"Ma'am, it's a Category 2 hurricane with possible upgrade to 3. The storm surge alone?—"
"Fine, fine. I've survived two divorces. I can survive a hurricane."
Diana Hartwell descends the staircase with the composed grace of a woman who has faced worse than weather. Her security posture is solid—stays near walls, lets me take point, doesn't argue about vehicle positioning. This is someone who's been through threat protocols before.
"Tucker," she says, settling into the back seat of the SUV. "How long is the drive?"
"Twenty minutes in normal conditions. In this wind, maybe forty. Roads are still passable."
"And the inn?"
"Solid construction, inland position, backup generator. It's the best option within range."
She nods, and I catch something in her expression—not fear, but a sharp, practiced alertness that comes from knowing her safety has become a logistics problem. It's a look I recognize from principals I've protected before, the quiet burden of knowing your existence creates risk for the people around you.
"I have my laptop," she says. "If we're going to be stranded, I might as well be productive."
Writers. Even in a hurricane, they're thinking about word count.
I do a final headcount before departure. Decker's vehicle has already left with four guests. My vehicle has Diana, the thriller writer, and?—
"Where's Monroe?"
Renee checks her clipboard. "She was in her room twenty minutes ago. Said she was packing."
The wind screams past the house, and a shutter tears free somewhere above us with a sound like a gunshot. I hand the vehicle keys to the thriller writer—who takes them with suspicious competence—and head for the stairs.
"Tucker, we need to move," Decker says over the radio.
"Two minutes. One guest unaccounted for."
Kassidy's room is on the second floor, corner suite. The door is ajar. Inside, she's sitting on the bed, laptop open, fingers moving across the keyboard at a frantic pace.
"Kassidy."
She doesn't look up. "One second."
"We don't have one second. Hurricane, remember?"
"The words are coming. For the first time in three months, they're actually coming, and if I stop now?—"
"You can write at the inn. Right now, we need to leave."
She finally looks at me, and her eyes are wild—not with fear, but with the desperate energy of someone who's been drowningand just broke the surface. There's color in her cheeks that wasn't there yesterday. The laptop screen is full of text.
"Kassidy. I need you to close the laptop and come with me."
"Five more?—"
The window behind her explodes.
Not all the way—the inner pane holds—but the outer glass shatters inward with a crack that sends us both ducking. Wind roars through the breach, scattering papers, whipping curtains into horizontal flags. Rain lashes through in sheets.
Kassidy screams, curling over the laptop, and I'm already moving. Training takes over—assess, protect, evacuate. I grab the laptop, shut it, shove it into her bag. Her suitcase is by the door, already packed. I sling the bag over one shoulder, take her hand with the other.
"Move. Now."
She moves. No argument, no hesitation, just her fingers tight around mine and her breath coming fast as we take the stairs two at a time. The house groans around us, wood and plaster protesting the wind, and somewhere distant, the sound of water where water shouldn't be.
