Chapter 6 #2
"She had a restraining order and you displayed a pattern of harassment that forced her to flee across the country. Your concern is noted and irrelevant. She has made it clear she doesn't want contact with you. I'm ensuring she doesn't endure it."
"You threatening a police detective, Lieutenant Commander?
" Tanner's voice carries amusement, condescension dripping from every word.
"That could create problems for your career.
Especially when I'm here officially, with full authorization from both Seattle PD and your base commander.
" He leans against the wall, relaxed, confident.
"Besides, what exactly are you going to do?
Fallon and I have history. Real history.
You're what—her bodyguard for a few days?
I know her. I know what she needs, what she responds to.
You're just the flavor of the week playing hero. "
I study him for a long moment. Take in the smug expression, the casual posture, the absolute certainty that his badge and official status make him untouchable. He genuinely believes he's in control here.
"Detective Tanner," I say quietly, voice dropping to the register I use before things get physical.
"I've spent the last decade hunting people who think they're smarter than everyone else.
People who believe rules don't apply to them.
People who use their authority to hurt those who can't fight back.
" I step closer, watching his smile falter.
"You know what I've learned? They all have the same look in their eyes when they realize they miscalculated.
That moment when they understand that badges and credentials don't matter anymore. That they're just another target."
His jaw tightens. Not so amused now.
"You're here on my base, breathing my air, walking through my spaces.
And you think the fact that the restraining order she had expired gives you the right to call it 'history'?
" I keep my voice level, conversational, letting him hear exactly what I'm capable of underneath the professional courtesy.
"You don't know me, Detective. You don't know what I will and won't do.
But here's what you need to understand—I know exactly who and what you are.
And if you push boundaries with her again, you'll learn very quickly what happens when SEALs stop being polite. "
I turn to leave, then pause. "Oh, and Detective? I don't threaten. When I make a promise, I keep it. Remember that."
I return to the conference room. Fallon is still seated, Thatcher near the door in silent protection. Hartwell is gathering her notes. Fallon's face is pale, hands clenched.
"Ready to see the lab?" Hartwell asks gently.
Fallon nods, standing on unsteady legs. The confrontation with Tanner cost her more than she wants to admit.
The drive doesn't take long. Hartwell rides with us, Thatcher follows in his vehicle. Fallon stares out the window, silent fury replacing shock as color returns to her face.
The research center is a low building near the water, crime scene tape already blocking Fallon's lab entrance. She pushes past it before anyone can stop her, and I follow immediately, hand hovering near her elbow in case the damage is worse than described.
The lab looks like a tornado hit. Analysts and techs are already working the scene, photographing evidence and collecting samples.
Broken glass everywhere, chemical spills creating toxic rainbows across counters, sample containers smashed with contents dumped into sinks.
Months of data, specimens from tide pools and coastal surveys—all destroyed with methodical violence.
The smell hits first. Formaldehyde mixed with salt water and bleach, a toxic combination that makes my eyes water. Shattered equipment crunches under our boots as we move deeper into the wreckage.
Fallon moves through it like she's walking through a graveyard, cataloging losses without visible emotion.
But her hands shake when she picks up a broken sample jar, examining the label with careful precision before setting it down.
Her microscope is smashed on the floor, lens shattered, frame bent beyond repair.
The way she stares at it tells me it was expensive, important.
She crouches beside an overturned storage container, fingers tracing over scattered specimens that will never be viable again.
"This one was from the January king tide," she says quietly, voice hollow.
"Collected at dawn during specific tidal conditions that won't repeat for another year. There's no replacing it."
Another container, this one larger. "Sediment samples from the erosion study. Six months of weekly collections, showing progressive degradation patterns." She looks up at the ceiling, blinking hard. "Gone."
I watch her catalog the destruction with scientific precision, using professional distance to keep the emotional devastation at bay.
But I see the way her jaw clenches when she finds her field notebook—pages torn out and scattered, months of handwritten observations reduced to confetti across the floor.
"This isn't Bruce." Her voice is tight, controlled. "He doesn't care about my research. He'd destroy personal items, things that matter emotionally. This is someone who understands what I do and wants to stop it."
"Agreed." I study the destruction pattern. "Chemicals spilled first for contamination, then sample containers broken, equipment damaged. Systematic, efficient."
"And Tanner has alibis for both incidents," Thatcher says from the entry point. "Either he hired someone or there's a second player."
Personal and professional threats. They all seem to be converging simultaneously.
She sinks onto the one intact stool, head in her hands. Not crying. Just breathing through the weight.
I crouch in front of her, hands on her knees. "Hey. Look at me."
Green eyes bright with unshed tears meet mine.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispers. "I'm so tired of being strong. Tired of handling everything alone."
"You faced down Tanner in that conference room and didn't give him an inch. You were incredible." I keep my voice steady, grounding. "You're not alone. You've got me. And I'm not going anywhere."
"Until the threat is neutralized and your assignment ends."
The assumption hits hard. "Fallon. This stopped being just an assignment the moment I pulled you from the ocean. I want to be here. You matter—"
"We need to move," Hartwell interrupts gently. "Analysts are waiting."
Base security is organized chaos. Analysts hunched over screens that Hartwell joins to review. Thatcher examines findings over their shoulders.
After reviewing the data, Hartwell turns to us.
"We've identified a pattern. Security footage shows a figure in dark clothing entering the marine biology center early this morning.
Male, average height." She pulls up an image.
"Facial recognition returned multiple matches.
All former military, explosives training, currently working as private security contractors.
All connected to a defense contractor competing for the same coastal vulnerability research contract Dr. McKay won. "
"They want my research," Fallon says hollowly. "Someone hired a contractor to destroy my work."
"That's our working theory." Hartwell's mouth tightens. "And Tanner's arrival the same day suggests possible coordination."
"We need enhanced protection for Dr. McKay," Thatcher says. "If there's a professional contractor involved, standard security won't cut it."
"Agreed." Hartwell's gaze shifts to me. "Lieutenant Commander Lange, you're officially primary protection.
Captain Caine as secondary. Dr. McKay, enhanced security will be installed in your apartment tonight.
Lieutenant Commander Lange will move in—he'll take your couch, maintain immediate response capability. "
Fallon's eyes widen. "You want him to move in?"
"I want you alive." The words come out rougher than intended, carrying weight I'm not ready to name. "Military-grade security with me on-site is your best option."
She searches my face for the lie, the angle. Finds only truth.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay."
The meeting disperses. Thatcher coordinates with security teams. Fallon and I walk to the parking lot in silence.
"I hate that he's here," she says quietly. "Seeing Bruce made everything come back. The fear, the constant vigilance. I thought Virginia meant safety."
"He didn't find you. He used official channels." I keep my voice calm, anchoring. "And he's being monitored. Can't make a move without Hartwell knowing."
"Doesn't make him less dangerous." Her voice cracks. "You don't know what he's capable of. The ways he made me doubt my own reality."
"He won't get close enough to do that again. I'll be present for every encounter."
She looks up at me, searching. "Why are you doing this?"
Because watching her nearly die activated every protective instinct I have. Because somewhere between morning beach runs and watching her cry in my arms, she became someone I'm not willing to lose.
But now's not the time. Not when she's exhausted and facing threats from multiple directions.
"Because you deserve to be safe," I say. "And I'm good at keeping people safe."
Hours later, security installation complete, I'm settled on Fallon's couch with tactical gear nearby and weapon within reach. The apartment feels smaller with both of us here. More intimate. Fallon retreated to her bedroom with a quiet goodnight.
I settle in, laptop open, reviewing threat assessments. The apartment is quiet except for ambient sounds of Fallon moving around, getting ready for bed.
Sleep doesn't come easy. Every sound puts me on alert. The new security cameras show empty hallways, quiet parking lot. Fallon's breathing has evened out in the bedroom, steady rhythm that says she finally found sleep.
Hours pass. My watch shows it's late when I hear her door open. Footsteps pause, then she appears in the living room doorway, backlit by the bathroom nightlight. Sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders, vulnerability written in every line.
"Can't sleep," she says quietly. "Keep seeing Bruce's face. Keep feeling like he's going to prove locks don't matter."
I shift on the couch, making room without asking if that's what she needs.
She crosses the living room and sits beside me, close but not quite touching. Then slowly, hesitantly, she leans into my side. Head on my shoulder, hand fisting in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"Just for tonight," she whispers. "Just until I can breathe again."
"As long as you need." I wrap an arm around her shoulders, tucking her closer. "I've got you."
Her weight settles against me, warm and trusting in a way that makes my chest tight. She smells like the ocean-scented shampoo she uses. Real and present and alive despite someone's best efforts to change that.
She falls asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out against my chest. The tension drains from her shoulders, her grip on my shirt loosening slightly but never letting go completely. Even unconscious, some part of her needs the anchor.
I stay awake, feeling each exhale. Memorizing the weight of her against my side.
The way her fingers stay twisted in my shirt even in sleep, like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
The small sound she makes when she shifts closer, burrowing into the warmth like she's been cold for too long.
Freckles dust her shoulders where the oversized shirt has slipped down. Her pulse beats steady and strong at the base of her throat. Proof of life. Proof that I got to her in time when the ocean tried to claim her.
Months of watching her from a distance. Days of protection detail. And now this moment of her choosing my arms as the safest place to fall apart.
The couch is uncomfortable. My neck's going to hate me in the morning. I don't move. Don't shift. Don't risk waking her when she's finally found something that feels like safety.
She trusted me with this. With her fear, her exhaustion, her certainty that Bruce will find a way through every lock and alarm to prove she's never really escaped him.
I'm keeping that trust. Whatever it takes.