Chapter 10
HOLDEN
Ikissed her. Now I can't unkiss her. And the worst part is, I don't want to.
Coffee brews in the kitchen while I run through threat assessments that have nothing to do with security protocols and everything to do with the woman currently asleep down the hall. The same woman whose taste I can't forget despite a very cold shower that did nothing to clear my head.
The officers stationed outside reported nothing unusual overnight. No movement on the street. No suspicious vehicles. Just rain and quiet and me lying awake on the couch replaying every second of kissing Fallon McKay while my career depends on maintaining professional distance.
Footsteps sound in the hallway. Fallon emerges from the bedroom in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes still soft with sleep. She stops when she sees me, tension humming between us despite the kitchen table separating us.
"Morning." Her voice comes out careful, neutral. We didn't have our tongues in each other's mouths less than twelve hours ago, the tone suggests.
"Morning." I pour coffee, add cream the way she prefers, slide the mug across the counter. Our fingers brush in the exchange. The contact lasts a fraction too long, deliberate acknowledgment of what we're both pretending isn't there.
She takes the mug, wraps both hands around it, studies me over the rim. "We should talk about last night."
"Probably."
"Or we could pretend it didn't happen."
"We could try." I lean against the counter, maintaining distance that feels impossible to hold. "But I'm not good at lying to myself."
Her mouth curves in a small smile. "Me either."
The quiet stretches between us, charged with what we're not saying. How kissing her felt right in ways I can't explain. How stopping felt like ripping myself in half. How every instinct I have screams to cross this kitchen and find out if it feels as good in morning light as it did in the dark.
Fallon's laptop chimes from where it sits charging on the counter. She glances at the screen, frowns, sets down her coffee. "That's odd."
"What?"
"Alert from the secure server system Commander Hartwell set up for me after the lab was destroyed.
" She opens the laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard.
The frown deepens to alarm. "Someone's accessing my research files through the base network.
Active access. Right now. Someone's downloading it all. "
I'm beside her in two strides, watching data stream across the screen.
File after file being copied, transferred, stolen in real time.
The download speeds are impossibly fast, professional-grade bandwidth that screams military or intelligence infrastructure.
Whoever's doing this has serious resources.
"Can you block them?"
"Trying." Her hands move faster, typing commands that make no sense to me but clearly aren't working.
Passwords rejected. Access denied messages flash and disappear.
"They've got administrative access. Bypassed all my security protocols.
This isn't some amateur hacker, Holden. This is sophisticated. "
She tries another approach, attempting to lock individual files. The system kicks her out. Then another directory. Same result. Sweat beads at her temple despite the cool morning air. "They're shutting me out of my own research. I can't even access it anymore."
"They're copying your access credentials as they go," I realize, watching the systematic lockout. "Making sure you can't interfere while they work."
I pull out my phone, already dialing. "Commander Hartwell. We have an active cyber breach on Dr. McKay's research files."
Hartwell answers immediately. "Talk to me."
"Someone's downloading her base server backups right now. Real-time data theft." I watch the screen over Fallon's shoulder, files disappearing at an alarming rate. "We need cyber specialists on this immediately."
"I'm calling in Lennox Bradshaw. Best cyber analyst on the East Coast." Keys click in the background. "She's contracted with Defense Intelligence but I can pull her for this. Keep the connection active, see if we can trace the source."
The call disconnects. Fallon's still typing, trying to lock down systems that are being torn apart by someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
"How much have they taken?" I ask.
"Most of it." Frustration roughens her voice. "Erosion data, vulnerability assessments, tidal patterns. Months of work. The data that got corrupted in the lab is now being stolen from the base server."
Ice shoots through me. "They destroyed your lab data to force you onto the base server system. Then waited for you to upload your backups so they could access them through the network."
"I led them right to it." She closes her eyes, jaw tight. "I gave them exactly what they wanted."
"You had no way of knowing." I place a hand on her shoulder, grounding touch that's meant to comfort but sends electricity racing down my arm. "This isn't your fault."
Her phone rings. Hartwell's name flashes on the screen. Fallon answers on speaker.
"Dr. McKay, I have Lennox Bradshaw on the line." Hartwell's voice is crisp, controlled. "She's going to access your system and track this breach."
A new voice comes through, British accent clipping the words with precision. "Dr. McKay, this is Lennox Bradshaw. I need you to grant me remote access to your laptop. There should be a prompt appearing on your screen now."
Fallon clicks something, then steps back from the laptop. "You're in."
"Right. Let me work." The screen flickers as Lennox takes control. Windows open and close at rapid speed, command prompts scrolling with text I can't follow. Fallon and I watch the screen as Lennox executes procedures remotely that make no sense to either of us.
Minutes pass. The file transfers continue but slow as Lennox's countermeasures kick in. She mutters something under her breath, typing audible through the line, then makes a satisfied sound.
"Got a partial trace," Lennox says finally. "IP routing through multiple servers. Primary origin appears to be foreign. Eastern European region, possibly Russian or Ukrainian infrastructure."
"Foreign actors?" Hartwell's voice sharpens. "This is espionage?"
"Sophisticated enough to suggest state-sponsored or professional contractors." Lennox's typing is audible through the line. "The encryption protocols, the routing methodology, the precision of the attack. This isn't hacktivists or script kiddies. This is someone with resources and training."
Fallon's hands still on the keyboard. "They're not trying to hurt me. They're stealing intelligence."
"Your coastal vulnerability research," I say slowly, pieces falling into place. "It's not just about erosion patterns. It's a blueprint for where Tidewater's defenses are weakest. Where storm surge could compromise infrastructure. Where physical vulnerabilities exist."
"Base attack plans," Hartwell finishes. "Disguised as environmental research. Dr. McKay, how detailed are your assessments?"
"Very." Fallon's voice is quiet, strained. "I mapped every vulnerable point along the coastline. Identified where erosion could undermine facilities. Projected how severe weather would impact operations. It's all there. Every weakness, every potential failure point."
Silence fills the line. Then Hartwell speaks, voice harder than I've ever heard it.
"Lennox, I need what you can give me on that trace.
Dr. McKay, disconnect your laptop from the base network immediately.
This research is now classified, effective immediately.
Holden, keep Dr. McKay secured. I'm bringing in Navy CID and notifying NCIS.
This just became a national security issue. "
The call ends. Fallon sits frozen, staring at the laptop. Maybe it betrayed her. Maybe we all did by not seeing this sooner.
"Bruce was a distraction." The words come out hollow. "The stalking, the harassment, the restraining order violations. All of it was real, but it wasn't the main threat."
"He gave someone else cover." I pull out a chair, sit beside her so we're eye level. "While we were watching for a stalker ex-boyfriend, someone else was systematically stealing classified intelligence disguised as marine biology research."
"Who?" She looks at me, green eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. "Who has the access, the knowledge, the connections to pull this off?"
Rexford's name surfaces immediately. "Defense contractor, coastal infrastructure consulting, asked pointed questions during your presentation about specific vulnerability data."
"He was fishing." Fallon's expression hardens. "Trying to assess what I knew, what I'd share publicly versus keep restricted."
My phone buzzes. Text from Hartwell.
Emergency briefing. Oh-nine-hundred. Conference room B. Bring Dr. McKay. Full security detail.
I show Fallon the message. She nods, already closing her laptop with careful precision. "I need to get dressed."
She stands, hesitates, then looks at me with an expression that's hard to read. "Holden? Thank you. For being here. For believing this is important."
"It is important." I hold her gaze. "And so are you."
The admission sits between us, acknowledgment of what we both felt last night and are both trying to ignore this morning. She holds my gaze for a heartbeat, then retreats to the bedroom.
I drain my coffee and start planning security protocols for moving Fallon through base with an active espionage threat. Standard protective detail procedures, armed escort, route variation. All the elements I've trained for years to execute.
Except this isn't standard. And Fallon isn't just a principal I'm protecting.
She's the woman I kissed last night. The woman whose research someone wants badly enough to launch a sophisticated cyber attack.
The woman whose safety has become personal in ways that violate every professional boundary I'm supposed to maintain.