Sarah's voice carried through the door, grounding him. Somehow, she’d become his anchor—brilliant, brave, refusing to break even when everything around her shattered. If he could keep her alive, get her through Charleston, maybe that would be enough proof that he was still worth something.
"Be right there."
He stared himself down again.Prove you're solid.
He found them in Doc's walk-in closet, which was apparently the size of Sarah's entire apartment. Doc stood beside a rolling rack of clothes, looking pleased with herself, while Sarah stared in open-mouthed shock.
"This is impossible," Sarah said, holding up a blazer that would fit her perfectly. "How do you have an entire wardrobe in my size?"
"I have many sizes," Doc replied airily, as if keeping a department store's worth of women's clothing was perfectly normal. "One never knows when circumstances might require appropriate attire."
Griff examined the selection—business suits that would let Sarah blend into any federal building, casual clothes for surveillance work, and at the far end, tactical gear that looked military-grade.
"Doc," he said slowly, "most retired professors don't stock ops gear for their guests."
"Most retired professors didn't spend twenty years ensuring America's enemies had very bad days." She pulled out a set of black cargo pants and a fitted tactical vest. "Sarah, dear, try these."
Sarah disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, emerging five minutes later looking like she'd stepped out of a special operations catalog. The tactical gear fit perfectly. Pants that allowed full range of motion, a vest that distributed weight properly, boots that would actually support her ankles.
"You look..." Griff started, then stopped.
She looked dangerous. Competent. Like someone who belonged in his world instead of behind a desk analyzing spreadsheets. The transformation was jarring—this was the woman who'd bear-sprayed him less than a week ago, and now she looked ready to breach a compound.
"Ridiculous?" Sarah asked, checking herself in the mirror. Her face fell. "I don’t deserve to wear these. I have no training. No skills."
Doc snorted dismissively. “You have a brilliant mind.”
“And way more heart than a body that size should carry.” He couldn’t help adding. “The clothes don’t make the woman. The woman makes the clothes.”
“Well put.” One of Doc’s silver eyebrows rose skyward.
Shocked he actually constructed a real sentence probably.
"You look like an operator," he said honestly. "Natural."
Something flickered in Sarah’s eyes at the compliment, but she turned back to the mirror. "I can't believe how well this fits."
"Movement test," Griff instructed, falling into training mode. "High knees, lunges, simulate drawing a weapon."
Sarah ran through the motions, the gear moving with her instead of against her. Doc watched with the satisfied expression of someone whose preparations had paid off perfectly.
"Outstanding." Doc clapped once. "Now then, back to casual clothes for the drive. Save the tactical gear for Charleston."
As Sarah changed again, Griff studied the remaining outfits. Everything high-quality, versatile, appropriate for anysituation they might encounter. Doc had thought of everything.
"How long have you been planning this?" he asked.
"Planning what? Helping former students who stumble into conspiracy networks? Or maintaining appropriate resources for unexpected circumstances?"
"Both."
Doc's smile was mysterious. "Let's say I believe in being prepared. Speaking of prepared.” Her gaze sought Sarah. “Give her a few skills, would you?"
An hour later, they stood in Doc's basement training area—which, like everything else about the woman, was more sophisticated than it appeared. Mats covered the floor, and the walls held enough equipment to outfit a small army. Almost as well-equipped as Knight Tactical’s gym.
"Basic self-defense isn't about fighting," Griff began, watching Sarah stretch in her yoga pants and Georgetown t-shirt. "It's about buying time to escape. Creating opportunities to run."
"I can run," Sarah said. "My ankle’s much better now."
