Her face goes pale. "Rexford? So, we were right to think he might be involved?
"He's been controlling it." I pull up Hartwell's detailed text, scanning information that makes everything click into horrible clarity. "He had access to Bruce's movements, knew about the stalking history. Used it to deflect suspicion while he sabotaged your equipment and stole your research. Sold your data on Tidewater's vulnerabilities to buyers we're still identifying."
Fallon sits up fully, sheet clutched to her chest, processing implications faster than I can speak them. "The boat sabotage. The break-in. All of it was him?"
"Yeah." My jaw clenches hard enough to ache. "And he attacked Bruce last night, probably to silence him or frame him for everything. Bruce is in surgery. They don't know if he'll make it."
Despite everything Bruce put her through, Fallon's expression shows genuine distress. She's too good, too compassionate, to want anyone dead even if they tormented her. One more reason I love her.
My phone rings, Hartwell's name flashing on screen. I answer immediately. "Ma’am."
"Lange, thank God." Hartwell's relief is palpable. "Where are you?"
"Safe house. Storm kept us off grid all night. Just got your messages."
"Rexford's in the wind. We've got Coast Guard, local PD, everyone looking, but he had hours head start. Last ping on hisphone was near your location before it went dead." Hartwell's voice hardens. "I need you back at Tidewater immediately. Full protection detail, secure location until we have him in custody."
Ice slides down my spine. "You think he's coming after Fallon."
"I think he's desperate and armed and has nothing left to lose. The data's already sold, his career is over, and he knows we're closing in. If he blames Dr. McKay for his exposure, he might try to finish what he started." Hartwell pauses. "Get her here, Lange. Now."
"On our way." I disconnect, already moving. "Get dressed. We're leaving."
Fallon doesn't argue, doesn't ask questions. She's up and pulling on clothes with efficient speed, understanding the urgency in my tone. I dress just as fast, weapons check automatic. Sidearm loaded, backup piece secured, knife strapped to my ankle. Everything I need if this goes sideways.
Outside, storm damage is everywhere. Branches littering the road, standing water in low spots, power lines sagging where supports gave way. The sky remains overcast, threatening more rain, wind still gusting hard enough to rock the SUV as we pull onto the coastal road heading back to Tidewater.
Fallon's quiet beside me, hands folded tight in her lap. I reach over, covering them with one of mine. "You okay?"
"Daniel Rexford." She shakes her head slowly. "He sat through the briefing. Asked all those pointed questions that made everyone uncomfortable. We knew something was off about him, but I never thought..." She trails off, processing the betrayal.
"He's a trained operator who knows how to blend in and gain trust. This isn't on you."
"He's worked with base personnel for years. Contracts, assessments. Why would he do this?"
"Money, probably. Or ideology, thinking he's protecting something by exposing our vulnerabilities." I keep scanning the road ahead, hyper-aware of every vehicle, every sight line where an ambush could hide. "Motivation doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting you somewhere secure."
The coastal road winds through areas where the hurricane hit hardest. Salt marsh flooded over the asphalt, debris field of broken boats and dock sections scattered like toys. Traffic is nonexistent this early, just us and the storm's aftermath and my instincts screaming that something's wrong.
I see the boat a fraction of a second before I see Rexford.
Small craft, beached on the shoulder where the road curves close to water. Recent enough that wet sand still clings to the hull. And standing beside it, rifle raised and aimed directly at my windshield, is Daniel Rexford.
"Get down!" I shout, yanking the wheel hard left as the first shot punches through the windshield.
Glass explodes inward. Fallon drops below the dashboard, hands over her head, trusting me completely. I floor the accelerator, trying to speed past, but Rexford's second shot takes out the front tire. The SUV lurches violently, momentum and blown rubber combining to send us careening off the road toward the flooded marsh.
Water rises fast around us as we hit the shallow edge, nose-first, airbags deploying with chemical-stink force. My ears ring from impact and deployment, but training kicks in immediately. Assess. Fallon's moving, reaching for her seatbelt. No visible injuries. Vehicle settling into water that's rushing in through bullet holes and compromised seals. Rexford visible through the shattered windshield, wading into the water after us, rifle still raised.
I grab Fallon's arm. "Out. Now. Passenger side, use the door for cover."
She doesn't freeze, doesn't panic. Releases her seatbelt and shoves the passenger door open, using the angle of our descent to her advantage. Water's already waist-deep outside, murky with storm runoff and churned sediment. I follow her out, drawing my sidearm as I move, keeping the bulk of the SUV between us and Rexford.
Another shot pings off metal, ricocheting wild. Rexford's advancing steadily, using the boat for cover when he can, movements showing familiarity with weapons but not military precision. Coastal consultant, probably comfortable on and around water from his work, but desperate now in ways that make people dangerous and unpredictable.
"Stay behind me," I tell Fallon, scanning for options. Marsh grass provides minimal concealment, water too shallow for diving, nearest solid cover is back toward the road where Rexford came from. We're pinned between the sinking vehicle and open water with a trained killer closing distance.
"Holden." Fallon's voice is steady despite everything. "The car's going down fast. We need to move or we'll get sucked under."
