She turned to face him, chin up, offense as defense. "Are you tailing me? Because if you're doing surveillance, you're really bad at it."
He actually grinned. The expression transformed his face, made him look younger, less like a walking regulation manual.And not at all un-handsome. "Maybe that's what I want you to think."
The unexpected humor threw her off-balance. She'd prepped for conflict, not... whatever this was.
His expression sobered. "I saw you heading over. Thought I should explain—it's nothing personal that you can't be part of the investigation."
The words hit exactly where he'd aimed them. She wanted to yell that it was entirely personal, that it was her work, her reputation, her aircraft lying dissected in that hangar. Wanted to storm out. Wanted to hide under the nearest table until this nightmare ended.
Everyone in the café was pretending not to watch. She could feel their attention like heat on her skin. The local police chief and the mechanic whose maintenance work might have almost killed people. Tomorrow's gossip being written in real time.
They reached the counter. José took their orders, clearly ignoring the tension. When Cory tried to pull out his wallet for both orders, Izzy's card was already out.
"I've got mine, thanks."
A table opened up near the window. Cory gestured toward it. "Would you sit with me for a minute?"
Every defensive instinct flared. "Is this another order, like last time? Because I'm all about refusing orders right now, thanks."
"It's not an order." His voice stayed level, patient. "Professional courtesy. I'd like to pick your brain about the incident. Unofficially."
She studied him, running calculations. She didn't trust him—too much badge, too much protocol. But knowing what he was thinking could be useful. Maybe she could get some intel about the investigation, figure out what those idiots were missing.
Besides, she'd trained with the best. Ronan had run her through interrogation resistance until she could stone-face her way through anything. If pretty-boy small-town cop wanted to play twenty questions, she'd come out on top.
"Fine."
They moved toward the table. Two steps and she could sit down, have her back to a wall, get through whatever this was?—
A hand grabbed her upper arm.
Time slowed.
Her body knew before her brain caught up. Unknown hostile, making contact from her seven o'clock position. Male, based on grip strength. Civilian, based on the clumsy grab—no tactical training.
Options cascaded through her mind in the space between heartbeats:
Option A: Trap the wrist, rotate into him, drive an elbow into his solar plexus. He'd drop, gasping, in under two seconds.
Option B: Heel stomp to his instep while bringing her arm up and over, breaking his grip and possibly his wrist if she torqued it right.
Option C: Simple but effective—grab his thumb, bend it back until biology forced him to let go or deal with a dislocation.
Her muscles coiled, ready. She could disable him in a dozen different ways before Cory even processed what was happening. The knowledge sang in her blood, sweet and familiar. This she could control. This she was good at.
But—
Café full of witnesses. Cory two feet away.
She settled for jerking her arm free with just enough force to make a point. "Don't touch me."
The man—cheap suit, nervous sweat—took a step back but thrust out an envelope. "Ms. Reyes? You've been served, ma'am."
"You've been served, " he repeated, already backing toward the door like he expected her to come after him anyway.
The café's silence was louder than any firefight she'd ever survived.
10
