Page 16 of Crocodile Tears (Romance Expected Dating Service #2)
Cal
I spend most of the day trying to concentrate on client reports and failing spectacularly.
Every time I attempt to focus on security assessments for various corporate contracts, which don’t require travel or risking my neck, my mind drifts back to Rebecca’s laugh, the way she explained enzyme kinetics with genuine passion, and the unexpected electricity of that kiss against the brick wall.
This is exactly the kind of distraction Dr. Martinez warned me about during our last session. “Hypervigilance and romantic attachment don’t always mix well,” she’d said. “You might find yourself either completely absorbed in the relationship or overly protective to the point of interference.”
At the moment, completely absorbed seems like the more accurate description.
By noon, I’ve accomplished approximately nothing productive except confirming that my attraction to Rebecca isn’t fading with distance or rational reflection.
If anything, the memory of her bite—accidental as it was—keeps triggering responses that have nothing to do with threat assessment and everything to do with wanting to see her again.
I abandon any pretense of work and decide to take a walk through the downtown area. Fresh air, physical movement, and distance from my computer might help reset my focus. Or at least provide a change of scenery while I continue obsessing about tomorrow night’s dinner date.
The bookshop on Fifth Street draws my attention with its display of new releases on science and nature. I’m browsing through the biology section when I spot a thick volume titled Migration Patterns of North American Waterfowl and grin at the absurd memory of my goose genetics lecture.
Rebecca’s expression when I started explaining the connection between Canadian geese navigation and cellular regeneration was a masterpiece of scientific horror.
The fact that she didn’t immediately excuse herself and flee suggests either remarkable patience or genuine interest in my company despite my temporary insanity.
I purchase the book on impulse, imagining her reaction when I present it as a peace offering for my completely fabricated lecture on avian biology.
It’s probably too forward for someone I’ve had exactly one date with, but something about Rebecca suggests she’d appreciate the humor rather than be put off by the gesture.
The afternoon passes in a haze of anticipation mixed with the kind of nervous energy that usually precedes difficult assignments.
I’ve planned operations in hostile territory with less anxiety than I’m feeling about a simple dinner date.
The difference is that combat missions have clear objectives and established protocols while dating involves unpredictable variables and no backup plan for emotional complications.
By 5 p.m., I’ve convinced myself that surprising Rebecca at her lab would be a terrible idea that demonstrates poor boundary awareness and potentially stalker-like behavior.
By six thirty, I’ve reconsidered and decided that dropping off the book with a casual reminder about tomorrow’s date shows thoughtful consideration rather than excessive interest.
The drive to the university gives me time to practice casual conversation that doesn’t involve surveillance concerns or tactical assessments. I struggle to find normal topics for normal people who aren’t hypervigilant ex-soldiers trying to transition to civilian dating.
The campus parking situation forces me to park in the visitor lot near the main entrance, which actually works to my advantage.
I can cut through the faculty garage to shorten the distance to Rebecca’s building and get a better sense of the area’s security posture—not because I’m expecting trouble but because situational awareness has become as automatic as breathing.
That’s when I notice the black van.
It’s parked in the faculty garage with clear sight lines to the research building’s exits, positioned exactly where professional surveillance would establish an observation post. The windows are tinted beyond legal limits for civilian vehicles, and something about the way it sits in the parking space suggests modifications for extended operations.
Every instinct I’ve developed over fifteen years of staying alive in dangerous places starts sending warning signals.
This isn’t paranoia or hypervigilance. This is definitely the same van I identified during our date last night, and it’s positioned for active surveillance rather than passive observation.
I approach cautiously, using other vehicles for concealment while maintaining visual contact with both the van and the building entrance. My concealed sidearm provides some reassurance, but whatever’s happening here requires intelligence gathering rather than immediate action.
That’s when I see them forcing Rebecca into the van.
Six men in tactical gear move with the precision of professional operators, but their equipment and methodology suggest South American paramilitary rather than government agencies.
I recognize the specific arrangement of body armor and weapons from my recent work in Colombia.
These contractors operate in the gray areas between legitimate security and organized crime.
Rebecca’s partial shift is visible even from this distance.
Scales erupt across her skin, and her jaw elongates as her survival instincts activate genetic programming designed for exactly this situation.
She manages to make contact with one attacker before the specialized taser drops her like a stone.
I’m too far away to intervene directly. Even if I could reach them before they complete the abduction, my sidearm would be useless against their superior numbers and firepower, and I can’t risk hitting her in the crossfire.
The smart tactical decision is to gather intelligence and coordinate a response with appropriate resources.
I have to fight to do that because every instinct is screaming at me to rush the van and save Becci, whatever the cost.
The van disappears toward the main road while I’m still calculating approach angles and response options. It was a professional kidnapping completed in under ninety seconds, executed with the kind of precision that suggests significant planning and detailed knowledge of Rebecca’s routines.
I need access to the building’s security system and any information about Rebecca’s research that might explain why South American paramilitaries would be interested in a geneticist studying cellular regeneration.
The university’s security guard might be helpful, depending on his training and willingness to cooperate with someone whose credentials are murky, at best.
The main entrance lobby is empty except for an older security guard who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. His name tag reads “Frank,” and his posture suggests he’s seen enough strange situations to be appropriately cautious without being immediately hostile.
“Excuse me, Frank. I need to report a possible security incident and get access to the research building.”
Frank looks up from his crossword puzzle with an expression like he’s dealt with late-night academic emergencies before. “What kind of security incident?”
I produce my credentials, choosing the most impressive one from a carefully curated selection of identification cards from various private security firms I’ve worked with over the years. Nothing official enough to cause complications but impressive enough to suggest legitimate authority.
“My name is Calvin Hargrove. I’m a security consultant working with Dr. Rebecca Lawson on threat assessment protocols.” The lie comes easily, supported by enough genuine detail to be convincing. “I just witnessed what appeared to be a coordinated abduction in the faculty parking garage.”
Frank’s expression shifts from bored skepticism to genuine concern. “Abduction? Are you sure it wasn’t just—”
“Six men in tactical gear, specialized equipment, and professional execution.” I keep my voice calm and authoritative. “Dr. Lawson was forcibly removed from the premises approximately five minutes ago. I need access to her lab and the building’s security footage immediately.”
“I’ll have to call this in—”
“Frank, every minute we spend on protocols is time the perpetrators use to increase distance from the scene.” I lean forward slightly, projecting the kind of confident authority that comes from experience in crisis situations.
“Dr. Lawson’s life may depend on how quickly we can gather intelligence about this incident. ”
He studies my credentials again and then makes the decision that experienced security personnel learn to make when situations exceed normal parameters. “Building access requires keycard entry. I can get you to the research floor, but I’ll need to stay with you while you’re in the building.”
“That’s acceptable. We’ll also need access to security footage from the parking garage and building entrances for the past hour.”
“I can do that from the main security office.”
The elevator ride to the research floor gives me time to organize my approach to Rebecca’s lab.
I’m looking for anything that might explain why professional kidnappers would target a cellular regeneration researcher—research notes, correspondence, or data that suggests military or commercial applications for her work.
Rebecca’s lab is exactly what I’d expect from someone whose professional intensity matches her personal passion for scientific discovery.
Her equipment is arranged with methodical precision, her research protocols organized in clearly labeled filing systems, and there’s a general atmosphere of focused productivity.