Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
The door opens behind us.
I turn, already tense, and see a familiar face framed by fluorescent light.
Dr. Lyle Hammond.
He steps inside like he’s been running. His coat is half-zipped, hair slightly windblown, worry carved into his features. When his eyes land on me, relief flashes across his face—quick, sincere-looking.
“Riley,” he says, and crosses the room with open hands. “Thank God. I heard you were coming back in.”
My chest loosens for half a second.
Then tightens again.
Because I can’t feel safe anywhere anymore.
“I’m here,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “I needed something.”
Hammond’s gaze sweeps the ruined lab, and his face twists. “This is obscene. This is a violation.”
“It is,” I say quietly. “And I can’t find what I came for.”
He looks at me with that mentor-dad concern that used to make me feel like I wasn’t alone in a world of sharp elbows and bureaucracy.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
I hesitate for a beat. Not because I don’t trust him—because I’m suddenly aware of Crewe’s presence behind me, the way his attention narrows when anyone asks questions.
Still, this is Lyle. He’s been in my corner for years.
“A hardware key,” I say. “Small. Black. It unlocks one of my offline backups.”
Hammond frowns. “A key.”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You never mentioned an offline backup.”
My stomach drops a notch.
“You didn’t know about it,” I admit, voice tight. “I kept it separate.”
Hammond’s expression softens. “Smart.”
Crewe makes a low sound behind me that could be agreement or suspicion. I can’t tell with him anymore. Everything about him is controlled until it isn’t.
Hammond reaches for my arm—careful, paternal—and I flinch without meaning to. Not because of him. Because of the last forty-eight hours.
He pauses, eyes flicking to Crewe. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” I murmur, even though it isn’t.
Hammond glances around again, brows knit. “If that key is missing, that’s… bad, Riley.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He studies the mess like he’s thinking, then looks back at me with something intent in his eyes. “There’s something I want to show you.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
Hammond’s gaze flicks to Crewe. “Privately.”
Crewe steps forward immediately. “No.”
The word is flat. Final.
Hammond’s expression tightens slightly. “Sergeant, this is internal to the program. It concerns her work.”
“She’s not alone,” Crewe says, voice low.
My pulse thrums. I hate being talked about like I’m a package.
“Crewe,” I say carefully, “it’s okay. Lyle’s—”
His eyes snap to mine. Not angry. Just… firm. Protective in a way that makes my chest warm and twist at the same time.
“Major Chen wants an update,” Crewe says, and his phone buzzes in his hand like it’s answering him. He checks the screen. “That’s her.”
He looks at me. “Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right outside the door.”
I nod automatically, because when Crewe Hawthorne tells you to do something, your body tends to comply before your brain can argue.
He steps into the hallway, phone to his ear, shoulders filling the doorway for a second before he turns away.
And the second he does—
Hammond’s hand closes around my elbow.
Not gentle.
Not paternal.
Firm.
My breath catches.
“Lyle?” I whisper, confused.
His eyes lock onto mine, and in that instant, something drops away from his face. The worry doesn’t vanish, exactly—but it sharpens into something else.
Urgency.
Cold calculation.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
My blood turns to ice.
“What—”
“Quiet,” he murmurs, and his other hand lifts something toward my side—small, quick.
I flinch hard, trying to jerk away, but my body suddenly feels… wrong. Heavy. Like my muscles have to push through molasses.
Oh my God.
My legs wobble.
My heart thunders.
“What did you—” My voice slurs.
Hammond’s grip tightens. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like he means it. “But you’re worth too much to leave here.”
Panic explodes in my chest. I try to scream—
But the air doesn’t come right.
The room tilts.
Hammond guides me—not drags me, not yanks me—guides me like a man who knows exactly how not to draw attention.
And that’s what terrifies me most.
Two men appear at the back door like they’ve been waiting in the shadows of the corridor.
Not military police. Not base personnel I recognize.
Their movements are efficient. Silent.
One of them holds the door. The other steps in close, grabbing my other arm.
I fight.
I do.
I throw my weight back, dig my heels into the floor, try to twist free—my elbow slams into someone’s ribs, and I manage a strangled sound that might almost be a shout—
But my limbs aren’t cooperating.
My vision swims at the edges.
“Stop,” Hammond says under his breath, like he’s talking to a stubborn child. “Don’t make this harder.”
I try anyway.
Because Crewe is in the hallway.
Because he told me not to move.
Because he’s going to come back and—
And I need him to come back now.
But the men keep moving, and Hammond keeps his grip like a clamp, steering me through the doorway, out into the corridor, head down, fast but controlled.