"I don't believe you did anything wrong."
The quiet certainty in his voice stopped her mid-rant. She blinked, derailed. "Then why?—"
"Because procedure is procedure. You worked on it. You can't investigate it. Conflict of interest." His tone gentled slightly. "You know I'm right, even if you hate it."
She did hate it. And she hated that he knew that even more. But somewhere beneath the fury, her logical brain acknowledged the truth. If their positions were reversed, she'd make the same call.
Inside, she could see the investigators examining the main rotor assembly. "They're wasting time on the rotor head," she said, unable to stop herself. "That's not what caused mushy controls."
She stepped closer, mechanic's pride winning over better judgment. "Servo actuator response would present as gradual degradation, not rotor-based. They should be checking the hydraulic boost system, specifically the fore-aft servo. Classic symptoms of pressure loss in that system, not mechanical binding."
She realized she was lecturing, saw Cory's expression shift to something unreadable. "But what do I know? I'm just the mechanic who?—"
"Stop." His voice carried that particular tone of authority that made her bite back the rest. "Not. Your. Investigation."
He turned toward the door, and desperation made her call after him. "Will you at least let me know what they find?"
He paused but didn't turn around. The silence stretched long enough that she knew the answer before he disappeared inside. Danny wouldn't meet her eyes as the door closed with a decisive click.
The sound of her helicopter being dissected by strangers filtered through the windows.
Izzy stood in the alleyway, diagnostic case heavy in her hand, watching through the window as investigators swarmed HER work. Her phone buzzed.
Zara: A still at motel. Hasn't left room. Want backup?
She typed back:
Not yet. Thanks, Z.
The expensive diagnostic tools mocked her through the case's padding. Thousands of dollars of precision instruments, and she couldn't use them. Couldn't help. Couldn't prove what she knew in her bones—that helicopter had been perfect when it left her hands.
Her phone rang. Martha.
"Don't come to the hangar, honey. They've locked us all out."
"I know. I'm here." Izzy watched Reed Osgood point at something in the engine compartment, his body language screaming incompetence.
Martha's voice dropped. "This stinks. That helicopter was perfect."
"I know that too. Thanks for the warning, Martha."
“Keep your head up, girl. We’ll have the last laugh.”
She could only hope.
After Martha hung up, Izzy walked back to headquarters in a daze. When had her life become this telenovela?
For the first time since her team left for Alaska, she felt truly alone in this fight.
Stay safe, Reyes.
Ronan's words echoed in her mind. She hoped it was an unnecessary warning.
8
The December sunlighthadn't yet touched the mountains when Cory stepped into the commandeered hangar, his breath fogging in the frigid air. Without cloud cover to trap any warmth, the temperature had plummeted overnight, leaving frost patterns on the metal walls that caught the harsh work lights.
The three-story industrial hangar was empty but for the damaged Bell 407 sitting under those unforgiving lights like a patient on an operating table. Reed Osgood bent over the helicopter's engine compartment with a high-powered flashlight. Tom Morrison hovered nearby, clutching his clipboard like a life preserver while his wife Janet wrote quickly, head bent over her own legal pad.
