by Dani Pettrey
The bay door opened and he hooked into the cable. He lifted his chin at Dean. “Ready to lower.”
Dean nodded. “Lowering,” he said. Sea spray misted Finn’s face as he descended to the boat’s deck. The swipe of the copter’s blades swooshed above.
His feet secure on deck, he unclipped. Stepping clear of the cable, he circled his finger, and Dean retracted it.
Finn’s gaze fixed on a blood trail running the length of the port side.
Pulling his SIG, he cleared the deck, careful to preserve the evidence.
Once the full ship was cleared, he’d photograph the upper deck first to try to preserve the evidence before what appeared to be oncoming rain could distort or destroy it.
He stepped down the narrow steps into the cabin, his muscles taut. “Seavers? Fletcher?”
No response.
The metallic scent of blood assailed his nostrils.
The handle of the SIG in his left hand was cool against his warming palm as adrenaline seared through him.
Blood splatter covered the aft cabin wall, and a tacky puddle pooled beneath the overhead storage compartment.
He cleared the rest of the cabin before returning to the compartment.
With a sharp exhale and a spiking pulse, he opened it. Will Seavers’s body tumbled onto the floor with a thud.
Three shots to the chest and one to the head. Finn pinched the bridge of his nose. His friend was dead.
He swallowed. Poor Tess. Seven months pregnant and her husband murdered.
His chest squeezed. He’d had them over for dinner the night before last.
Pulling out his cell, he dialed Caleb.
“Eason.”
It was too surreal to say. Finn swallowed. “Will’s dead. There’s no sign of Fletcher, but his outboard is gone.”
“I’ll notify the Coast Guard, and we’ll start searching. You need assistance?”
“No. I’ve got this. I’ll put in a call to the ME and process the scene in the meantime.”
“If Fletcher is found alive, we’re going to need answers.”
“Yeah.” Like why he left his fellow guardsman alone. Finn didn’t want to even consider the possibility that Fletcher was somehow involved in Will’s death.
“We’ll head out with the search crew.”
“Good idea.” Slipping his phone into his pocket, Finn got to work. The way to honor his friend was to find his killer.
Notified he had a visitor, Xavier Fuentes was cuffed and escorted to the visitation area. Arturo sat on the opposite side of the glass. Taking a seat, he anticipated the news that Gabrielle Rowley, the woman who’d put him in this ridiculous orange jumpsuit and cost him millions, was dead. He picked up the phone on his side as Arturo picked up the other one. Arturo’s usually dark skin held an odd pallor.
Xavier took a sharp inhale before Arturo spoke a word. “You don’t have to tell me. I can read it on your face.” Heat seared his limbs as he clasped the receiver. Arturo had failed him. Now he had two to kill, and he knew just the man for the job. “Where is she now?”
Arturo’s face pinched, perspiration glinting on his forehead in the flickering fluorescent lights. “I don’t know.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You. Don’t. Know?” Imbecile.
“I followed her and her boss to their office building. No cars came out that I saw. Once they opened the building and lifted the garage gate for the morning, I went in as a deliveryman with donuts from the shop across the street. The receptionist said Gabrielle wasn’t there, but I saw her boss. Someone else must have taken her out the rear entrance of the garage, because I was watching the front all night.”
Xavier’s knuckles paled and cracked as he balled his free hand into a tight fist.
“I broke in her apartment, but she wasn’t there.” Arturo’s voice cracked. “I think she skipped town.”
He slammed the phone onto the receiver and left without a second glance at Arturo. With an outside phone call, he’d send La Muerte to Arturo and then to Gabrielle Rowley. She’d be dead within days.
eight
After a barely adequate rest period, Rissi once again lined up beside her competitors at the ocean’s edge. Warm water rushed over her toes. Broken seashells tickled the soles of her feet as they sank into the wet sand.
The whistle signaled the start of the swimming challenge, and without a glance in Travis’s direction, she bolted out through the knee-high sea to a depth where she could start her stroke.
Diving under a breaking wave, she swam freestyle deeper out to sea beyond the line of forming waves. The route followed Topsail Island’s coast down around the southern tip and up a quarter of a mile along the sound side to where the finish line awaited them.
Halfway through, Travis hollered, “Gaining on you!”
She kept her focus on her strokes and the rhythmic movement of her legs—up and down in small flicks through the warm water.
A hand closed on her foot, and her throat squeezed shut.
“Got you now,” Travis said. His deep voice . . . his harsh touch . . . his words . . . yanked her right back to Hank and the nightmare she’d survived.
Releasing her foot, Travis pulled ahead. Dizziness swept over her, and she rolled her head to the side for much-needed air. Gulping in an unsatisfying breath, she tried again. Why couldn’t she get enough air?
Hank’s hand clamped around her neck, his fat fingertips biting into her flesh.
She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to choke the air from her.
Everything darkened, faded. . . . His words grew distant.
Another voice echoed. Mason.
No! Tears burned her eyes. Not again.
Hank released his hold, knocking what air remained from her lungs with a fierce elbow jab to her chest. She collided with the kitchen wall, slipped to the ground, and gasped for a breath that wouldn’t come.
Her blurred gaze landed on Hank’s fist hitting Mason’s jaw. A splintering crack resounded as blood spurted in a fine mist from his mouth, but he refused to go down. Why did he always refuse to fall?
Instead, he widened his stance. Blood trickled over his lip, zigzagging around his chin dimple.
“You’re going to pay, boy.” Hank’s knuckles whitened, his hands filled with blue webs of swollen veins. He pumped his fists, his jaw tightening.
Two more days and Mason would be eighteen and he could escape this hellhole. He was the lucky one.
She’d been here nearly as far back as her memory stretched. She had two more years to go in the torture chamber that was her life.
Part of her hungered to fight back like Mason, but the small shamed part of her only wanted to burrow deep inside where no pain could reach her—at least not the true her. The one she let no one see, except Mason.
One day she’d be free.
As she took a deep gulp of fresh ocean air, freedom reverberated through Rissi’s aching limbs. Thanks to Mason’s courage, it had been sooner than she’d expected.
The day he left was the day she’d freed herself.
She tugged herself from the decade-old memory and kicked her stroke into high gear. What had to be another eighth of a mile passed. Her limbs burned as she rounded the southern tip of the island, moving into the sound side and into its brackish, muddied water. The shift from pure seawater into the mix of bay and ocean took adjustment, her vision in the water not nearly as clear. Rolling her head to the side, she caught sight of a boat speeding directly for her. A man in a navy blue baseball cap, with a wide grin, lifted a beer can toward her. Within seconds the boat was nearly upon her.
She dove under the surface, kicking down toward the bottom. The boat’s propeller spun above. The sound, like nuts and bolts rattling in an old coffee can, reverberated through the water as air bubbles popped. Her body shook at the rippling wake of the boat jetting over her—barely above the tips of her toes. She dove deeper.
Her hands hit the mushy sand on the bottom as the boat sped away. Short on
breath, she darted up to the surface and lifted her head above the murky water.
“Hey,” she hollered, waving her arms.
“Are you okay?” Noah asked, reaching her side.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just a little winded.”
Noah swiped water from his face. “I caught the name of the boat.”
“Then we’ve got them,” Logan said, reaching their side as Travis treaded water several yards away, as if he thought they might start up the race again.
A beach patrol boat that had been bobbing out at sea in case any of the competitors needed help raced after the white-and-red-striped cigarette boat, which was setting an erratic looping course.
Moments later, a second beach patrol boat idled nearby. “Wanna ride?” Tim, the head of Topsail’s beach patrol, asked.
“Definitely,” Logan said.
Once they got in, the patrol boat skimmed over the burgeoning whitecaps in pursuit. Rissi held her stance, maintaining her balance. It took a few moments, but they gained on the boat. The guy in the navy blue cap had his back to them. It looked like there was only him and the driver, who was definitely under the influence.
The whir of copter blades echoed overhead. She looked up to see the Coast Guard copter rushing across the ocean. Off to her ten, two Guard fast rafts with sirens blaring cut across the sea in front of the vessel.
The boat made a swift hard to port, sending the man in the navy blue cap toppling overboard.
The first of the fast rafts sidled up to him, and a guardsman dove in the water as his shipmate covered him with a gun.
The swimmer circled behind the man and directed him to the boat. He hauled him into the fast raft and held him at gunpoint.
Rissi passed by, meeting his gaze. His eyes darted from the gun to her.
The cigarette boat made another hard turn to port, and collided with a wave. The bow dipped under the water, stalling the engine. The soaked man at the helm held up his hands, and the guardsmen took him into custody. She’d enjoy booking the pair.
nine
The ambulance waited at the edge of the beach entrance, its motor running with a grumble. A white pickup with Beach Patrol painted across the length of its tailgate in bold red letters was parked on the beach. Two orange four-wheelers with patrolmen in red shorts and white tanks joined the grouping.
Rissi escorted the cuffed man who’d been in the blue hat, the cap now lost at sea. He struggled to walk straight, the smell of tequila and beer heavy on his breath.
She swallowed a gulp of air over her shoulder. The man reeked. She released him to the medics, and they assessed him for injuries. Noah escorted the man who’d been driving the boat past her, the strong whiff of tequila trailing behind him too.
Logan came up behind her. “You should let the medics take a look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not giving you a choice,” Noah said, handing off his charge to Cameron—one of Topsail’s best medics.
“Let’s go,” the other medic, Martin, said, flagging Rissi over.
“This is overkill,” she murmured but did as her boss ordered.
Sitting her on the edge of the lowered tailgate, Martin swiped a light across her eyes. “Pupils look good. How are you feeling?”
“Like this is totally unnecessary.”
“Word is you were nearly run over by the cigarette boat.”
“I made it down in time.”
“How far?”
“To the bottom.”
“Which is?”
“Thirty feet, maybe.”
“That’s a decent drop. It’s worth checking you out.” He slid the blood-pressure cuff up her arm and depressed the Start button. With a beep the lightly padded cuff swelled, the tightening pressure reminiscent of Hank’s angry grip on her arm, yanking her to be punished for her perceived wrong.
Heat rushed up her throat, encircling her neck.
Martin’s brown eyes narrowed. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Why?”
“145 over 90. That’s high.”
“It’s been an intense morning.”
“How is she?” Noah asked, coming up to sit beside her.
“She’s okay, but I’d recommend the base medic reevaluate her later today.”
Rissi dropped her head back. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s happening,” Noah said.
She exhaled, knowing she didn’t have a choice.
Logan strode up. “How is she?” he asked Martin with a lift of his chin.
“An obstinate patient, as usual.” Martin chuckled.
“Cameron is wrapping up with the men,” Logan said.
“Okay.” Noah rubbed his hands together. “Can you take them into the station? I’ve got Gabby and Rissi in my car.”
“No problem, though I’m going to have to clean my truck out after transferring two wet, alcohol-ridden drunks in it.”
“Both men failed the Breathalyzer test,” Cameron said. His black short-sleeve top and matching uniform pants had to be warm in the rising heat. The clouds in the west were holding off, and the sun was streaming across the stretch of beach surrounding them.
Beachcombers congregated at the edge of the scene, along with Noah’s family—concern etched deepest on his mother’s face.
Noah swiped his hand over his buzz cut, water flicking off. “I better go let them know everything is okay.”
Forty-five minutes after finding Will’s body, the numbered yellow markers in place, Finn photographed the scene.
With a weight in his chest, he struggled to ignore the fact that the blood he smelled was his friend’s.
The trajectory of the bullets, blood splatter, and damage to the body indicated the shots had come from close range. Had Will known his killer, to allow him or her to get so close?
And what did Fletcher’s absence mean? Had he left the boat before or after Will’s murder?
Exhaling, Finn studied the bloody handprint left on Will’s white shirt. The chest shots had come first. He hadn’t died instantly.
Father, please lead me to whoever did this. Let me, let Tess, see justice done.
Clenching his jaw, he followed the trajectory of the three chest shots to the aft wall, where he found three of the four bullets.
He photographed them, pried them out of their holes, and dropped them in an evidence bag.
He sealed it, labeled it, and coordinated it to the accompanying scene marker.
The fourth bullet was most likely lodged in the deck floor beneath the pool of blood. The chest shots had dropped him before the killer finished him off with a shot to the head.
The roar of a fast raft’s motor along with the smack of the raft against the water sounded nearby. Finn moved on deck to greet Medical Examiner Ethan Hadley and a guardsman he didn’t recognize driving the raft.
Hadley climbed the aft ladder of Fletcher’s boat, Off Fishing, with gloves in place. Finn had already dusted for prints but appreciated Hadley’s thoughtfulness.
Hadley’s aging eyes anchored by wrinkles looked into Finn’s with sympathy. “I’m sorry about Will, son.”
Finn shifted his hands into his pockets and nodded, never one for emotion. Not since the summer of his fourteenth year.
He swallowed and looked back at the cabin. He inhaled, his breath shallow, and released a weak exhale.
Hadley tipped the brim of his straw hat. He always wore it, sun or rain, and Rissi insisted it suited his genteel southern charm.
“In there?” Hadley looked to the cabin’s porthole windows.
Finn nodded and led him down the narrow stairs to his friend’s body.
Hadley moved to kneel beside Will’s body. “Poor man.”
A muffled call crackled over Finn’s radio.
He lifted it and depressed the button. “Walker.”
“It’s Sam.” His voice was garbled. “We found Fletcher. Alive, but unconscious.”
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Finn held the radio
away from his ear. “Was that—”
“We’re taking fire.”
“Sam!”
No response.
Sweat beaded on his skin. “I gotta go. Can I use your fast raft?” he asked, the Coast Guard raft having left to search for Fletcher.
Hadley nodded intently, and Finn raced on deck.
“My team is taking fire,” he hollered to the driver. “I need to get there ASAP.”
ten
Gabby rode in the backseat of her brother’s Jeep, having insisted Rissi take the front. With the temperature rising to seventy-eight degrees, she had finally started to warm up after last night’s ordeal, but the rain that had been threatening from the west looked to be moving in.
The wind riffling her hair, she settled deeper into the rear bucket seat and took time to look at her surroundings. She loved this place—loved the reeds swaying along the tops of the dunes, the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves, the sand skittering along with the breeze. The area held so many things she loved—her family, the beach, and . . .
Nope. She stiffened. She would not let her heart go there. Despite the relationship she and Finn had developed during her three-month stay in his loft . . . nothing could happen this time.
The position Lawrence offered at the Raleigh Gazette had been her only chance at a reporting job since the BBC fired her. Leaving Finn had been far harder than she’d imagined, and that was precisely why she had her guard in place this time. She couldn’t allow a relationship to cloud her vision. Her career had to remain the focus.
Reminding herself of that would help strengthen her resolve when she saw Finn. She had disappointed him. Who was she kidding? She took a stiff breath. She’d crushed him. She hadn’t wanted to, but she needed that job—and couldn’t risk her heart anymore.
She didn’t like the thought of living so close to him again, and yet it made sense. It kept her family as far away as possible, in case one of Fuentes’s men showed up. Finn wasn’t family, so it would be harder to trace their connection, and the way his property sat, they could see or hear anyone approaching from over a mile away.