Chapter 13
FALLON
After you almost die, you stop wasting time.
The base hospital smells like antiseptic and industrial cleaning solution.
Fluorescent lights are too bright after the darkness of nearly drowning in a sinking car.
Medical staff buzz around us with efficient concern, checking vitals, treating cuts, listening to waterlogged lungs that sound like broken accordions when I breathe too deep.
Holden refuses to leave my side. Even when the doctor suggests he get his own injuries treated in a different bay, he plants himself in the chair next to my bed and doesn't budge.
His hand stays wrapped around mine, thumb tracing patterns on my knuckles that ground me when flashbacks of cold water closing over my head try to pull me under again.
"I'm okay," I tell him when he checks on me for the third time in as many minutes.
"You're getting checked thoroughly." His voice leaves no room for argument. "You were underwater. You inhaled marsh water. You're getting a full workup."
The doctor, a capable woman with kind eyes and no-nonsense demeanor, nods agreement. "Listen to him. Waterlogged lungs can develop complications hours after exposure. We're keeping you for observation."
Bruce Tanner is in ICU, but I can hear hushed voices through the thin curtain divider--medical staff discussing his condition.
Stable but critical. Rexford beat him badly, probably trying to silence him or frame him for everything.
Despite years of Bruce making my life hell, I don't want him dead.
A little pain though? That I can live with.
Holden must sense my tension because his grip tightens. "You don't have to see him."
"I know." But maybe I need to. For closure, or understanding, or just to confirm that the man who haunted me for so long is finally, truly out of my life. "But I think I should."
Medical clearance takes forever. X-rays, blood work, lung function tests.
Everything comes back acceptable with recommendations for rest and monitoring.
Bruises bloom across my ribs where the seatbelt caught me, cuts sting where glass nicked skin, muscles ache from fighting currents and swimming to shore.
But I'm alive. Holden's alive. Rexford's in custody. The worst is over.
Or so I think until Hartwell arrives with news that changes everything.
She finds us in my hospital bay, expression grim enough to make my stomach clench. "Dr. McKay. Lieutenant Commander Lange."
Holden stands immediately, military posture snapping into place. "Ma'am."
"Rexford's in custody and talking. The data he sold?
We've identified the buyers. Foreign operatives, offshore vessel, planning to use Dr. McKay's coastal vulnerability maps to execute an attack on Tidewater.
" Hartwell's gaze shifts to Holden. "SEAL team is deploying for interdiction.
You're standing down. Conflict of interest. You're emotionally compromised. "
The muscle in Holden's jaw tightens. "With respect, ma'am, that's my team. My area of expertise. And my woman whose research they're planning to weaponize. I'm going."
"Lange—"
"I'm going." His voice is flat, final. "Court-martial me if you want. But I'm stopping them."
Hartwell studies him for a long moment, then nods. "Gear up. Briefing in one hour." She looks at me. "Dr. McKay, we'll need your statement when you're cleared."
"She's coming with me," Holden says.
Both Hartwell and I stare at him. "What?"
"Fallon knows these waters. Currents, tides, coastal geography better than anyone on my team.
If these operatives are using her research to plan an approach, she can provide tactical guidance we don't have.
" Holden's hand finds mine again. "She stays on the support boat.
Out of the line of fire. But we need her expertise. "
Hartwell considers this, pragmatic enough to recognize value when she hears it. "Dr. McKay, are you willing?"
Am I willing to help stop the people planning to use my research to attack Tidewater? To turn my work on protecting the coast into a weapon against it?
"Yes," I say without hesitation. "I'm willing."
Holden's expression shows relief and concern in equal measure. "You stay on the support vessel. You don't leave that boat for any reason."
"I understand."
"I mean it, Fallon. You provide intel and you keep yourself out of danger. That's the deal."
I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady. "I'll stay put. But you need to come back to me. Whatever happens out there, you come back."
"Always." He kisses me, quick and fierce. "Let me get geared up."
A nurse finds me in the corridor while Holden's with his team, making final preparations.
Bruce Tanner is asking to see me. She makes it clear I don't have to go, her expression carefully neutral, giving me every out.
But curiosity and the need for closure pull me toward his room despite every instinct screaming to keep my distance.
Bruce looks terrible. Face swollen from Rexford's beating, bandages covering stitches, monitors beeping steady rhythms. When he sees me standing in the doorway, something like shame crosses his battered features.
"Fallon." My name comes out raspy. "Thank you for coming."
I stay near the door, maintaining distance between us. "The nurse said you wanted to talk."
"I’m told I need to apologize." He shifts carefully, wincing with pain. "For everything. The calls, showing up at your apartment, making you feel unsafe. I was stalking you. I can see how you saw it that way. I’ve been going to therapy—mandated by the department—and I’m only now beginning to see how messed up it was. "
The admission costs him something. I can see it in the way his hands shake, the shame darkening his expression. Part of me wants to rage at him for years of fear and looking over my shoulder. Another part recognizes genuine remorse when I hear it.
"I’ll take out another restraining, and I won’t let this one expire," I say firmly. "You don't contact me again. You don't come near me. Ever."
"I know." His voice is barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, Fallon."
I nod acknowledgment and leave before emotion gets complicated. Bruce is my past. Holden is my future. And right now, my future is gearing up for a dangerous ocean raid.
Holden's already in tactical gear when I find him. Black wetsuit, weapons secured in waterproof housing, face camouflaged for night operations. He looks dangerous and competent and so focused it makes my breath catch.
His team surrounds him. Real SEAL operators, men whose names I've heard him mention.
Kowalski, compact and quick-eyed with a reputation for getting in and out undetected.
Pike, tall and lean with a sniper's stillness.
Esposito, broader through the shoulders, demolitions expert.
Reynolds, the medic, checking medical kits with methodical precision.
This is his actual team, the men he trusts with his life.
They nod at me with the easy acceptance of warriors who trust their commander's judgment.
"Ready?" Holden asks, eyes scanning my face for hesitation.
"Ready."
The support boat is smaller than I expected, equipped with communications gear and monitoring equipment. The Coast Guard operates it. A professional team briefs me on protocols and procedures while Holden's team prepares for insertion.
Night falls complete and dark as we motor offshore. No moon, cloud cover thick, waves choppy from lingering storm effects. Perfect conditions for SEAL operations. Terrible conditions for anyone trying to spot a small boat in the open ocean.
But I know these waters. Studied them, mapped them, spent years understanding how currents move and tides shift and coastal geography affects everything from wave patterns to sediment distribution.
"Target vessel is anchored here." The Coast Guard navigator shows me the position on radar. "Current?"
I study the charts, factoring in tide schedules and wind patterns. "Strong northward pull. Anyone going overboard gets swept fast. Nearest land is the barrier islands, but they'd have to swim through riptide zones."
Holden listens, absorbing information, adjusting tactics. "Kowalski, Pike, you take port side. Esposito, Reynolds with me on starboard. Standard boarding procedure. They're operatives, probably armed, definitely dangerous."
"Copy that."
They go over the side so quietly I barely hear the splash. Dark shapes disappearing into darker water, only visible on thermal monitors the Coast Guard operates. My heart hammers watching Holden's heat signature move toward the target vessel.
"Target vessel shows multiple heat signatures," the operator reports. "At least four, possibly more. Concentrated in cabin area."
The operatives. People who bought stolen research to plan an attack. My research, my work on protecting coastal areas, twisted into something that could kill people.
"Dr. McKay?" The navigator's voice pulls my attention. "Based on your vulnerability maps, if they're planning a beach assault on Tidewater, what's the most likely approach vector?"
I force myself to focus on data instead of fear. My research showed weak points in Tidewater's coastal defenses. Training areas with limited surveillance. Beach access points with minimal security. Places where small craft could land undetected.
"Here." I point to a section of coast on the map. "Shallow approach through this channel, minimal current, blind spot in base surveillance. If I were planning an infiltration, that's where I'd go."
The navigator radios this information to Holden's team. Intelligence they need to understand what they're stopping.
Holden's voice crackles over comms. "Breaching now."
Sounds of movement. Shouting in a language I don't recognize. Gunfire, sharp cracks that make my heart stop. Then Holden's voice, steady and controlled. "Multiple tangos secured. Data recovered. Vessel secure."