"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."
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees buckle. The Coast Guard navigator steadies me with professional kindness. "They've got them. It's over."
But it's not over until I see Holden. Until I confirm with my own eyes that he's unharmed and whole and coming back to me like he promised.
The wait feels endless. Holden's team secures the operatives, recovers the stolen data and attack plans, processes the scene with methodical efficiency. When they finally return to the support boat, four men in restraints are transferred to Coast Guard custody. Foreign operatives who planned to use my research to hurt people.
When the deck lights hit Holden, I see his wetsuit is torn, fresh blood seeping through a gash on his shoulder. But he's upright and moving under his own power. Our eyes meet across the deck and everything else falls away.
"You're hurt," I say, reaching for him.
"One of them fought back. Got a knife in before Kowalski took him down." His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I'm okay. Are you?"
"Now I am."
Kowalski approaches, professional but clearly curious about the woman his commander brought on a mission. "Dr. McKay's research lays out where we were vulnerable, sir. Attack plans confirm they were targeting exactly the approach vector she identified."
"Good work," Holden tells him, then looks at me. "You helped stop an attack on Tidewater. Saved lives tonight."
The weight of that settles over me. My research, used correctly this time. Not as a weapon but as protection.
The Coast Guard processes the operatives. Holden's team handles evidence documentation. Hartwell coordinates with base command via secure channels. The machinery of justice grinds into motion while Holden and I stand on the deck of a support boat in the middle of the ocean, finally out of danger.
"Take me home," I whisper against his chest. "Not the safe house. Not the base. Your home."
Holden's arms tighten around me. "Yeah. Let's go home."
The drive back to shore is quiet, both of us processing what just happened. Hartwell handles Rexford's transfer while Holden drives us away from base, away from everything. His beach cottage appears in the headlights, weathered wood and large windows, exactly what I imagined.
Inside, it's masculine and comfortable. A leather Chesterfield couch faces the fireplace, two leather wingback chairs positioned to catch both the fire and the ocean view through the windows. Antiques scattered throughout, pieces that look collected rather than purchased, each with a story. Books line the shelves; maritime history mixed with fiction and technical manuals. Photos of his SEAL team sit among the personal mementos.
This is where he comes to decompress. Where he sheds the warrior and becomes just Holden.
"Shower first," he says, leading me to the bathroom. "Then food. Then sleep."
