Chapter 12 Riley
TWELVE
RILEY
The lab smells like bleach and broken things.
Even after a night and a half-day of military police, security sweeps, and whatever “cleanup protocol” means in a place where shattered glass still glitters in the corners, the air holds the memory of violence—cold, chemical, wrong.
Crewe walks in first, shoulders squared, gaze sweeping every angle like the room itself might lunge. I follow a half-step behind him, clutching my bag to my chest like it can keep my ribs from cracking open.
I tell myself I’m calm.
I tell myself I’m thinking.
Mostly, I’m bracing.
“Stay close,” Crewe murmurs, not looking back.
“I’m basically glued to you,” I whisper.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Good.”
We move deeper into the lab. What’s left of it.
My workstation is still a wreck. A monitor hangs by a cord like a broken arm. Papers are scattered in a sloppy fan across the floor. The shelf where I keep my notebooks is half-empty, the rest dumped out like someone wanted the satisfaction of watching my order turn to chaos.
I swallow hard and force my focus onto the reason we came.
The hardware key.
It’s small. Plain. Old-school on purpose.
Not because I’m quaint or nostalgic, but because physical things don’t leak data when you’re not looking.
It’s the lock on one of my offline backups—the stuff I don’t put on base systems, the stuff I don’t let contractors touch, the stuff I kept tucked away for worst-case scenarios.
This is worst-case.
“I’m going to grab it and we’re leaving,” I say, more to myself than Crewe.
His eyes track the room. “Where would it be?”
“In a safe place,” I mutter, already crossing toward the back wall, toward the old metal cabinet that looks like it’s been on base since the Cold War. I used it because it’s ugly. It’s unassuming. It’s the last thing anyone would think holds anything worth taking.
I kneel and yank the bottom drawer open.
Empty.
I blink.
No. That’s wrong.
I pull harder, checking behind the drawer, in the corners, along the metal lip.
Nothing.
My heart starts climbing my throat.
“It should be here,” I whisper.
Crewe’s presence shifts beside me. “Where else.”
“I—” I swallow. “I had it. I put it here.”
I pop up and move fast, crossing to my desk, my hands suddenly too clumsy, rummaging through a pile of papers like they might magically produce the one thing that matters.
Pens. Sticky notes. A cracked thumb drive. A little pink stress ball shaped like a brain.
No key.
I rip open a drawer.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
My breathing turns shallow.
Crewe catches my elbow gently, grounding me. “Riley.”
“It’s gone,” I whisper, panic spiking. “It’s gone, Crewe. Someone took it.”
His eyes darken. “When did you last see it.”
“Before the break-in,” I say. “Weeks ago. I haven’t touched it because I didn’t need it.” I laugh once—sharp and humorless. “God. I didn’t think I’d ever need it.”
Crewe’s jaw flexes. He scans the room again like he’s looking for a person hiding in plain sight.
The door opens behind us.
I turn, already tense, and see a familiar face framed by fluorescent light.
Dr. Lyle Hammond.
He steps inside like he’s been running. His coat is half-zipped, hair slightly windblown, worry carved into his features. When his eyes land on me, relief flashes across his face—quick, sincere-looking.
“Riley,” he says, and crosses the room with open hands. “Thank God. I heard you were coming back in.”
My chest loosens for half a second.
Then tightens again.
Because I can’t feel safe anywhere anymore.
“I’m here,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “I needed something.”
Hammond’s gaze sweeps the ruined lab, and his face twists. “This is obscene. This is a violation.”
“It is,” I say quietly. “And I can’t find what I came for.”
He looks at me with that mentor-dad concern that used to make me feel like I wasn’t alone in a world of sharp elbows and bureaucracy.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
I hesitate for a beat. Not because I don’t trust him—because I’m suddenly aware of Crewe’s presence behind me, the way his attention narrows when anyone asks questions.
Still, this is Lyle. He’s been in my corner for years.
“A hardware key,” I say. “Small. Black. It unlocks one of my offline backups.”
Hammond frowns. “A key.”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You never mentioned an offline backup.”
My stomach drops a notch.
“You didn’t know about it,” I admit, voice tight. “I kept it separate.”
Hammond’s expression softens. “Smart.”
Crewe makes a low sound behind me that could be agreement or suspicion. I can’t tell with him anymore. Everything about him is controlled until it isn’t.
Hammond reaches for my arm—careful, paternal—and I flinch without meaning to. Not because of him. Because of the last forty-eight hours.
He pauses, eyes flicking to Crewe. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” I murmur, even though it isn’t.
Hammond glances around again, brows knit. “If that key is missing, that’s… bad, Riley.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He studies the mess like he’s thinking, then looks back at me with something intent in his eyes. “There’s something I want to show you.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
Hammond’s gaze flicks to Crewe. “Privately.”
Crewe steps forward immediately. “No.”
The word is flat. Final.
Hammond’s expression tightens slightly. “Sergeant, this is internal to the program. It concerns her work.”
“She’s not alone,” Crewe says, voice low.
My pulse thrums. I hate being talked about like I’m a package.
“Crewe,” I say carefully, “it’s okay. Lyle’s—”
His eyes snap to mine. Not angry. Just… firm. Protective in a way that makes my chest warm and twist at the same time.
“Major Chen wants an update,” Crewe says, and his phone buzzes in his hand like it’s answering him. He checks the screen. “That’s her.”
He looks at me. “Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right outside the door.”
I nod automatically, because when Crewe Hawthorne tells you to do something, your body tends to comply before your brain can argue.
He steps into the hallway, phone to his ear, shoulders filling the doorway for a second before he turns away.
And the second he does—
Hammond’s hand closes around my elbow.
Not gentle.
Not paternal.
Firm.
My breath catches.
“Lyle?” I whisper, confused.
His eyes lock onto mine, and in that instant, something drops away from his face. The worry doesn’t vanish, exactly—but it sharpens into something else.
Urgency.
Cold calculation.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
My blood turns to ice.
“What—”
“Quiet,” he murmurs, and his other hand lifts something toward my side—small, quick.
I flinch hard, trying to jerk away, but my body suddenly feels… wrong. Heavy. Like my muscles have to push through molasses.
Oh my God.
My legs wobble.
My heart thunders.
“What did you—” My voice slurs.
Hammond’s grip tightens. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like he means it. “But you’re worth too much to leave here.”
Panic explodes in my chest. I try to scream—
But the air doesn’t come right.
The room tilts.
Hammond guides me—not drags me, not yanks me—guides me like a man who knows exactly how not to draw attention.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Two men appear at the back door like they’ve been waiting in the shadows of the corridor.
Not military police. Not base personnel I recognize.
Their movements are efficient. Silent.
One of them holds the door. The other steps in close, grabbing my other arm.
I fight.
I do.
I throw my weight back, dig my heels into the floor, try to twist free—my elbow slams into someone’s ribs, and I manage a strangled sound that might almost be a shout—
But my limbs aren’t cooperating.
My vision swims at the edges.
“Stop,” Hammond says under his breath, like he’s talking to a stubborn child. “Don’t make this harder.”
I try anyway.
Because Crewe is in the hallway.
Because he told me not to move.
Because he’s going to come back and—
And I need him to come back now.
But the men keep moving, and Hammond keeps his grip like a clamp, steering me through the doorway, out into the corridor, head down, fast but controlled.
“Help—” I try to say.
It comes out as breath.
They turn a corner.
And then another.
The base is busy enough that people pass—someone in fatigues, someone carrying a clipboard, someone laughing at a phone screen.
No one looks closely.
No one sees the way I’m being held up.
No one sees the terror in my eyes.
I want to claw at the walls. I want to scream until my throat bleeds.
But my body is betraying me.
My head lolls slightly, and Hammond’s hand tightens in my hair near the nape of my neck—subtle, controlling, keeping my face angled down.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
The words scrape over my skin.
We push through a side exit.
Cold air slaps my face, and it helps—just a little. My brain clears by a fraction, enough for the fear to turn sharp instead of foggy.
I try to plant my feet again.
I try to resist.
One of the men grips me harder. “Move.”
I stumble forward, forcing my legs to work.
A white van is parked near the service area, positioned like it belongs there.
Like it’s always belonged there.
The side door slides open.
A dark mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
“No,” I whisper, the word trembling.
Hammond meets my gaze, close enough now that I can see the tightness around his eyes.
“This isn’t personal,” he says softly. “It’s business. And survival.”
My stomach lurches.
He actually believes that.
They lift me into the van.
My shoulder hits the metal interior. I twist, trying to kick, trying to bite—something—anything—
A hand clamps over my mouth.
My pulse is a roar in my ears.
The door slides shut with a final, sickening thud.
Darkness.
Engine noise.
Movement.
We’re moving.
We’re leaving.
My vision blurs with panic and rage.
Crewe.
Crewe is going to come back into the lab and I won’t be there.
He’s going to see the space where I was standing and feel the air of it—gone, wrong, stolen.
And I can’t even warn him.
I can’t even—
The van turns sharply.
My head bumps the wall, and stars burst behind my eyes.
Hands keep me pinned.
I try to breathe.
Try to stay awake.
Try to fight through whatever Hammond used on me.
Because the only thought I can hold onto—the only one that keeps me from shattering completely—is this:
Crewe Hawthorne does not lose what he’s protecting.
And I am still his.
Even if I’m being stolen.