Chapter 4 #2
Good question. Troubling answer. "Maybe he's not working alone."
"Or maybe he's not our only problem." Hartwell's tone sharpens. "Dr. McKay's research documented vulnerabilities in our coastal defense infrastructure. That information could be valuable to a lot of people who aren't ex-boyfriends."
The implication settles like lead in my stomach. Someone might want Fallon's research for reasons that have nothing to do with personal vendetta.
"I want eyes on Tanner," I tell Hartwell. "If he's in Virginia, I need to know."
"Already on it. Seattle PD is cooperating. If he leaves the state, we'll know within hours." She hesitates. "Holden, keep her close. And keep your head clear. I know you've been watching her for months."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "Is my personal life base gossip now?"
"When you stare at a woman like she's the only thing worth looking at during morning formations? Yes." Amusement threads through Hartwell's voice. "Just remember she's a person under threat, not a mission objective. The distinction matters."
"Understood."
"Good. Report in tomorrow with a security assessment of her living situation. I want to know every vulnerability." She disconnects.
I pocket my phone and return to the apartment. Griff is regaling Fallon with some story about a training exercise gone wrong, making her laugh. Actual laughter, soft and surprised, like she'd forgotten she could.
Griff catches my expression and raises an eyebrow. I shake my head slightly. Later.
"I should head out," Griff says, standing. "Let you two finish putting this place back together." He pauses at the door. "Dr. McKay, if you need anything, call. Holden's good at the strong silent protector thing, but I'm much better company."
"Noted," Fallon says, still almost smiling.
After Griff leaves, the apartment feels smaller. More intimate. Just me and Fallon and the wreckage of her life spread across the floor.
"He's nice," Fallon says, collecting trash from the counter.
"He's a menace." I grab another garbage bag. "But yeah, he's good people."
We work until the apartment is as clean as it's going to get without replacing furniture. Fallon moves slower now, pain medication wearing off, exhaustion winning. When she sways slightly while reaching for a book on the top shelf, I guide her toward the bedroom.
"Rest," I tell her. "I'll finish up."
For once, she doesn't argue. Just nods and disappears into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
I give her ten minutes, then pull out my laptop and start digging into Bruce Tanner's background.
Tanner joined Seattle PD eight years ago. Solid record for the first three years, then complaints started trickling in. Excessive force. Inappropriate conduct. Harassment of female colleagues. Each complaint investigated, each time cleared due to lack of evidence or witness recantation.
Classic pattern of someone who knows how to work the system.
His relationship with Fallon started years ago. High school sweethearts who reconnected after college. They moved in together quickly. Got engaged not long after.
Then the complaints from neighbors. Loud arguments. Sounds of things breaking. One noise complaint specifically mentioned a woman crying.
Fallon moved out. Filed for a restraining order. Cited emotional abuse, controlling behavior, isolation from friends and family, destruction of personal property. The order was granted. Tanner was ordered to stay away.
He violated it repeatedly. Each time, his fellow officers showed up and filed the report. Each time, charges were dropped or reduced.
The final straw came when Fallon's car was vandalized outside her workplace. Tires slashed, windows smashed, interior doused in bleach. Security footage showed someone matching Tanner's description, but the angle was bad and his lawyer argued reasonable doubt.
Not long after, Fallon disappeared. Changed her name from Fallon Walsh back to her mother's maiden name, McKay. Took a contract position across the country. Vanished so completely that even with police resources, Tanner shouldn't have been able to find her.
Shouldn't have. But someone found her. Someone blew up her boat, stole her research, destroyed her apartment.
Question is whether that someone is Bruce Tanner, or if Fallon has a different problem entirely.
I'm still reading when I hear the bedroom door open. Fallon emerges in the same clothes, hair tangled, exhaustion written in every line of her body.
"Can't sleep?" I close the laptop.
"Too much coffee. Too much adrenaline." She moves to the kitchen, fills a glass with water. "What are you researching?"
No point lying. "Your ex."
Her hand tightens on the glass. "And?"
"And he's dangerous. Multiple complaints, pattern of violence, obsessive behavior." I keep my voice level. "But the bomb bothers me. Domestic abusers usually escalate to physical violence, not sophisticated explosives."
"You don't think it's him."
"I think there are other reasons you could be targeted." I stand, giving her space but staying close enough to catch her if she falls. "Your research documented vulnerabilities in base security. That information is valuable to people who aren't ex-boyfriends."
Fallon processes this, face pale. "So either Bruce found me and hired someone to build a bomb, or someone else wants my research and will kill for it."
"Both options are on the table until we know more."
She sets the glass down with deliberate care. "I should have stayed in Seattle. Dealt with Bruce properly instead of running."
"Running kept you alive." I move closer, watching her face. "You had a restraining order.”
“Which I let expire…”
“Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have to have one. You did everything right. You didn't fail. The system did."
"And now I'm here, and someone's still trying to kill me." Her voice cracks. "When does it end?"
"When we catch whoever's doing this." I touch her shoulder, light and careful. "And we will catch them. I promise you that."
She looks up at me, green eyes bright with unshed tears. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't." The words come out rougher than intended. "I bring my team home, Dr. McKay. Every mission, every time. You're under my protection now. That makes you my responsibility."
"I'm not your responsibility. I'm an assignment." She pulls away, but there's less heat in it than before. "Just a protection detail."
Just an assignment. Right.
I've been lying to myself for three months, and I'm not about to stop now.
"Get some rest," I tell her. "I'll install some better locks, check the windows, make sure this place is secure."
She nods and retreats to the bedroom again. This time I hear the springs creak as she lies down.
I give it twenty minutes, then crack the bedroom door to check on her. She's asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. Finally letting her guard down.
The door closes quietly. Now I’m sure she’s asleep, I have Griff bring me the things I need to make this place safe. When he arrives, he starts to give me shit, but I quietly close the door in his face.
Two hours pass. Deadbolt installed on the front door, window sensors on every window, portable security camera facing the entrance.
It's not Fort Knox, but it's better than the nothing she had before.
When the security upgrades are complete, the guest quarters next door beckon.
Hartwell arranged them, and my gear needs unpacking.
The guest quarters are sparse but functional. Single bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette. Close enough to respond if Fallon needs help, separate enough to give her space.
Weapon cleaning and gear prep for tomorrow fill the next minutes. Check the magazine. Verify the safety. Lay out tactical equipment in order.
Movement sounds through the thin wall from Fallon's apartment. Water running. Shower.
Focus on the work. Clean the weapon. Check the magazine. Verify the safety.
Don't think about her in the shower next door. Don't think about water running over curves only glimpsed from a distance during morning surveys. Don't think about what she looks like with her guard down.
The water shuts off. Stay here. Give her privacy. Keep working on gear like a professional.
Someone knocks on the door minutes later.
The door opens to reveal Fallon standing there in a thin tank top and sleep shorts that show entirely too much skin.
Hair damp and falling in auburn waves around her shoulders.
Droplets trail down her throat, disappearing into the hollow of her collarbone.
Purple bruises peek from beneath the edge of her tank top along her ribs.
The rope burn on her thigh is red and angry, a reminder of how close she came to drowning.
She's beautiful and battered, looking at me like she's waiting for proof that I'm like Bruce.
"I can handle myself," she says, chin lifting in challenge.
"I know." The words come out steady despite a hammering pulse. "But handling yourself and being safe aren't the same thing."
She crosses her arms, defensive. "And you're here to make sure I'm safe."
"That's the assignment."
"Right." Something flickers in her eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Or relief. "The assignment."
She's going to learn the difference between protection and possession. Going to learn that wanting to keep her safe doesn't mean controlling her life. Going to learn nothing about me resembles the man who made her afraid.
And pretending my pulse didn't just spike at the sight of water droplets trailing down her throat is going to be harder than anticipated. Pretending the way she looks right now—bruised and defiant and entirely too tempting—won't be memorized in perfect detail.
This is going to be harder than expected.