Chapter 882
“I have a really bad feeling about this, Caroline,” Brenna whispered, her voice tight with genuine dread. “I had a nightmare last night. That we were all just… slipping. Like the ground disappeared under us.”
A cold sweat beaded on Brenna’s upper lip.
Caroline paused her inspection and squeezed Brenna’s shoulder. “Don’t let them get in your head, Brenna. We’ve been trained for this.” But a sliver of her friend’s unease worked its way under her own skin.
Across the room, Caroline noticed Melanie Thorne standing over her own equipment with a rigger beside her. Her right hand remained splinted, wrapped, and pinned against her chest in its sling, so she could not perform a full manual inspection. She used her left hand clumsily where she could, while the rigger checked the buckles, load-bearing loops, helmet lamp, and belay attachment under Sharpe’s hard stare. Still, Melanie’s eyes kept darting toward Caroline, a venomous, expectant glint in them.
She saw him before anyone else did.
K.C. Bell entered the equipment room, his movements silent and economical. He walked with a purpose that instantly drew every eye.
“Routine spot check,” he announced to the room at large, his voice flat, but he walked directly to Caroline’s station.
Caroline watched as Melanie’s face went pale. Her left hand, which had been resting on her own harness strap, froze mid-motion. A flash of something, panic, then a quick, feverish calculation, flickered across her features before she forced them back into a mask of composure. Melanie knew something. She had expected K.C. to show up. And the sight of him had shaken her.
K.C. knelt down without a word. With the practiced, efficient movements of a master rigger, he began to dismantle Caroline’s entire terrain kit. He checked the harness stitching, tested the load-bearing loops, ran his fingers over every inch of the rope lanyards, inspected the locking carabiners, examined the helmet lamp housing, tested the backup chem lights, and verified every keeper, clip, and connector point. Then he did the same for the gloves, blindfold hood, map case, compass, and emergency whistle.
Sloane stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, her face a mask of stone. But a muscle jumped in her clenched jaw. This was a public, calculated humiliation. A direct message from Jarrod: I don’t trust you.
After a thorough, ten-minute inspection, K.C. meticulously reassembled the kit. He gave a single, sharp nod to Caroline, a silent confirmation that the equipment was clean. Then he stood and left as silently as he had arrived.
Caroline looked back at Melanie just in time to see a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips. The panic from moments before had vanished, replaced by something darker, a quiet, venomous satisfaction that settled into the corners of her mouth. She looked almost pleased with herself, as if K.C.’s inspection had been exactly what she was waiting for. As if she knew he would never find what she had done.