Chapter 1 #2
Ongoing investigation. Does NCIS already know about the thefts? Or is he making assumptions?
He ends the call and focuses on me again, hazel eyes assessing. "Help is coming. Try not to move too much in case you have injuries you're not feeling yet."
Adrenaline does that. Masks pain until the crash hits. I know the physiology, understand exactly what my body is doing right now. Doesn't make the trembling stop or the shock feel less overwhelming.
"Thank you," I manage. "For intervening. I thought—"
"Don't." Firm but not unkind. "You fought hard. Most people freeze."
Pride flickers through fear. "I was taught to fight back."
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition that there's more to my story than a parking lot attack.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer. Red and blue lights flash across nearby buildings. Base security arrives first, then NCIS agents in their unmarked vehicles. Captain Caine stays exactly where he is, kneeling beside me, solid presence between me and everyone else.
An NCIS agent approaches, badge visible. "Dr. Abernathy? I'm Special Agent Rivera. Can you tell me what happened?"
I walk her through it. The footsteps, the grab, the fight. The things he said. "You should've minded your own business." She writes everything down, asking clarifying questions, professional and thorough.
"Do you know why someone would target you specifically?" Rivera asks.
Here it is. The moment I either report what I found or stay quiet and hope this was random. Except it wasn't random. My attacker knew my name, knew I'd found something, came prepared to silence me.
"I've been documenting equipment shortages at the hospital," I tell her. "Trauma and emergency supplies going missing in patterns that suggest deliberate theft. Airway equipment, hemorrhage control supplies, surgical tools—things needed when patients are dying."
Rivera's expression sharpens. "You have evidence?"
"Spreadsheet backed up to cloud storage. Inventory logs, dates, quantities. Everything documented." I meet her gaze steadily. "Someone's been watching my investigation."
"We'll need access to those files." Rivera glances at Captain Caine, then back to me. "You'll need protection until we determine the scope of this threat."
"I can take care of myself." The words come out automatically, defensive. Experience taught me that accepting help meant giving up control.
Captain Caine speaks for the first time since security arrived. "You fought well. But whoever sent that assailant knows you're onto them and just proved they're willing to use violence." His voice is calm, factual. "Taking care of yourself means accepting backup when threats escalate."
He's right. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"What kind of protection are we talking about?" I ask Rivera.
"Security detail. Monitoring. Possibly relocation if the threat assessment warrants." She closes her notebook. "Captain Caine, you witnessed the aftermath?"
"Affirmative. I can provide a statement."
"We'll need it." Rivera signals to another agent. "Get Dr. Abernathy checked by medical. Full documentation of injuries for the case file."
Medical. Right. Because I'm the victim here, not the trauma surgeon who should be treating patients instead of getting treated. The role reversal chafes, but arguing won't help.
An EMT approaches with supplies. I let him clean the scrapes, check my pupils, assess the damage I already know is minor. Bruises and cuts heal. The violation of being attacked in what should've been a safe space takes longer.
Captain Caine stays nearby through the whole process, answering questions when security asks, providing his account of what he saw. He moves with quiet efficiency, no wasted motion or energy. The kind of calm that comes from training and experience and knowing exactly what needs to happen next.
When the EMT finishes, Rivera approaches again. "I'll need those files tonight. Can you access them?"
I pull out my tablet, miraculously unbroken despite the fight. Log in to cloud storage and share access credentials with Rivera. "Everything's there. Cross-referenced by date, supply type, and documented shortages."
"This is thorough work." Rivera scans the spreadsheet, expression professional but approving. "When did you first notice the pattern?"
"About a month ago. Small discrepancies that could've been clerical errors. But they kept happening, always targeting the same categories. Always staying just under the threshold that would trigger automatic flags." I close the tablet. "Someone knows the system well enough to exploit it."
"Insider threat." Rivera's jaw tightens. "We'll investigate. In the meantime, you need somewhere safe to stay tonight. Captain Caine has volunteered to provide security until we can arrange formal protection."
I turn to look at him. "You don't have to do that."
"I know." His gaze is steady, unflinching. "Doing it anyway."
The certainty in his voice leaves no room for argument. And honestly, I'm too exhausted to fight about it. My hands are shaking, adrenaline crash hitting hard now that the immediate danger has passed. Going home alone to an apartment that suddenly feels exposed doesn't appeal.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you."
Rivera provides contact information and reminds me to call if anything else happens or if I remember additional details. The EMT clears me to leave, warning signs for concussion thoroughly explained. Base security takes final statements.
And then it's just me and Captain Caine in a parking lot that looks too normal for having witnessed an attempted assault less than an hour ago.
"My car is this way," he says, gesturing toward a truck several rows over. "I'll drive you home, check your apartment's security, and make sure no one followed us."
"I have my own vehicle." I point toward my Range Rover, still sitting under lights with keys scattered on the pavement nearby.
"You're in shock and possibly concussed. I'm driving." His tone brooks no argument. "We can arrange to get your SUV tomorrow."
Logic says he's right. My hands are still shaking, head throbbing where it connected with metal. Driving isn't safe. But accepting help means trusting someone I just met, letting a stranger into my space and my life.
Past experience taught me that trust is dangerous.
But standing in this parking lot where someone just tried to kill me, looking at the Marine who intervened without hesitation, I remember that isolation is dangerous too.
"Okay," I say again, forcing my brain to cooperate. "Let's go."
He retrieves my keys from the pavement, locks my Range Rover, and guides me toward his truck with a hand hovering near my lower back without quite touching. Protective without being possessive, respectful of space while still providing support.
The drive to my apartment is quiet. I rest my head against the window, watching streetlights blur past while my brain tries to process everything that just happened.
Captain Caine—Thatcher, my brain supplies, though I didn't ask permission to use his first name—drives with the same controlled competence he brought to the parking lot.
Checking mirrors, aware of surroundings, focused.
"How long have you been at Tidewater?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"A little less than a year." I don't elaborate.
"You said you were taught to fight back. Self-defense training?"
"Living in cities. Walking to hospitals alone." I close my eyes. "You learn to pay attention."
He doesn't push. Just nods like he understands that some stories need telling in their own time.
We arrive at my apartment complex. Caine parks, scans the lot, then looks at the building with something like surprise.
"You're in base housing?"
"Temporary arrangement." I'm too tired for lengthy explanations, but his confusion is reasonable. "When I accepted the position, I negotiated temporary housing until I could get on my feet. They had empty units, I needed somewhere to land after leaving Boston."
"How temporary?"
"I need to start looking for my own place off-base." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Haven't had time with the surgery schedule."
He nods, accepting that, then catalogs exits and sightlines with tactical awareness before opening my door. I let him, too tired to argue about being capable of opening my own door.
"Which unit?" he asks.
"Second floor. 2B."
He walks slightly ahead up the stairs, positioning himself between me and potential threats. Professional security sweep disguised as escort service. At my door, he waits while I unlock it, then gestures for me to stay back.
"Let me clear it first."
"You think someone broke in?"
"I think I'm checking anyway."
Fair enough. I wait in the hallway while he moves through my apartment, flipping lights, checking closets and windows and anywhere someone could hide. It only takes minutes before he's back at the door.
"Clear. No signs of entry." He steps aside, letting me pass. "Do you have a security system?"
"Basic apartment locks. Nothing special."
"I'll upgrade them tomorrow." He says it like it's already decided, like he's planning to be around tomorrow and the day after that. "Tonight, I'm staying on your couch."
"You don't have to—"
"Dr. Abernathy." He meets my gaze, hazel eyes serious. "Someone just tried to hurt you because you're investigating equipment theft. They know where you work, probably know where you live. Until NCIS determines the scope of this threat, you need protection."
"And you're volunteering for that duty?"
"I'm not volunteering. I'm doing it." The distinction seems important to him. "You can argue if it makes you feel better, but I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
The certainty in his voice should feel overbearing. Instead, it's oddly reassuring. Someone giving a damn whether I live or die, taking responsibility without making me feel weak for needing backup.
Maybe that's what partnership looks like. Not rescuing, just sharing the load.
"The couch is comfortable," I say finally, too exhausted to keep fighting. "There are blankets in the hall closet."
"I'll find them." He moves toward the closet with the same tactical efficiency he brings to everything. "You should rest. It's late and you've been through hell."
Hell. Accurate description. I look down at my scraped hands and knuckles, bruises already forming across my wrist. Evidence of the fight mapped across my skin.
"Thank you," I tell him. "For tonight. For intervening. For caring enough to help."
Something shifts in his expression, warmth breaking through tactical composure. "You're welcome. Now get some sleep, Doc. Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
I retreat to my bathroom, rinse my face, assess the damage properly. Split lip will heal. Scraped cheek will fade. Bruised ribs will ache for weeks. Nothing permanent. Nothing that won't mend.
Except maybe my sense of safety. Because someone knows what I found, knows I'm a threat, and just proved they're willing to hurt me to keep their operation running.
I change into comfortable clothes, down painkillers, and collapse onto my bed. Through the wall, I hear Captain Caine moving around my living room, settling in. The sounds are oddly comforting. Evidence that I'm not alone. That someone is standing watch while I sleep.
I should be worried about trusting a stranger. Should be questioning his motives or his interest or why he's so determined to protect someone he just met.
But exhaustion wins over caution. My eyes close, dragging me toward sleep.
And the last thought I have before darkness claims me is that Captain Thatcher Caine, with his tactical precision and hazel eyes and hands that stopped someone from hurting me, might be the most dangerous threat to my carefully controlled life.
Because he makes me want to trust again.
And trust is the one thing I can't afford.