Izzy's throat went tight. She had to blink hard against the sudden sting in her eyes. Her team leader, probably exhausted from rescue operations, still checking on her.
Absolutely not crying in the equipment room, Reyes.
She couldn't burden them with her disaster of an ex-husband when they were dealing with life-or-death situations. Her fingers shook slightly as she typed back.
Clown is the right word for the guy. No worries. I got this.
Ronan: Never doubted it. Guy would be better off facing me and the boys than little old you Stay safe, Reyes.
She had to press her palm against her eyes for a moment. These people—her found family—had her back even from two thousand miles away. The emoji made her laugh. Ronan Quinn using emojis was like watching a bear attempt ballet, but he'd done it just to make her smile.
Pull it together, chica.
She focused on selecting her tools. Digital torque analyzer for checking if someone had tampered with connections after her inspection. Servo tester to diagnose the exact failure mode. Hydraulic pressure gauge because her gut said this was about fluid dynamics, not mechanical failure.
Each tool went into the reinforced case with reverent care. These instruments cost more than her truck, and they could tell stories that human senses missed. The investigators would have most of the same equipment, but she only trusted her own.
One more text to Zara:
Any update on A's location?
No immediate response. Probably knee-deep in Alaska's crisis.
She headed out with her tools, Ronan's "stay safe" echoing in her mind like a protection prayer.
The Mountain Angel hangar looked wrong from the moment she walked up. Yellow tape crossed the entrance like a crime scene. Official vehicles clustered around—Reed Osgood's mud-splattered truck, SBN's pristine Audi rental gleaming, and two unmarked sedans that screamed government oversight.
Her helicopter—because she thought of every craft she maintained as partially hers—sat inside like a patient awaiting surgery.
Another local aircraft gearhead, Danny Flores, stood guard at the entrance, and her heart sank at his expression. The misery on his weathered face told her everything before he opened his mouth.
"Can't let you in, Iz. I'm real sorry."
"Danny, come on." She hefted her tool case. "I've got equipment that could help?—"
"That FAA guy, Osgood?" Danny shifted his feet, wouldn't meet her eyes. "He ordered it sealed. Said no one who worked on it gets access."
The words hit like physical blows. "That's ridiculous. I know this airframe better than anyone. I can tell them exactly?—"
"I know, I know." Danny looked genuinely pained. "If it were up to me... but the brass are all over this. That woman from MedFlight, she's in there taking pictures of everything like it's a crime scene."
Through the window, Izzy could see them clustered around her helicopter. Reed Osgood pointing at something, the Barnes woman documenting with her phone, two other investigators she didn't recognize poking at access panels she'd secured just yesterday.
Strangers' hands on her work. The thought made her skin crawl.
Cory Fraser pulled up next to her and hustled out of his vehicle, looking like he'd stepped out of a uniform catalog. Even his boots gleamed.
Danny straightened immediately. "Morning, Chief. They're expecting you."
"Danny." Cory nodded, then his gaze found Izzy. Something flickered in those ice-blue eyes—surprise? Concern? He recovered quickly, all business.
Danny opened the door without hesitation. Because of course the police chief got access while the actual mechanic who knew every rivet, every wire, every potential failure point got locked out.
"If he can go in, I can help," Izzy stepped forward, pride overriding caution. "I know every system on that Bell. Every quirk, every?—"
Cory turned to face her fully, and that analytical stare made her want to squirm. "That's the problem."
The words landed like a slap. "Excuse me? I've been maintaining aircraft since before you were writing parking tickets. I've never had a single safety violation, never had a craft go down because of a mechanical, never?—"
