Strong hands grabbing me, pulling me up. Air forced into my lungs. Storm-gray eyes looking down at me.
"The runner." The words had come out as a croak, barely audible.
Movement near the door. He's there. Still shirtless with a blanket draped over his shoulders, hair drying in salt-crusted waves. Sand clings to his tactical pants. He looks like he just walked out of the ocean.
Because he did. He pulled me out.
Our eyes meet and gratitude tangles with anger, both knotted around an attraction I've been trying to ignore for three months. He saved my life. I should be grateful. I am grateful.
But I hate that I needed saving.
I don't need a hero. I need answers.
A penlight shines directly into my eyes. Brightness sends a sharp pain through my skull and triggers another coughing fit that still tastes like seawater and gasoline.
"Easy." A woman's voice, clinical but not unkind. "You're in the base hospital. I'm Dr. Abernathy. You nearly drowned, so let's keep the sudden movements to a minimum while I make sure your lungs are clear."
Vision clears slowly. A woman leans over me—early thirties, blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, blue eyes sharp with concentration. She's wearing scrubs and a white coat, stethoscope around her neck. Dr. Abernathy doesn't waste time on pleasantries.
"How long?" My voice comes out like gravel scraped over concrete. Every word hurts.
"Since the explosion? About forty minutes. Since Lieutenant Commander Lange pulled you out of the water? Maybe thirty." Dr. Abernathy moves the stethoscope to my chest. "Deep breath for me. As deep as you can manage."
The attempt sends broken glass through my lungs. The breath comes out wheezy and wrong, triggering another round of coughing that makes my whole torso scream.
"Ribs hurt?" Dr. Abernathy asks, already palpating my ribcage with efficient fingers.
"Everything hurts."
"That's what happens when your research boat explodes." She applies pressure to my left side and I hiss. "Bruised, possibly cracked. X-rays will confirm. What do you remember?"
"The runner," I rasp. "He pulled me out."
"Lieutenant Commander Lange," Dr. Abernathy confirms. "Lucky timing."
Lucky. Right.
Lange is still near the door, watching. Still there like he has nowhere else to be.
"You're hovering," I tell him, putting as much irritation into the words as my shredded throat allows.
His mouth quirks slightly. Not quite a smile. "Making sure you're okay."
"Dr. Abernathy has it handled. You can go." I force myself to add, "Thank you. For pulling me out."
The words taste strange. Like admitting something I'm not ready to acknowledge.
"You're welcome." He doesn't move from his position by the door. Just stands there all calm and controlled, watching me with those storm-gray eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
Dr. Abernathy glances between us, one eyebrow raised. "Lieutenant Commander, unless you're planning to assist with the examination, maybe give us some space?"
"I'll be right outside." He says it to her but looks at me. "Not going far."
The door closes behind him, and the pressure in my chest eases slightly. Except breathing still hurts, so that's less of a win than I'd hoped.
"Friend of yours?" Dr. Abernathy asks
"Didn't know his name until thirty seconds ago." The cuff tightens. "We're on the same morning schedule. He runs. I survey tide pools."
"Mm-hmm." The cuff releases with a hiss. "Blood pressure's elevated but expected given the circumstances." She makes notes on a tablet. "You were unconscious underwater. I need CT scans and X-rays before releasing you."
Later, I'm in a hospital gown that gapes in the back, my wet clothes bagged somewhere, and my body aches in places I didn't know could ache. The X-rays show no broken ribs. CT scan comes back clear—no brain bleeding, just a mild concussion. Lungs show that they’re clear—thank goodness.
Dr. Abernathy finishes wrapping the rope burn on my right thigh when my hands start shaking. Then my whole body follows, trembling so hard the exam table rattles.
"Delayed shock response." Dr. Abernathy is already moving, pulling a heated blanket from a warmer. "Perfectly normal after what you've been through."
Normal. Nearly dying when your boat explodes underneath you.
The door opens and Lange is there, blanket discarded, those gray eyes locked on me with laser focus. "What happened?"
"Shock," Dr. Abernathy says. "She's processing."
"I'm right here." The words come out through chattering teeth. "And I can hear you."
Lange moves closer. Suddenly his size fills the space—tall, broad-shouldered, taking up the room in a way that should feel threatening but doesn't. He stops at the edge of the exam table, close enough to see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
"You're shaking," he says quietly. "But you're going to be okay."
The certainty in his voice is almost reassuring. Almost.
"It was just an accident," I say, needing to believe it. "Equipment failure. Happens with boats."
"That wasn't equipment failure." His tone stays calm but firm. "Dr. McKay, is there anyone who might want to hurt you?"
The question hits like cold water. "What? No. Why would you think—"
"That explosion was too clean. Too concentrated at the engine housing." His gray eyes hold mine. "I was on the beach when it happened. Saw the flash, then the blast. That's not how fuel tanks fail. That's what shaped charges or timer-triggered devices look like."
My stomach drops. He's saying someone did this. On purpose. That it wasn't bad luck or poor maintenance or a corroded fuel line.
He's saying someone tried to kill me.
The door opens again, and this time it's a woman in a Navy uniform, insignia marking her as a commander. She's maybe late forties, steel-gray hair cut short, sharp eyes that assess the room at a glance.
"Dr. McKay." She nods to me, then to Lange. "Lieutenant Commander Lange. Dr. Abernathy." Professional acknowledgment all around. "I'm Commander Cynthia Hartwell, base security chief. I need to ask you some questions."
"Can it wait?" Dr. Abernathy's voice cools slightly.
"Unfortunately, no." Hartwell's expression is sympathetic but firm. "Dr. McKay's apartment was broken into. Maintenance discovered it this morning when they went to retrieve clothes for you. We need to establish whether these incidents are connected."
Shaking gets worse. Someone was in my apartment.
"What did they take?" The question comes out steadier than I expect.
"That's what I need you to tell me." Hartwell pulls out a tablet.
"Maintenance reported the place was ransacked.
Your laptop appears to be missing—power cord still plugged in, no computer.
But we need you to confirm what else might be gone.
" She pauses. "No forced entry. Either they had a key or they're skilled at picking locks. "
My laptop. Months of data collection, analysis, projections about coastal erosion and base vulnerability—all stored locally because the cloud backup kept failing.
Gone.
"When?" The word snaps out harder than intended.
"Maintenance called it in around seven this morning after the explosion." Hartwell's gaze is steady, assessing. "Based on the state of things, we estimate sometime between when you left for your survey and when maintenance arrived."
A narrow window. Left just after five-thirty this morning.
Or it's just a coincidence. Random burglary, stolen laptop. Happens.
Except my boat exploded this morning.
"Do you think these incidents are connected?" Hartwell asks. "Break-in and boat explosion on the same day—that's not coincidence. Which brings me to my next question: who would want to harm you, Dr. McKay?"
His name sits on my tongue, ready to be spoken. But saying it out loud makes it real. Makes him real. Makes the possibility that he found me real.
Lange watches me, waiting. Dr. Abernathy has stopped her work, attention focused on the conversation.
"I have an ex-boyfriend," I say finally. "Seattle PD. Things ended badly. There was a restraining order, but it’s expired. I thought by moving across the country and changing my name, I wouldn’t need it anymore."
Hartwell's expression doesn't change, but she makes a note. "What’s his name?"
"Bruce Tanner. Detective, Seattle Police Department." The words taste bitter. "He didn't take the breakup well. Stalked me for months before I filed the order. That's why I took the contract here. To get distance."
"And you think he found you?"
"I don't know." Honesty is all I have. "I changed my name back to my mother's maiden name.
Took a contract position under that name.
But he's a cop with resources." I pause.
"Bruce is vindictive and obsessive. But planting explosives on a military base?
That's either a massive escalation or this isn't him at all. "