Izzy groaned. "I’m outta here." She turned on her heel.
Cory followed. "The hangar will need to be sealed. FAA will want it pristine."
Izzy stopped, turning to meet his gaze. "You're going to ask, so I'll save you the time. I haven't touched any of the fixed-wings in two weeks. Been focused on rotorcraft maintenance."
Relief bloomed in his chest, surprising in its intensity. "Good. That means you can help with the investigation."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You want my help? Mr. By-The-Book?"
"Until the FBI shows up tomorrow and makes it their circus," he clarified. "I want someone who actually knows aircraft looking at this."
"Careful, Chief. That almost sounded like trust."
He chose not to examine why her teasing made him want to smile.
They walked toward the parking area as the Cessna was loaded onto the flatbed, twisted landing gear pointing skyward like an accusation. Cory glanced back over his shoulder. Reed, Tom, and SBN huddling together, their voices carrying on the night air.
"Two aircraft in one week," Izzy said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. "Even if this is mechanical failure..."
"The FAA will shut Mountain Angel down," Cory finished.
She nodded, looking smaller somehow in the harsh airport lighting.
"We'll figure it out," he heard himself saying. "Whether it's mechanical failure or sabotage, we'll find the truth."
She turned to study him, something vulnerable flickering across her features. "Thanks for believing it's not me."
"I know it's not you." The certainty in his own voice surprised him.
They'd reached their vehicles. Her SUV still gleamed under the lights, pristine even after the chaos of the past few days. He wondered if she stress-cleaned the way some people stress-ate. The thought made him want to know more about her habits, her coping mechanisms, her?—
He cut off that line of thinking.
"Get some rest," he said. "I'll see you at the hangar first thing."
"Eight-thirty," she countered automatically. "I've got to get Chantal to school first. Have the maintenance logs ready for me."
"Copy that." This time he did smile.
She stumbled slightly on a patch of ice, fatigue and cold clearly catching up. His hand found her elbow automatically, steadying her.
"Thanks," she said quickly, pulling away. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"We're all tired." He watched her fumble in her pocket for keys. "Eight-thirty then. Try to actually sleep."
"Same to you, Chief." She pulled out her keys, turning toward her door.
Cory had taken two steps toward his cruiser when something registered in his peripheral vision. His brain processed it in fragments: Her SUV sat lower on the driver's side—imperceptible unless you were looking. Fresh disturbance in the snow underneath, not matching her footprints. A thin wire visible against the black running board—wrong color, wrong placement.
Time dilated, that split second of recognition stretching like taffy.
"Izzy, don't?—"
She was already reaching for the handle.
No time for words. Cory lunged, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled. He spun as they fell, putting his body between her and the vehicle. They hit the icy asphalt hard, his shoulder taking the impact, her surprised gasp warm against his chest.
The explosion came a heartbeat later—deafening, devastating, and absolutely intended to kill.
