“—heard something?—”
A sharp beep.
Another.
Muttered curses.
They don’t have the code or an authorized palm print.
“It’s locked down.”
“Override it.”
“I’m trying. The system isn’t responding.”
The woman relaxed a fraction—just enough that Wyatt felt the subtle shift in her body. She must’ve triggered an internal lock when she opened the door.
Smart.
The voices faded, and as the heavy footsteps retreated, silence returned.
She bit his hand.
Pain stabbed, and he jerked back, more startled than hurt.
Jesus—she has teeth.
He released her, and she spun to face him. No wrench this time—just fists, held as if she fully intended to use them.
“You’re Coast Guard.” Her voice was raw with accusation. Like she’d breathed fear for hours straight.
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
“We don’t have time for this?—”
“Our cleaning crew are the terrorists.” Her breath came ragged. “Why not the Coast Guard too?”
He swallowed a curse.Fair.
Trust was easier on a battlefield. Out here? In the everyday? He never knew what to do with it.
“I flew in on the Jayhawk. MH-60. My crew’s Bishop, Henley, and Rey. We diverted from a training SAR to pick up your medevac. Crew member with head trauma.”
She didn’t blink. Still calculating.
“One of them put a bomb on our bird. I ripped it off. My crew got out. I didn’t.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s the truth.”
“The cleaning crew smiled at me for six months,” she shot back. “Then pointed guns at my face today.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He knew the shape of betrayal. Wyatt softened his voice by a hair. “You don’t have to trust me. Just trust what I can do.”
Her jaw worked. Blood had dried in a dark line that reached her jaw. She was shaking—barely, but there. Shock. Adrenaline crash. Fear.
