“Yeah.”
“And they’re… good?”
I meet her gaze. “They’re paranoid. Which is what you want right now.”
Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Fantastic. Nothing says comfort like professional paranoia.”
“Stay close,” I tell her.
“I’m right here.”
“That’s the point.”
We head toward the entrance. The building is solid, heavy. Reinforced doors. Keypad. Camera lens angled to catch faces, not just movement. A discreet intercom. I punch the code and the lock releases with a soft click.
Rowan’s shoulders loosen a fraction when we step inside, like the barrier matters more than she wants to admit.
The main floor opens into a wide space that still carries the bones of the old cannery. Tall ceilings. Exposed beams. Concrete polished smooth. The boat bay to the left holds two rigid inflatables on trailers and a smaller craft lifted on a rack. There’s a dive locker wall beyond it, rows of wetsuits and tanks and gear labeled with names. The tactical gym sits on the right, mats and heavy bags, a squat rack built like it could survive a hurricane. Everything has a place. Everything is clean in that way that says someone here has control issues.
I work here when I’m not deployed with the US Navy as a SEAL.
Up above, a glassed-in loft overlooks the entire floor. The Bridge. Ops windows tinted slightly so the people inside can see out without being seen.
Rowan tilts her head, taking it in. “This is like if a CrossFit gym married a Coast Guard station.”
“Don’t insult them like that.”
She snorts quietly, and I catch it for what it is. A release valve. A woman trying to keep herself from cracking.
Footsteps echo from the back corridor. Calder Hayes appears like he owns the oxygen. Late-thirties. Tall. Built in a way that doesn’t scream gym rat but does say he can put you on the ground if he wanted to. Dark hair, calm eyes, expression set to “I have handled worse than whatever you brought me.”
He wears a fitted black long-sleeve with the Salt & Steel logo stamped small on the chest. Jeans. Boots. No visible weapon, which means he has at least two.
“Sinclair Hawthorne,” Cal says as he approaches. His voice is steady. “When do I get to have you working here full time?”
I laugh. “I’ve got a few months before re-enlistment.”
Cal asks, “And what are you going to do?”
I suck in a deep breath. “With the case with my father I’m thinking about sticking around more.”
Cal smiles at that. “Well, there’s always a full-time position here if you want it.” His gaze turns to Rowan. “You must be Rowan.”
Rowan’s smile is bright and automatic. “Hi. I’m the inconvenience.”
“You’re the client,” Cal says, and his tone doesn’t soften, but it’s not cold either. “That means you're a priority.”
Rowan blinks like she didn’t expect that. Then she nods once. “Okay. I can work with priority.”
Cal’s gaze returns to me. “Bridge is ready. Tech is standing by.”
“Good.” I gesture with my head. “Let’s talk.”
We move through the space toward the stairs leading up to the loft. Rowan stays close without being told twice. Her bravado is still there, but it’s quieter now, like she’s conserving it.
Halfway up the stairs, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Colt: Is she pretty?
