“Yep. I’ll take whatever I can get. You got someone?”

It wasn’t a particularly surprising question, given I stayed behind. There were websites dedicated to how hard it was to have a relationship at the Naval Academy. To not go out when given the chance meant I wasn’t even trying.

“No. No point.” And I’d meant it. My plans aimed high. I wanted missions. Relationships weren’t on my radar.

“You say that. But when you meet the one, you’ll feel differently. Trust me. Cassie changed my world.” He smiled. I had the sense he’d say more, but the path split. “Hang tight, Wolfman. You ever need me, call.”

I never called. Also never found someone to change my world. But I sure as hell planned to be there for Sullivan when he called me.

His daughter could have run for any number of reasons. The reason didn’t matter. He wants to find her. He wants her safe at home.

I check the time. Jack’s family friend apparently holds no appreciation for timeliness. I’d expect more from a professor. Ten minutes late. That’s ten minutes I could have used in the office or we could use to find Sophia.

Trevor called her hot. Hot is a subjective term. Her tardiness shifts my skepticism in her qualifications to a suspicion she will be a vexing operational component.

Objectively speaking, the tall woman is attractive. If I met her randomly at a bar, she might catch my eye. My type, if I have one, is typically curvier. Not quite as tall and rail thin as Dr. Rolfe. But some men go for the waif, supermodel type. She could be Sullivan’s type.

In our meeting, she had been serious and focused. Admittedly, her notetaking bordered on obsessiveness, and the activity struck me as typical of a novice. I did some light online research after the meeting. She holds a degree from Oxford and a university in Ireland.

I didn’t do additional research, as I don’t need to know more about her. I don’t need to give her any thought. As long as she doesn’t hinder us, like she is doing at this exact moment, then she can hold Sullivan’s hand while we locate his daughter.

The hum of a combustion engine catches my attention. A shiny, light blue Volkswagen Bug tears into the gated entrance. The car whips haphazardly around one hangar, tires spinning loose gravel in its wake.

The driver drives like a bat out of hell, dangerous and out of control. I cross my arms, suspecting I know the driver. The blue Bug spins onto the narrow runway, and my blood pressure spikes.

No one should be so obtuse as to drive on a runway.

I raise one arm in the air to flag the asshole down.

The driver wears sunglasses, but her dark mane and height in the car confirm my suspicions.

The vehicle halts mere feet in front of me, and the engine stops. The door opens, and before one foot hits the ground, I grit out, “No.”