by Dani Pettrey
“Good.” She prayed that would be a healing experience for him and the widow.
He brushed the hair from her forehead and gazed at her with love. “Want to talk about what happened in South Sudan?”
She inhaled. It was time she fully shared it with another, and who better than the man she loved?
“The BBC hired me because of my work with the Post, and because I spoke Arabic and served in missions there numerous times during college and the years following. I was a journalist who already had inroads in the country and lots of contacts, along with a good cover in place with the mission group.”
She exhaled an unsteady stream. Here came the shame of it. “I was only there a handful of months when I met Asim Noren. He was a local who volunteered with Doctors Without Borders. I believed him to be a good man. He knew the area well and made an excellent source. That’s how it started.” She hunched her shoulders, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball.
He wrapped his arm around her, rubbing her back in soothing circles.
“He became my main source of information. We spent increasingly more hidden time together to cover the fact he was feeding me information. After a while . . .” She swallowed, her throat tight. “I knew it was wrong. I was a journalist and he was my source, but I thought I loved him and he loved me.”
Her skin heated with embarrassment and shame. “He was using me, feeding me false information. But I only learned that the day we were supposed to be searching out a terrorist cell that had set up camp outside of the village’s boundaries. We went so I could take pictures, so I could find out who was involved.”
Finn rubbed her back in long strokes as her heart raced. The terror—the adrenaline burning through her, her skin flushing as sweat broke on her brow and body—ricocheted through her as it had that day.
“I had no idea Asim was involved with the terrorists until he handed me over to the leader of the cell, who ordered him to kill me. Even after learning he worked with the terrorist cell, I was sure he wouldn’t hurt me. But he didn’t even hesitate, just pulled his gun on me without a second thought.”
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of the gun muzzle mere inches from her face and the hatred in Asim’s dark brown eyes. “I heard a gunshot and thought my life was over. After a moment of paralyzing fear, I opened my eyes to find Asim dead at my feet, a bullet in his head.”
She swallowed the bile burning up her throat. “SEAL Team 7 raided the camp that day. If they hadn’t been there, I would have been dead. If the Navy didn’t have a satellite watching the team and the camp as they infiltrated it, I would have been considered a traitor. They saw what happened, saw I was innocent, but . . .” Her muscles coiled. “I still crossed the line. I got involved with a source. And with the Navy’s footage of that day classified, rumors and questions about my loyalty swelled. The BBC promptly fired me, and no one would offer me a job . . . until Lawrence.”
He hugged her to him—his solid body nestled against hers. “No wonder you felt compelled to take the job.”
“That was part of it,” she said, nibbling her lip before looking him in the eye. “The other part was I was scared to be vulnerable again, to choose a man over my career as I had with Asim. I’d vowed never to do that again.”
Finn nodded. “I understand.”
She lifted her hand to cup his scruffy face. “You need to shave.” She smiled, thankful for the brief moment of levity.
“Every morning,” he said, cupping his hand over hers, holding her hand against his cheek.
Summoning the courage to continue, she cleared her throat and said, “I don’t . . .”
His brow furrowed.
“I’m torn. I love what I do, but I love you too.”
He nodded. “Let’s keep you safe and get Fuentes back behind bars, and then we can talk more.”
She nodded, knowing that was where the focus had to remain, and to be honest, she wasn’t ready to make a decision, though she knew her heart already had.
sixty-three
Xavier pulled into the ridiculously small town of Wilmington, where Gabrielle Rowley’s family lived. It’d taken a lot of searching and calling in of favors, but he’d finally found her, thanks to a phone call from a man who assured him of not only Rowley’s death—and a spectacularly brutal one at that—but also a fresh start for him. All in exchange for helping the Collector expand his drug trade. Xavier possessed the skills to do so and to make a hefty profit in the process. Fate had smiled on him.
He followed the directions the Collector gave him, parking his car far off the main road and following the river.
Biting flies landed on his forearms, and he smashed them with his hands, flicking what remained of their bodies to the ground. He gazed at the marsh surrounding him.
A boat’s motor hummed, idling by the old dock about thirty feet ahead of him. The man driving it signaled for him to climb aboard. It took him to another dock upriver, on the end of a peninsula. He stared at the ramshackle shed of a house.
What a dump.
Why would a man supposedly as powerful as the Collector live here? Probably to remain hidden. No one would think to look for a smuggling kingpin in this wreck of a place. He’d never have found him if the Collector hadn’t sought him out. Even with Xavier’s extended reach the man was a ghost.
The Collector smiled, knowing his men were about to pick Fuentes up. What a patsy. The fool had agreed to his terms for a stake in his business.
He took a sip of cuba libre, the ice jiggling as the liquid slipped down his throat.
As if he’d give anyone a stake in his business. People worked for him—not with him. But he’d said what he needed to say to lure Fuentes to his territory.
With Fuentes on the loose in the area, attention would divert to the fool from Raleigh playing the wronged drug lord out for revenge—giving the Collector time to relocate his operation. And if anyone died along the way, Fuentes would be the natural scapegoat.
No one would even know he existed. Like the puppeteer pulling the strings, he’d make everyone and everything move to his will, all while remaining hidden behind the curtain.
A satisfied smile curled on his lips.
It was a brilliant plan. One he couldn’t wait to execute.
sixty-four
Finn stood outside the single-story brick home with a black roof. He turned and looked at the giant oak tree with a tire swing swaying slightly in the breeze.
He swallowed, remembering the young girl standing beside her mother at the funeral. He’d attended, but from a distance, using another oak tree to shelter his presence. He’d refused to cause any more pain but needed to witness the totality of what he’d done—of the lives he’d destroyed by his failure.
There’d been no coffin—just a memorial square in a mausoleum where the people laid mementos and flowers at the base of the marble wall. It gave them a tangible place to mourn the loss of Stan Larson when his body, like Cody’s, had never been recovered from the sea.
For years he’d struggled to reconcile the beauty of the ocean, and the joy it brought, with the turmoil of its destructive power—with the anguish the sea had brought him and so many others.
The front door opened, and Finn swallowed at the sight of Margie Larson.
Her hair had changed from the blond at the funeral to light brown. She looked a little older but in a good, grown-into-her-own-skin kind of way. Her almond-shaped eyes locked on his, and after a moment of clearly trying to place him, recognition dawned. Instead of the hurt and hatred he’d anticipated and deserved, he thought he saw . . . grace.
“Mr. Walker,” she said, stepping out.
“Finn, please.” He swallowed, clearing his throat and the cobwebs of memories clogging it.
“Finn.” She nodded.
Her little girl, Kaylee, now school-aged, stepped outside. Her head was level with her mom’s waist. Her hair was longer, too, pulled back in blond braids. Her face was bright and dotted with a smattering of f
reckles, and she wore a blue skirt and white blouse—no doubt a school uniform.
Tugging at her mom’s navy skirt, she asked, “Who’s this, Mommy?” and stared up at Finn with a smile, a top front tooth and a bottom one missing.
Finn smiled. She was adorable.
He looked to Mrs. Larson, waiting for her response, anxious to see how she introduced him. Dreading it, actually.
“This,” Margie Larson said, resting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, “is the man who saved my life.”
Finn exhaled in shock. Had she just said . . . ?
He stood dumbfounded and rooted in place as Mrs. Larson placed Kaylee on the yellow school bus, waving good-bye as the vehicle chugged away.
She turned and stepped back to face Finn. “Want to come in for a cup of coffee? I just made a pot.”
“Thanks,” he said, still trying to wrap his mind around her statement and her kind reaction.
Margie held the screen door open, and he stepped inside, pausing at the family picture in the entryway of Mr. and Mrs. Larson and their daughter around age two—the age she was when standing beside her mother at her father’s funeral.
He swallowed, guilt washing over him. He’d destroyed another family. First his, then the Larsons.
She paused in the kitchen doorway. “Kaylee’s really grown, hasn’t she?”
He nodded, his eyes locking on Stan Larson’s in the picture.
“Thanks to you, I’m here to see her grow up.”
He slouched his hands into his pants pockets. “I’m so sorry your husband isn’t.”
“I am too,” she said, her appraising gaze studying his face. “You still think it’s your fault, don’t you?”
Here it came—the ugly truth. “It was my fault. . . .” He couldn’t save Stan Larson. He’d failed him as he had Cody.
“No,” she said, standing in front of him. “It isn’t. You tried your best to save him, despite the fact you were injured.”
“It wasn’t enough.” He wasn’t enough.
“You did everything you could. You rescued me under extreme circumstances—circumstances in which I should have gone down with that boat. I owe you my life. It’s because of you that my daughter isn’t an orphan.”
He looked at the kindness and gratitude in her eyes, and it undid him.
Fifteen minutes later, still reeling from the mercy and grace she’d extended during their short time together, Finn pulled away from the Larson home.
“My grace is sufficient for you.”
The Bible verse scrawled across the small wooden sign his mom had placed in every home they lived in as they bounced around after the divorce reverberated through his soul.
It had been so long since he’d felt awash in God’s grace, let alone his mom’s, who never once blamed him for not watching his brother better—for not doing more. Being more. Rather she, just as Margie Larson had done, had shown him nothing but grace—reaffirming he’d done everything he could. That the loss wasn’t his fault. That accidents, tragic as they can be, happen.
Maybe he really had done all he could.
A liberating breath filled his lungs, his body finally releasing the death grip of guilt and shame he’d carried for so many years.
He just had to make sure he kept Gabby safe. He couldn’t lose her too. The smallest fraction of a thought of her being hurt, of her being . . .
His muscles seized.
The mere thought was breath stealing. He couldn’t lose her. He loved her, which he’d known all along. The fact that she loved him back floored him.
sixty-five
Finn grabbed his usual quad macchiato on the way to the station. A call came in over his Bluetooth while he was still twenty minutes out.
Noah.
“Walker,” he answered, praying Noah wasn’t calling about another of Gabby’s escapades. When he’d dropped her off at her sister’s earlier that morning, she’d promised to simply ride along to the airport to be a comfort to Kenzie after dropping Mark off for his deployment. Then Kenzie was bringing her back to Noah at the station. He hated being away from her, but she’d be with Mark, a tough Marine, except for the short ride back. And, she’d insisted on being there for her sister. But he was counting the minutes until she was back at his side.
“Sorry for the pause. Hang on one more second. I’m getting some news,” Noah said.
“No problem.” He waited, bouncing his left leg, his right depressing the gas pedal a little heavier.
What news was coming in? If something had happened with Gabby, he wanted to be there as fast as possible.
“Sorry about that,” Noah said. “Had to take an incoming call.”
“No problem. What’s up?” His knee bounced faster.
“We just got clearance to dive the Calliope.”
“I’ll be there in . . . fifteen.” Maybe they’d finally get some answers to Noah and Rissi’s case.
“Perfect.”
Less than an hour later, Finn sat on the bow of the CGIS powerboat, waves bobbing in its wake.
He pulled on his dive boots and zipped up his suit.
Noah idled near the orange buoy the Guard had used to mark Calliope’s resting spot, anchoring about ten yards due east.
He joined Finn at the bow and got fully suited up—head-to-toe coverage for evidence protection, though Finn feared most had been cleansed away by the sea.
He gathered the metal light poles they’d erect by the wreck.
Noah anchored the rope they’d use for off-loading the necessary gear below. “We’re set,” he said.
Finn nodded, turning on his headlamp. He jumped flippers first into the sea. Water gushed around him as he dropped below the surface.
The weights secured on his dive belt helped him descend straight and fast to the seabed.
He unclasped and tugged the rope before swimming clear. “Clear,” he said over the comm.
While waiting for Noah to clip in and lower the first load of equipment, he turned in a one-eighty.
The stern portion of the Calliope rested five yards away, while the bow portion was three yards in the other direction.
“First load down,” Noah said, and Finn got to work off-loading. Ten minutes later, Finn had erected the light poles around Calliope’s stern, concentrating the focus on the engine room hatch and the ripped-open center of the cabin. He switched them on, illuminating the wreck as Noah approached.
“Good work,” he said over the comm.
Finn nodded his thanks.
“Let’s run the length of the deck first,” Noah instructed. “I’ll take port and you’re on starboard.”
“Roger that.” With his camera looped around his neck, Finn swam to the farthest point of the ship’s stern and started photographing what remained of the Calliope.
Bursts of light popped from either side of the ship. Smaller details sprung to life in the camera’s concentrated flash.
Finn stopped over the engine room hatch and signaled to Noah he was going in.
Noah responded with a thumbs-up as he continued his forward motion.
Snapping the first of three light sticks, Finn shook the glowing liquid throughout the casing.
He dropped the green stick into the engine room and repeated the process with the next two.
The room was now aglow in hues of green and yellow, and Finn swam into the confined space.
The first thing he saw was a ruptured nitrox tank tattered into shards of metal shrapnel. Either it exploded, starting the fire, or the fire exploded it. Either way, what was a dive tank doing in the engine room?
He swam up to retrieve a mesh evidence bag. As he crested the hatch, one of the long light poles swung toward his head. He ducked back into the engine room, his heart racing.
“Noah?” he called over the comm, his breath quickening. “Noah?”
Pulling his knife from its sheath, he swam out the interior engine room door, praying he wasn’t diving himself into a dead end. Thankfully, the interior entrance
wasn’t cut off. He swam past fish already claiming the wreck for a home and headed for the main cabin.
A few more feet . . .
At the base of the stairs a man in full black dive gear waited for him. Finn lifted his knife, and the man rushed him with a knife of his own.
Finn struck first, and the man bobbed just out of his reach.
He swiped back, and Finn ducked, lunging for the man’s legs, knocking him off balance.
He drifted back, and Finn swiped his blade at the man’s hose, slicing it in two.
The man jerked, grabbing at his mask. He sliced his knife through the water while he yanked off his mask with his free hand.
Marv?
Marv shoved his secondary regulator into his mouth and lunged back at Finn. Finn sliced, and his movement ceased as the knife jammed into Marv’s shoulder.
Blood floated in a red funnel cloud between them.
Marv kicked him in a debilitating place and, dropping his weights, swam out.
Finn watched him jet upward, quickly fading past the visibility range. His chest squeezed. If he wasn’t careful, he’d use up his own mixture before he surfaced.
Movement flickered to his four—another diver headed to the surface. He spun around, his gaze darting about for Noah.
He spotted Noah. His mask was off, no goggles on. Finn’s gaze tracked down. Blood streamed from Noah’s right thigh.
Please, Father, don’t let it be his femoral artery.
sixty-six
Finn handed Noah his extra set of goggles and Noah slipped them over his head while Finn kept guard, making certain no one else attacked. Noah had his auxiliary regulator in his mouth, but his leg was bleeding at a fast clip. Finn needed to get him to the surface now.
Grabbing a bungee cord from his dive bag, he fashioned a tourniquet. Signaling for Noah to keep his leg still—he needed as little blood pumping through it as possible—he slipped it around Noah’s thigh and signaled for the surface.
Noah nodded, and Finn moved behind him, the light from the light poles glaring in his eyes.