The meeting continues. Tanner provides background on stalking patterns that sound rehearsed. Thatcher asks pointed questions about explosive access. Hartwell documents everything.
Through it all, Fallon stays silent. Listening, processing, offering nothing.
When Hartwell finally dismisses the meeting, Tanner moves toward Fallon. I block his path immediately.
"Detective. A word."
I guide him into the hallway, far enough that Fallon won't hear. Thatcher catches my eye through the door—he'll stay with her.
Once we're alone, I drop any pretense of professionalism.
"Stay away from her. You're here to consult, not make contact. You don't speak to her directly, don't approach her, don't even look at her longer than necessary. Clear?"
Tanner's expression hardens, the mask dropping. "That's not your call, Lieutenant Commander. I have every right to speak with Fallon. We have history, shared connections, and I'm genuinely concerned about her safety."
"She had a restraining order and you displayed a pattern of harassment that forced her to flee across the country. Your concern is noted and irrelevant. She has made it clear she doesn't want contact with you. I'm ensuring she doesn't endure it."
"You threatening a police detective, Lieutenant Commander?" Tanner's voice carries amusement, condescension dripping from every word. "That could create problems for your career. Especially when I'm here officially, with full authorization from both Seattle PD and your base commander." He leans against the wall, relaxed, confident. "Besides, what exactly are you going to do? Fallon and I have history. Real history. You're what—her bodyguard for a few days? I know her. I know what she needs, what she responds to. You're just the flavor of the week playing hero."
I study him for a long moment. Take in the smug expression, the casual posture, the absolute certainty that his badge and official status make him untouchable. He genuinely believes he's in control here.
"Detective Tanner," I say quietly, voice dropping to the register I use before things get physical. "I've spent the last decade hunting people who think they're smarter than everyone else. People who believe rules don't apply to them. People who use their authority to hurt those who can't fight back." I step closer, watching his smile falter. "You know what I've learned? They all have the same look in their eyes when they realize theymiscalculated. That moment when they understand that badges and credentials don't matter anymore. That they're just another target."
His jaw tightens. Not so amused now.
"You're here on my base, breathing my air, walking through my spaces. And you think the fact that the restraining order she had expired gives you the right to call it 'history'?" I keep my voice level, conversational, letting him hear exactly what I'm capable of underneath the professional courtesy. "You don't know me, Detective. You don't know what I will and won't do. But here's what you need to understand—I know exactly who and what you are. And if you push boundaries with her again, you'll learn very quickly what happens when SEALs stop being polite."
I turn to leave, then pause. "Oh, and Detective? I don't threaten. When I make a promise, I keep it. Remember that."
I return to the conference room. Fallon is still seated, Thatcher near the door in silent protection. Hartwell is gathering her notes. Fallon's face is pale, hands clenched.
"Ready to see the lab?" Hartwell asks gently.
Fallon nods, standing on unsteady legs. The confrontation with Tanner cost her more than she wants to admit.
The drive doesn't take long. Hartwell rides with us, Thatcher follows in his vehicle. Fallon stares out the window, silent fury replacing shock as color returns to her face.
The research center is a low building near the water, crime scene tape already blocking Fallon's lab entrance. She pushes past it before anyone can stop her, and I follow immediately, hand hovering near her elbow in case the damage is worse than described.
The lab looks like a tornado hit. Analysts and techs are already working the scene, photographing evidence and collecting samples. Broken glass everywhere, chemical spillscreating toxic rainbows across counters, sample containers smashed with contents dumped into sinks. Months of data, specimens from tide pools and coastal surveys—all destroyed with methodical violence.
The smell hits first. Formaldehyde mixed with salt water and bleach, a toxic combination that makes my eyes water. Shattered equipment crunches under our boots as we move deeper into the wreckage.
Fallon moves through it like she's walking through a graveyard, cataloging losses without visible emotion. But her hands shake when she picks up a broken sample jar, examining the label with careful precision before setting it down. Her microscope is smashed on the floor, lens shattered, frame bent beyond repair. The way she stares at it tells me it was expensive, important.
She crouches beside an overturned storage container, fingers tracing over scattered specimens that will never be viable again. "This one was from the January king tide," she says quietly, voice hollow. "Collected at dawn during specific tidal conditions that won't repeat for another year. There's no replacing it."
Another container, this one larger. "Sediment samples from the erosion study. Six months of weekly collections, showing progressive degradation patterns." She looks up at the ceiling, blinking hard. "Gone."
I watch her catalog the destruction with scientific precision, using professional distance to keep the emotional devastation at bay. But I see the way her jaw clenches when she finds her field notebook—pages torn out and scattered, months of handwritten observations reduced to confetti across the floor.
"This isn't Bruce." Her voice is tight, controlled. "He doesn't care about my research. He'd destroy personal items, things that matter emotionally. This is someone who understands what I do and wants to stop it."
"Agreed." I study the destruction pattern. "Chemicals spilled first for contamination, then sample containers broken, equipment damaged. Systematic, efficient."
"And Tanner has alibis for both incidents," Thatcher says from the entry point. "Either he hired someone or there's a second player."
Personal and professional threats. They all seem to be converging simultaneously.
