Forsaken (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 6)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “No. Never.”

  “How can you be sure? He had an awfully nice boat.”

  “He worked hard for it. Bought it at a salvage auction after the last hurricane. He was constantly taking odd jobs or dive charters to get extra cash. No way would he be a drug mule.”

  “I believe you. But this is pretty solid evidence that he may have stumbled into something bigger than he even knew.”

  She nodded. Despite the warm sun, her teeth chattered. The storm had come closer. Clouds built and churned, mirroring her tumultuous mood.

  “Let’s get you out of the water.”

  India let Briggs help remove her BCD and fins. Ascending the dive ladder, her mind replayed everything. Her near-accidents following Turtle’s death. The hesitancy of the police to take action—could one or more of them be involved? She and Turtle used to hide trinkets in the coral cave. Her father had bought them matching treasure chests filled with plastic gold coins. They’d spent entire afternoons diving for them, pretending to be pirates. Was it possible her beloved cousin had a dark side she’d never seen? She didn’t want to believe it was true, but she wasn’t naïve. The island wasn’t the easiest place to make a living. More and more locals were being squeezed out by new landowners who had more cash than time.

  Turtle had been a rebel. Had this been his way of fighting back?

  Sitting on the bench seat, shivering beneath the oversized beach towel Briggs wrapped around her shoulders, she couldn’t get her mind to slow. The money occupied the seat opposite hers, staring, taunting, calling her stupid for not having guessed the connection sooner.

  “What are you thinking?” Briggs asked.

  “Everything. Nothing. Mostly, I’m furious. Turtle and I used to call the coral pocket where you found the cash our own private treasure cave. I’m sure a few other locals know about it, but I’ve never seen anyone else there. It’s too far out for tourists. But Turtle being involved in drugs? Knowing my sister killed herself from an intentional overdose? It’s too much. Beyond that—the implications are even worse. Police treated me like I was crazy. Like I may have played a role in Turtle’s death. What if they’ve known his killers all along? And now they want me out of the picture, too?”

  “How sure are you that the men in the trawler saw you?”

  “Not at all. On the ride out, I stayed in the cabin, making sandwiches. We ate, then hit the water. Turtle was excited to try his new metal detector.”

  “When you first went under, no one else was around?”

  “No. We were alone.” She told him the abridged version of how she managed her escape using Turtle’s tank.

  “After you told your family, what happened then?”

  “My father rode with me to tell police—my uncle was too grief-stricken to leave his house.”

  “Fair enough. You get to the station. What then?”

  “Haven’t we already been over this?” She rose, pacing the cramped deck.

  “Sorry. Humor me. You never know which detail might unravel the whole case.”

  She sat again, picking her left thumb’s torn cuticle. “My father and the local commissioner go way back—they’ve been friends since grade school. Because of that, we went straight to his office.”

  “When you told the commissioner, what was his initial reaction? Close your eyes. Zero in on every detail.”

  India did as Briggs asked, centering herself with a few deep breaths. “Honestly? Commissioner Blaylock acted the same as the rest of us. His eyes watered, looking as if it took great effort to hold back tears. He immediately said he would launch a search for the trawler—regardless of motive, they had no business chumming alongside a dive buoy.”

  “Did you hear him authorize the search—or just that he said he would?”

  “I don’t know? I mean, I guess he started it. The whole thing’s a blur. I remember him telling us after church the next Sunday that the boat hadn’t been seen on any local island. He suspected it may be from Haiti or the Bahamas. There’s no reason not to believe him, right?”

  “Yes and no . . .” Briggs winced. “I like to believe cops are the best of us, but some . . .”

  “Wait—so if the commissioner is turning a blind eye to drug trafficking, then he may be giving my family lip service? He never ordered a search at all?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How do we know for sure?”

  “We launch our own search. Granted, we can’t cover the whole island chain today, but we might get lucky and find the Pearl nearby.”

  Thunder rolled. Thick clouds covered the sun.

  “Now?” She missed Bridgette. Though India’s mom loved watching the baby, India preferred not leaving her for more than a few hours. “We should probably wait till tomorrow. I don’t want to get caught in this storm.”

  “We need to find out who’s behind your so-called accidents. The only way to do that may be tracking down that trawler. If we do find it moored nearby, that also tells us your commissioner can’t be trusted. We kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Okay . . .” She rose to get her purse from the cabin. “Go ahead and get started to Providenciales. I need to call Mom and tell her I’ll be late.”

  “Was she expecting you?”

  Yes. I never leave Bridgette this long. But she also knows I’m with you. “We had dinner plans. I’ll change them.”

  “Cool. Speaking food—got anything in the galley? I’m famished.”

  “When are you not?” She flashed a faint smile, recalling happier times. “There are probably crackers or chips. I’ll look.”

  Before she’d reached her phone, angry clouds opened, hurling rain and wind at the small craft. Lightning strobed the dark sky.

  India tried placing her call, but had no service.

  It was no big deal. Happened all the time on the islands—especially with power. So why did her entire body feel clenched? As if she couldn’t avoid impending doom?

  She glanced out one of the narrow port side windows to see nothing but a wall of water.

  But then wait—gaze narrowed, she checked again . . .

  What was that low, black object heading straight for them? Another boat?

  5

  “HOLD ON!” BRIGGS started the motor. The once calm bay now surged with white caps. The area was known for small uninhabited islands, so he headed for the nearest one—maybe a few miles away, planning to wait out the squall on the lee side. “It’s gonna get rough before it gets better!”

  He dodged the coral head where he’d found the cash, but only because he knew it was there, how many others lurked just beneath the surface?

  It would probably be an equal distance to head back to town, but he wanted to at least check Providenciales for the Pearl tonight. The storm would pass soon enough, and hell, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen way worse seas than this.

  Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed.

  The little boat rode well, he’d give her that.

  “Briggs!”

  “Yeah? Got any sandwich fixings? I’d be thrilled for a PB & J!”

  She ducked up from the cabin door. “Look to our port side. We’ve got company.”

  “Are you shitting me?” A black Picuda raced toward them at an incredible speed. A go-fast boat made entirely of fiberglass, they were a drug-runner favorite. Turtle’s single outboard ran at maybe 50hp. These guys? Triple engines for a total of 600hp. In other words, if their intention was a rendezvous, they’d get their way.

  But then twenty yards out, they stopped.

  And shit got real serious. Real fast. The rain had lessened, making the passenger clearly visible as he lifted a stainless-steel Remington. In his head, Briggs heard the action, then felt the rifle’s assault on the hull.

  Click, click . . . Boom!

  “India jump!”

  Click, click . . . Boom!

  “What?”

  “Grab a cushion and jump the hell overboard!”

  Click, click . . . Boom!

&nbs
p; Click, click . . . Boom!

  The powerful twelve-gauge decimated the hull just below the waterline. Turtle’s boat was sinking fast.

  “There’s a self-inflating life raft,” India said as the shooters vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared. She ripped the cushion from the bench she’d earlier sat on, tearing open the pouch, then tugging the inflation cord. A six-foot blaze orange raft appeared on the dive deck.

  “Good girl. Climb in.”

  She did. “What about you?”

  “I’m checking the galley for supplies. Bottled water. Food. A lighter.” Six-inches of water already flooded the teak decking, pouring into the cabin. But it also flowed up into the cabin from the ruined hull.

  “I’ll help! I know the layout.”

  “No,” he barked. But it was too late. She was already beside him, having tied off the raft’s affixed nylon rope to the sinking boat’s aft cleat.

  In tandem, they filled the small craft with a half-case of drinking water, four Gatorades, a few cans of Spam, beans and assorted soups, and five already opened, probably stale bags of chips he’d be damned glad to have had they not been rescued by sundown.

  They had bonus time to load shoes, shorts, T-shirts, and dive gear. Each put on fins, masks and snorkels before Turtle’s boat grew too unsafe to be near in case it produced a drag in the deeper water that funneled them down along with it.

  The storm had already passed.

  Sun glistened on the still rough water. Gotta love the tropics.

  Judging by shades of blue, Briggs guessed the ocean’s current depth to be at least a hundred feet.

  With the raft too full for them to ride, they each took hold of the aft end, using their dive fins to propel them toward the island that was now a mile away.

  “You all right?” Briggs asked.

  “No.” India’s burst of laughter was borderline hysterical. “We just had our boat literally blown out from under us. And if there was any question before as to whether or not someone wants me—and now, you—dead, I think that sent a clear message.”

  “It did. But that’s kind of a good thing. Think about it. Whoever is behind this may want you gone. Or maybe the real message they’re trying to send is for you to drop your investigation. Leave Turtle’s death alone.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re too close.”

  “Why not just shoot me? Why didn’t they just shoot him? Why go to all the trouble of setting up these accidents? Even today—waiting until the storm, until we’d reached deeper water. If I drowned? Great. It looked accidental. If not? I looked even crazier, right? Who’s going to believe what just happened?” There she went with her laugh again. “I don’t even believe it.”

  “I do.” He paused long enough to skim his hand over her back. “I’m not leaving till we get to the bottom of this and make them pay, all right?”

  “I’m starting to wonder if it even matters anymore? What good will it do me to catch Turtle’s killers if I’m gone? There’s so much more at stake than you know . . .”

  “What do you mean?” They were a few hundred yards from shore. He kicked harder.

  She released a ragged sigh. The sort of a person who had reached the end of their proverbial rope. “I can’t tell you here. Not like this.”

  “Okay . . .”

  They finished the swim in silence.

  When the water ringing the island was shallow enough for Briggs to stand, he removed his fins, tossed them in the raft, then dragged the craft through light surf to the sandy shore. They were lucky not to have drifted into open water. Or been sucked under by the sinking boat. There was a myriad of ways they might have died that afternoon, but they hadn’t. Why? Why didn’t Turtle’s killer want them dead? Could India be on to something with her theory that the killer wanted the issue once and for all left alone, but didn’t necessarily want her in her grave?

  Made sense. Sort of. But why hadn’t it applied to Turtle?

  The island was a tight-knit community. Someone knew what happened to India’s cousin.

  They also didn’t want their money flow to dry up. Killing her would only call more attention to themselves. But if she died in an accident? Win-win. She stops looking under stones and no more bad press revolving around alleged killers. Made sense if you thought about it—especially, in an economy dominated by tourist dollars.

  With the raft fully out of the water, Briggs dropped backwards onto soft sand. “What a day.”

  “No kidding.” She sat beside him, hugging her knees.

  “God, you’re beautiful . . .” He fell all the way back, resting his head on clasped hands.

  She glanced his way with a funny half-smile. “That was random. Thanks.”

  “I mean it. Nothing blazes a faster trail to a man’s truth than a dance with the devil and the straight-up truth is that since the day I left you, not a day has passed that I didn’t regret it. Every time you call, I—”

  “Briggs, there’s something you need to—”

  “No. Please, let me get this out. When I told you I never wanted to marry. To have kids. I didn’t tell you why. My mom was non-existent and my dad was a mean drunk. He was such a bastard. Kicking me when I didn’t get up fast enough for school—that is, when he remembered to wake me. Kicking made for a great alarm clock since my bedroom was a mattress in a corner of the living room floor. We lived in a shitty small town in Tennessee. I lost count of how many times I ran away, but do-gooders kept bringing me back. My only meals were free school breakfasts and lunch. Once I got old enough to sack groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, he’d come in on my shift specifically to steal. I always wanted to turn him in, but couldn’t. I figured I must have been as broken—as effed up—as him, right?”

  “Honey, no . . .” She leaned in, cupping her hand to his cheek, brushing stupid tears he hadn’t realized he’d been crying with her thumb.

  “I joined the Navy at eight a.m. the morning of my eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t wait to escape. And I did. A few years ago, I heard he died in a house fire. I-I was glad. W-what kind of monster does that make me?” Briggs sat up, legs crossed, hunched over, folding in on himself, mortified for India to see him cry. “I could never be a husband to you. Or a father to any of our children. You—they—would deserve so much more. That’s why I had to go.”

  He looked up to find India also in tears. “Stop. You’re an idiot . . .”

  “How do I deserve that?”

  “For saying you can’t be a father when you already are!”

  6

  INDIA COVERED HER mouth with her hands. She’d never meant for her most closely guarded secret to spill out like that. Upon realizing the kind of danger she faced, she knew she could no longer keep Bridgette a secret when her precious little life might also be at risk. But how could she have just blurted such life-altering news?

  “Wait. What?” Briggs’ gaze narrowed.

  “You have a daughter. Her name is Bridgette. She might still be a baby, but I can already tell she has your eyes and nose. That’s why everyone was so rude to you this morning—they don’t know I never told you.”

  “Why didn’t you?” As if popping up on a surfboard, he was instantly on his feet. “How could you have kept something like this from me? We’ve talked at least once a month since I’ve been gone. In that time, you were pregnant. In labor. Experienced dozens of milestones that can never be repeated.”

  “You said you never wanted to be a dad! Ever! Each time we talked, you sounded so happy—so enthralled with your damned security job. Who was I to interfere?”

  “Who were you? You were the woman I—” He stopped himself short of the words she’d always dreamed of him saying. You were the woman I loved. Her heart finished what his mouth would not. “I’m not believing this. Let me get this straight…if Turtle hadn’t died, if you and my daughter weren’t in very real danger, would you have ever told me?”

  “I don’t know. Please quit being angry and try understanding my point of view. How many
times did you tell me you’d never be a dad, Briggs? Five minutes ago you told me you weren’t fit to be a husband or father. So now you don’t get to play the outraged victim.”

  “I’ll be whoever I damn well please.” He stormed down the beach.

  She should have chased after him, but couldn’t.

  She needed time to collect her thoughts. Assuming they solved this mess with Turtle’s killer, then what? Where did she and Bridgette and Briggs go from there? Clearly, he didn’t want to get married. Would he want partial custody? Or would he be the kind of dad who only saw his daughter on her birthday and holidays? Maybe not at all?

  The thought broke India’s already shattered heart.

  Briggs had known he was a father for all of five minutes and already he was gone.

  But could she blame him for being upset?

  If she hadn’t known he would be, she wouldn’t have dreaded telling him for all this time. She owed him an apology. She owed him his daughter. But how did she do that while keeping any semblance of her normal life?

  Kind of a non-issue considering their current situation—stranded on a deserted island.

  Miles from the nearest help.

  Only enough food and water to last a few days.

  When she and Briggs didn’t come home, India’s parents would launch a search, and maybe tie in Turtle’s missing boat, but then what? With the boat sunk in deep water and about a hundred islands to search—only eight of which were inhabited, and that’s assuming they didn’t believe them drowned, who knew how long they would look?

  Long enough for them to stay alive?

  Hugging herself, India fought back not only tears, but a wave of panic. For the moment, she and Briggs were safe. She would assume Bridgette was, too.

  Consumed with crushing loneliness and fear and regret for having not told Briggs the truth about their daughter from day one of her positive pregnancy test, India ensured the raft was high enough on the beach to not be swept away by the rising tide, then slipped on her sandals.