Chapter 8 #2
"That's the problem, sir. Base housing has controlled entry but residents park in driveways.
Anyone with base access could've walked this street after dark.
" He pulls up a tablet, showing security footage timestamps.
"We've got cameras at entry points but not covering individual houses. Budget constraints."
Of course. Because protecting high-value targets requires funding someone decided wasn't necessary.
"Where's Dr. McKay?"
"Inside. Still asleep as far as we know. We haven't approached the house yet, wanted to secure the scene first."
Good. She doesn't know yet. Doesn't know how close someone came to killing her while I was running on the beach working through my feelings like a selfish bastard.
"Get forensics on this. I want prints, tool marks, anything that can identify who did this." I pull out my phone, already dialing Commander Hartwell. "And pull all security footage from twenty-two-hundred to oh-four-hundred. Every camera on base. Someone walked this street and I want to know who."
Hartwell answers on the second ring. "Lange. What's the situation?"
I brief her quickly, efficiently, keeping emotion out of my voice through sheer will. She listens without interrupting, then starts issuing orders I can hear her typing in the background.
"I'm pulling footage now. Coordinating with base security on expanded surveillance." Her voice is crisp, focused. "How's Dr. McKay?"
"Still asleep. Doesn't know yet."
"Keep it that way until we have more information.
Last thing we need is panic before we know what we're dealing with.
" A pause. "Holden? This changes the threat assessment.
Someone with skills, access, and knowledge of her routine got close enough to sabotage her vehicle on a secure base.
That's not just Bruce Tanner stalking from a distance.
That's someone with operational capability and base familiarity. "
Someone trained. Skilled. Operating with the kind of precision that comes from military background and tactical experience.
"You think it's connected to Rexford?"
"I think we have at least one person on base who wants Dr. McKay's research badly enough to kill for it. Whether that's Rexford, someone working with Tanner, or a third party, I don't know yet." Papers rustle. "But I want her in a safe house until we identify the threat."
"She'll refuse."
"Then make her understand she doesn't have a choice." Hartwell's voice hardens. "This is a direct threat to her life, Holden. We're past the point of asking permission."
The call disconnects. I stand in the driveway staring at Fallon's vehicle, at the dark puddle of brake fluid spreading underneath, at the evidence someone wants her dead and nearly succeeded.
Make her understand she doesn't have a choice.
Except Fallon's spent years having decisions stolen from her. Bruce controlled her movements, her relationships, her sense of safety until she fled across the country to escape him. And now I'm supposed to walk in there and tell her we're locking her down for her own good?
The front door opens. Fallon appears on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair loose around her shoulders, coffee mug in hand. She looks soft and warm and alive, and the relief that rushes through me is visceral.
Then she sees the forensics team approaching her car. Me standing in the driveway in running gear covered in sweat and sand.
"What happened?" Her voice carries across the yard, sharp with alarm.
I cross to her, intercepting before she can get closer to the scene. "Your brake lines were cut overnight. Skilled work. You weren't going anywhere in that vehicle."
She goes pale, mug trembling in her hands. "Someone was here. In the driveway. While we were sleeping."
"Yes." No point softening it. She deserves the truth. “Officers discovered it during routine security check. We're pulling footage now, but whoever did this knew what they were doing."
"Bruce." The name comes out flat, certain.
"Maybe. Or someone else with the same goal." I take the mug from her hands before she drops it, setting it on the porch railing. "Commander Hartwell wants you in a safe house until we identify the threat."
Her eyes flash, green fire replacing shock. "No."
"Fallon—"
"No." She steps back, arms crossing over her chest. Defensive posture that screams she's done being told what to do.
"I have meetings scheduled today. Research presentations to finish.
Data analysis that can't wait. I'm not hiding.
I'm not stopping my work. And I'm not letting whoever's doing this dictate how I live my life. "
The frustration that's been building since I found the brake lines spills over. "This isn't about dictating anything. It's about survival."
"By removing every decision from me?" Her voice rises, carrying an edge I haven't heard before. Fury mixed with fear and exhaustion. "By treating me like I can't assess danger?"
"You're not assessing danger. You're ignoring it.
" I force my voice to stay level, measured, even as everything in me wants to shake her until she understands.
"Someone cut your brake lines. On a secure military base.
While you were sleeping feet away. This isn't theoretical threat, Fallon. This is someone trying to murder you."
"I know that!" The words crack through the morning quiet. "I know someone wants me dead or wants my research or both. I've known that since my boat exploded. But hiding won't stop them. It'll just delay the inevitable and destroy my career in the process."
"Your career won't matter if you're dead."
"And my life won't matter if I'm too afraid to live it."
The argument slams into a wall. We stare at each other across the porch, both breathing hard, both dug into positions that feel like survival. She's fighting for autonomy after years of losing it. I'm fighting to ensure she lives long enough to exercise it.
"I can't protect you if you won't cooperate." The admission comes out rougher than intended, showing too much of what I'm feeling.
"I never asked you to protect me." Her voice gentles slightly but doesn't soften. "You were assigned. And I'm grateful, Holden. I am. But protection doesn't mean removing my agency. It doesn't mean making every decision for me."
"Even when those decisions put you in danger?"
"Even then." She holds my gaze, unflinching. "Because they're mine to make."
The forensics team works around Fallon's vehicle, photographing evidence and collecting samples. The officer stands nearby, radio crackling with base traffic. And we're frozen on the porch in a standoff neither of us can win.
"What if we compromise?" I offer finally, tactical retreat disguised as negotiation. "Enhanced security. Armed escort when you leave the house. But you maintain your work schedule, keep presenting findings, stay as close to normal routine as possible."
She studies me, weighing sincerity against manipulation. "You mean that? Or are you just saying what I want to hear until you can convince me otherwise?"
"I mean it." And I do, even though every instinct screams to lock her down until the threat is neutralized.
"But you have to work with me, Fallon. That means informing me of your schedule, accepting security protocols, and trusting that I'm not trying to dominate you. I'm trying to keep you breathing."
The tension in her shoulders eases fractionally. "Okay. We can try that."
Relief crashes through me so hard I nearly reach for her. Nearly pull her close and promise nothing will hurt her while I'm alive to prevent it. But the distance we're supposed to maintain is already paper-thin. Touching her now, with emotion running this high, would shred what's left.
"I need to brief Commander Hartwell," I say instead. "Update her on the situation and security plan."
"And I need to get ready for work." Fallon picks up her coffee mug, hands steadier now. "Because someone destroying my vehicle isn't going to stop me from doing my job."
The stubborn determination in her voice should frustrate me. Instead warmth spreads through my chest, pride mixed with exasperation mixed with the growing certainty that Griff was right.
I'm in love with her.
The realization lands with quiet certainty. Not a sudden revelation but a truth I've been avoiding. Somewhere between watching her catalog destroyed research with scientific precision and listening to her stand her ground against armed protection, I fell.
And falling for someone I'm supposed to protect is the worst possible tactical decision I could make.
Fallon turns to go inside, then pauses at the door. "Holden? Thank you. For finding the brake lines before I drove. For offering compromise instead of orders. For staying."
She disappears into the house before I can respond. Leaving me on the porch with forensics processing attempted murder and the weight of feelings I can't act on pressing against my ribs.
My phone buzzes. Text from Commander Hartwell.
Footage review shows figure in dark hoodie approaching housing area at twenty-three-hundred. Face obscured, gait analysis inconclusive. No clear ID.
Another text follows immediately.
Bruce Tanner confirmed at base bar from twenty-two-hundred to oh-two-hundred. Multiple witnesses, security footage, credit card receipts. Alibi is solid.
So not Tanner. Or not just Tanner. Someone else with skills, access, and motive. Someone who knows Fallon's routine well enough to sabotage her vehicle with precision timing.
I dial Hartwell back. She answers immediately.
"It's not Tanner," I say without preamble. "Or he's working with someone local."
"Agreed. Which means we're looking at coordinated effort.
Trained contractors, inside knowledge, escalating pattern.
" Her voice carries the weight of command decisions being made in real time.
"I'm recommending enhanced security protocols.
Armed escorts, restricted access to Dr. McKay's location and schedule, full background checks on everyone she's had contact with since arriving at Tidewater. "
"She's agreed to enhanced security but refuses safe house relocation." I watch the forensics team finish their work, bagging evidence. "We're compromising on armed escort and maintained routine."
"That's a risk."
"It's her risk to take." The words sit bitter on my tongue but they're true. "And forcing her into hiding won't stop whoever's doing this. It'll just make them more creative."
Silence stretches across the line. Then Hartwell sighs, the sound of a commander making calls with incomplete information and too many variables.
"Alright. We do this her way. But Holden? You don't leave her side. Not for runs, not for briefings, not for anything. She wants autonomy, fine. But she gets it with a SEAL shadow."
"Understood."
"And one more thing." Hartwell's voice drops, carrying a note I can't quite identify.
"The footage shows our saboteur has military bearing.
Confident movement through base housing, knowledge of security patterns, trained tradecraft.
We're not looking for a civilian contractor.
We're looking for someone with operational background. "
Someone military. Someone with access, skills, and the kind of training that makes them nearly invisible on a base full of operators.
Someone like me.
I end the call and head inside. Fallon's in the kitchen, dressed for work in dark slacks and a cream sweater that makes her auburn hair look like fire. She's making breakfast with focused efficiency, cracking eggs into a pan like the world isn't actively trying to kill her.
"Coffee's fresh," she says without looking up. "And I made enough for both of us."
Domestic. Normal. Like we're a couple navigating morning routines instead of a protection detail managing escalating threats.
"Thanks." I pour coffee, add cream the way I've learned she prefers, slide the mug across the counter to her.
She takes it with a small smile, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The contact lasts a second longer than necessary, deliberate acknowledgment of the awareness humming between us.
"We okay?" she asks quietly.
"Yeah. We're okay."
Liar. We're not okay. We're surrounded by people trying to kill her, I'm falling in love with someone I'm supposed to protect tactically, and the investigation just revealed our saboteur has operational training which means the threat could be coming from anywhere.
But Fallon's standing in the kitchen making breakfast with green eyes that dare the world to break her, and I'll be damned if I let anyone take that away.
Even if it means standing between her and every threat.
Even if it means respecting her autonomy when every instinct screams to lock her down.
Even if it means admitting that somewhere between protection detail and partnership, I stopped being able to imagine a future that doesn't include her in it.
She turns back to the stove, flipping eggs with practiced ease. Sunlight streams through the window, catching in her hair and painting the small kitchen in gold.
"I won't be controlled," she says without looking at me. "Not by Bruce. Not by whoever's doing this. And not by you."
The words land hard. Because she's right. And because protecting her means respecting that boundary—even when every instinct says to lock her down and shield her from everything.
Fallon plates the eggs, slides mine across the counter, meets my eyes with that fierce independence burning bright. Daring me to try dominating her. Daring me to see her as anything less than capable.
"Eat," she says. "We've got work to do."
And somehow, watching her refuse to be afraid, I realize the hardest part of loving her won't be keeping her alive.
It'll be letting her live on her own terms.