by Dani Pettrey
“It’s about a half hour ride out to Dauntless,” Max said, “so sit back and enjoy the lack of view.” The moon slid behind wispy clouds, shrouding them in darkness.
Rissi relaxed into her seat and assessed the men riding with them.
“I’m Bob Stanton,” the latecomer said from the front seat. “Head of operations for Textra Oil.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
Mason leaned forward and shook the man’s hand.
“Chase Calhoun,” the man who’d been beckoning them to the copter chimed in. He was tall, with curly blond hair and deep blue eyes. He reminded her of a young Paul Newman.
“What do you do on the platform?” Mason asked Chase.
“I’m an underwater welder. Apparently, they are having some trouble with the risers, so I’m heading back out yet again to inspect them all.”
“Risers?” Rissi asked, unfamiliar with oil production platforms.
“The risers are pipes that connect Dauntless to the subsea system the drilling rig put in place for them to come in and start production.”
“You must hit some pretty good depths,” Mason said.
Chase lifted his chin with a smile. “My deepest without a diving bell is just over four hundred feet.”
Mason whistled. “That’s impressive.”
“You dive?” Chase asked.
“Some,” Mason said.
“Some?” Rissi shook her head. “He was a master diver with the Guard,” she said, having just learned that yesterday, but it fit with the man he’d become. She was learning who he was now, but somehow, she already knew him. It was strange how time worked, especially when it came to matters of the heart.
“Nice,” Chase said, resting his hands behind his head. “I’ve heard the training in the Guard can be brutal.”
Mason chuckled. “It definitely has its moments.”
Chase tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “I was told two CGIS agents were joining us.”
“I’m CGIS now,” Mason said.
Chase’s smile thinned. “You gave up diving?”
“I specialize in dive investigations.”
“Hmm . . . I imagine you see some interesting things on that job.”
Mason shook his head on an exhaled whistle. “I could tell you some stories.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing them myself,” the dark-haired man across from Rissi said. “Joel Waters.” He leaned as far forward as his strap would allow and extended his hand. Rissi and Mason each shook it in turn.
“He’s the man who’s going to fix my problem,” Bob said from the front passenger seat.
Joel’s jaw tightened. “You can’t fix a dead man.”
Bob shifted to half face them, his clasped knuckles white on the edge of his briefcase. “Mr. Barnes’s death was unfortunate, but we have a production platform to run. I need you to determine what happened and ensure we are ready to continue production.”
Joel shook his head with an exhale. “Right. Can’t let a man’s death prevent production, now can we?”
Rissi studied the man. If he was so offended, and it appeared he had every right to be, why agree to come along?
Mr. Stanton slid his glasses off and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his tan overcoat. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Mr. Waters. I’ve already said that Mr. Barnes’s death was unfortunate, and, believe me, I intend to find out what happened, but . . .” He exhaled, slid his glasses back on, and popped his handkerchief back in his top jacket pocket. “You need to step back and look at the big picture.”
He shifted his attention to Rissi and Mason. “In case you didn’t know, Joel here is, and Greg was, a safety engineer. I suppose it is rather ironic he died from a lapse in safety.” Bob snorted, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Very inappropriate of me.” He lifted his hand in apology but continued his hushed laughter under his breath.
Rissi stared at Bob. A man was dead, and he was cracking jokes?
Joel reclined, linking his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t a safety overlook by Greg that got him killed. Dauntless is cursed, and Henry’s wrath is just getting started.”
“Ah, come on.” Chase swiped his hand through the air. “Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense too?”
“You’re a fool for not paying heed to Henry’s curse,” Joel countered.
Not the curse again. “That’s the second time we’ve heard something about a—”
A ferocious roar cut Rissi off. An ear-piercing alarm shrieked, blistering her ears.
“What happ—?” Joel hollered.
The copter pitched into a nosedive.
Rissi lashed forward, but her restraints halted her free fall, knocking the wind from her lungs. She grappled for a breath.
Mason’s arm braced across her, trying to shield her. But she didn’t think anything could prevent what was coming.
FIVE
“Mayday! Mayday! We’re going down,” Max called over the headset as he wrestled with the stick between his legs, trying to level the plunging copter. “I can’t get her back.”
Rissi drew a sharp breath, but her panic eased when Mason lowered his hand to hers, clutching it as they spiraled for the sea.
“Dear God,” Bob shrieked.
“I’ve got you,” Mason said, his grip tightening on her hand. “Don’t let go.”
She nodded, pressure pinning her head back.
Twenty feet.
Ten.
Five.
Metal collided with water.
A bone-jarring jolt thrust Rissi forward, then snapped her back—her head ramming into a metal panel. Pain whirred in her ears, sparks flitting before her eyes.
A wicked crack zigzagged down the side window. She clutched Mason’s hand tighter. He was her grounding.
A splintering explosion burst through the cavity.
Mason lunged across her. “Cover your face!”
Water gushed in feverishly, rushing over her ankles and up her knees and torso.
Her throat constricted. Please, Jesus.
“Deep breath,” Mason said, his voice an anchor of sanity in the cold, dark void.
She jerked in a last gulp of air before swirling water swallowed her whole.
Mason gripped her wrist, tugging her to follow him. Something held her down, pinning her to her seat.
Think. You’re trained for the extreme.
Her mind settled.
Weight pressed across her shoulder and thighs—constraining her.
Seat belt.
She fumbled in the dark for the buckle, her chest tight.
Please, Jesus, where is it?
She fixed her right hand around the belt and traced it down to the buckle. Mason’s hand was already there, jerking the clasp, but it wouldn’t budge.
Stretching her arm and fingers as far down as they would go, she retrieved the knife strapped to her calf.
Mason held by her side.
Sliding the blade between her body and the belt, she jerked outward, and the restraint pressing into her chest released.
Lowering the blade to her waist, she slid it beneath the belt and flinched as a razor-sharp sting lanced her skin. Biting back a grunt of pain, she squirmed her way out of whatever was tangled around her legs.
Mason tugged her in front of him. She swam toward the shattered window, but the black abyss shoved back. A faint light flickered on the control panel. They paused, scanning the copter. The light was so dim she didn’t know how they’d see anyone, but they had to try.
A moment later, not seeing anyone, they swam through the jagged window opening. A burning sting pierced down the inside of her shoulder blade as they passed through. Intense pain radiated down her side, but she pressed forward.
Once free of the wreckage, she and Mason swam in the direction she prayed was up.
Bursting through the ocean’s surface, she swallowed a gasp of air, coughing and sputtering as it seared her lungs.
“Anyone there?�
� Bob’s pained voice echoed above the thundering sea.
“We’re here,” Mason called, treading at Rissi’s side.
“So am I,” Chase said. “Joel’s here, too, but he’s knocked out.”
“Max?” Mason shouted.
No answer from the pilot.
“Max!” Mason hollered.
Something swooshed past Rissi’s calf, and she stilled.
There it was again.
Her breath hitched, her gaze shooting to the water.
“What’s wrong?” Mason asked, his husky voice deep.
“I don’t—” Another swish, this time by her hand. Something coarse and . . . slimy.
Her throat constricted.
What was in the water with them?
SIX
Falling rain spattered Brooke Kesler’s cheeks as she raced across the tarmac for the orange MH-65 Dolphin medevac helicopter.
Climbing inside, she hopped into her seat, buckling in as the rotary blades sliced through the air.
Jason and Brad, two of the Coast Guard’s best rescue swimmers, aka aviation survival technicians, rushed across the tarmac. The open hangar’s floodlights silhouetted their broad shoulders and rescue gear: snorkel, helmet, face mask, harness—everything needed to help them hold to the USCG’s motto “So others may live.”
“Good team tonight,” Harvey, the pilot, said as the men climbed aboard and buckled in.
Brooke agreed. She couldn’t have handpicked a better team.
“Kesler? What are you still doing here?” Jason asked, folding a piece of gum into his mouth.
“Busy night. I offered to extend my watch a couple hours.”
“Again?” Brad tipped his chin up as a smirk curled on his ridiculously handsome face. “You need to get a man.”
Jason shook his head with a chuckle. “Oh, you did not go there.”
Brad leaned forward as the copter hovered up in the air. “I’d be glad to help you with that.”
“Oh. Do you know a real man?” she shot back in jest.
“Dang.” Jason whistled, laughing at Brad as he sat back with a chagrined smile. “You just got burned.”
“It’s all right,” Brad said as they soared out over the ocean, “one of these days, she’ll come around to me.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Brooke chuckled. Brad teased, but he was just messing with her. She didn’t take it personally. It was part of the brotherhood.
“That’s right, princess.” Jason laughed, elbowing Brad in the ribs. “Man, next time you come to a battle of wits, you might want to come armed.”
“Is that right?” Brad pinched Jason’s shoulder.
Jason shrugged him off, jabbing him in the shoulder.
Brooke just shook her head at boys being boys and stared out at the thrashing sea below as the gravity of their mission fastened back in her mind.
“What do we have?” Jason asked Harvey.
“A Textra Oil company copter went down four minutes ago. The pilot called in a Mayday. Radio silence within seconds.”
“How far out?” Brad asked.
“Twenty-two miles. They were en route to Dauntless.”
Rain pinged off the copter’s windshield—slow at first then increasing in intensity.
“All right, folks,” Jerry, head of Air Station, Wilmington’s air traffic control, cut into the comm, “we’ve got a manifest. Pilot Max Schaffer and five passengers. Oh no . . .”
Brooke stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
“There are two CGIS agents on board.”
Brooke lurched forward. “Who?”
“Agents Dawson and Rogers.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Not Rissi . . . She didn’t recognize the other name, but she’d heard they had a new agent. Must be him. They had to reach them in time.
“Jesus, please . . .” was all Rissi could mutter. Something slithered along her back, circling around the front of her. Her salt-burned throat constricted as another one slipped between her legs.
There were two of them?
The dim moonlight finally peeking out from the mottled clouds gave her enough light to see movement gliding around them . . . everywhere.
Another squirmed through her treading legs, something hard scraping her shin.
How many of them were there, and—she swallowed, pain scraping down her raw throat—what were they?
Rain pounded in the churning sea—causing rings to ripple out amidst the movement just beneath the surface.
“Just stay as still as you can,” Mason said, barely treading beside her. Instead, he looked as if he were sitting on a chair that didn’t exist.
“What is that?” Bob hollered.
Rissi squinted in the direction of his voice and made out his flailing figure about fifteen yards to their twelve.
“Stop acting like a pansy,” Chase said to their six. Rissi glanced over her shoulder. Chase lay in a reclined back float, Joel positioned unconscious across his chest.
“Is Joel okay?” she called.
“He’s breathing, but it’s labored.”
“Coast Guard rescue should be here soon,” she said, reassuring herself as much as Chase.
“They’re taking their time about it,” Chase grunted.
It’d been less than a handful of minutes. They’d be there soon. She held on to that. She could tread water as long as she needed to, but not knowing what was surrounding her was terrifying.
“Whoa!” Bob squealed.
“That’s not going to help. You’re just going to stir them up,” Chase said.
“Them?” she asked.
“Stingrays,” Mason said a second before Chase did.
Of course. Migration season.
“They are harmless . . . most of the time,” Mason said.
“It’s the ‘most of’ part I’m concerned about,” Bob clipped out. “I saw what happened to Steve Irwin.”
Horribly sad. But, man, he’d been an inspiration to Rissi. Steve Irwin was a man who lived life to the fullest, pursuing the passion of his soul—his family and wildlife conservation.
Noah draped his arm over the back of his seat at Dockside. It was getting late, but he was enjoying the comradery of his teammates—well, those present. Caleb’s tense jaw when Noah had assigned the Dauntless investigation to Rissi and Mason spoke volumes, but Caleb had to get used to Mason being part of the team. And pairing the two made the most sense. Rissi was a stellar profiler who could read nonverbal clues in a way he’d never seen. And Mason had come highly recommended. Noah wanted to see what he could do. He liked how the man carried himself, though Mason’s superior in Kodiak said that while he’d never worked with a braver man, Mason’s penchant for pushing his limits when another’s life was at stake caused him to hold his breath more than a time or two.
Noah’s phone vibrated as “Sweet Home Alabama” played. He shifted, once again pulling it from his jeans.
He glanced at the number. Air traffic control. The hairs on the nape of his neck pricked. “Rowley.”
“It’s Brooke Kesler, Coast Guard medic.” The patch-through was crackly—her voice only clear in spurts.
“Hi, Brooke.” Noah pinched the bridge of his nose, painfully awaiting her next words. Please don’t let this be going where I think it is.
“The copter Rissi and Agent Rogers were on went down into the ocean. We’re six minutes out. I knew you’d want to know.”
His stomach plummeted. “Thanks for calling. Can you keep me posted?”
“Will do. And . . . I’m sorry.”
The call dropped. He looked up to find the team staring at him.
“What’s wrong?” Emmy asked, eyes wide.
Noah exhaled, his muscles tightening as adrenaline shot through his veins. These were the moments he wished he wasn’t the one in charge. “The copter Ris and Mason were on went down.”
Caleb’s face paled. “When? Where?”
“Coast Guard rescue is en route. Brooke Kesler’s the medic aboard. She said she�
��ll keep us posted.”
SEVEN
A bright light flashed across Rissi’s face. Instinctively turning her head, she blinked back the spots.
“Finally!” Chase rumbled.
Exhaling the pent-up tension riddling her body, Rissi stared back in the light’s direction. She looked up to see the Coast Guard’s helicopter but found only the starless black sky and silence overhead.
The hum of a boat’s motor reached her ears as an outboard raft bounded toward them, smacking up and down along the ocean’s choppy surface.
A second light flicked on, spreading its beam over the black surface, fully illuminating the gliding movement surrounding them.
Stingrays, as Mason had said.
Relief it wasn’t a bed of eels or a shark filled her. Then the reality that numerous stingrays with barbed venomous stingers were circling her kicked the anxiety back in.
The lights grew bigger and brighter until they glared in her eyes. She lifted her hand.
“They won’t hurt you,” a man in the raft said as it idled beside them. Tall with curly strawberry-blond hair and a smattering of whiskers on his chin, he bent with outstretched hand. “Let’s get you out of that water.”
Hands gripped her underneath her armpits, and she was heaved upward. Mason planted his hands on her hips and lifted as the man pulled. Her back arched over the rounded raft edge, and with a wince at the pain streaking through her right side, she tumbled onto a damp, rubber surface.
She stared up at a second man kneeling over her. Dark, straight hair, intense eyes, and a handful of years younger than the first man. “I’m Nate,” he said. “And this”—he pointed at the man who’d pulled her in—“is Trevor.”
“Rissi,” she said. “Thank you.” Air seared her lungs as she waited for Mason to climb into the raft after her. What was taking him so long? He treaded water off the outboard’s port side. How could he tread so easily, looking like he was barely moving?
“Hand me one of your floodlights,” Mason said to Nate.
“Okay.” Nate handed it over.
Mason swept the light across the churning sea. He spun in a three-sixty. Then a second time . . . slower. “Come on . . . come on!”