All That Glitters in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

CRUZ

U ndisclosed Location

Six Years Ago

The water is dark—dense and quiet, like slipping into another world. No moonlight down here, just my dive light casting a shaky halo and the buzz of comms in my ear. My pulse is steady, but I can feel the edge. Adrenaline hums just under the surface, waiting.

I check my gauge. Depth: 82 feet. Oxygen’s good. We’re on schedule—at least by the clock. But this mission? It’s slipping sideways fast. Wrong current, wrong timing, wrong everything.

“Devlin, I’ve got eyes on the target,” Remy says over comms. He’s just ahead, threading through the rusted-out frame of a downed recon drone.

I sweep my light across it. Coral has taken over the metal like vines on a forgotten statue. This was supposed to be clean—standard recovery, no contact, in and out. But someone missed a patrol boat sweeping the area. Now we’ve got limited oxygen and limited options.

“Copy,” I say. “I’m coming through.”

Remy flashes a hand signal—classic him, smooth and cocky. Liquid Lightning, he likes to call himself. I call him a pain in the ass. A fast, fearless diver with a mouth that never stops. But solid. Always solid.

I slide in behind him, ducking under twisted beams and drifting sand. The wreck groans faintly with the tide, like a ghost exhaling. I’ve done this kind of dive a hundred times, but something about tonight feels… off. Quiet in the wrong way.

Then I hear it—a sound that doesn’t belong. A sharp clank. Metal on metal. My light darts forward. Remy stops moving.

“Remy?” I say, sharp now.

No answer.

I move faster, close the gap—and then I see him. Floating wrong. Not bleeding. Not broken. But still. Just still.

I get to him, hands on his frog gear. He’s breathing, shallow and slow, eyes wide behind his mask but alert. Something clipped him—maybe a beam came loose, maybe the current knocked him into the wreck. It doesn’t matter. He’s not hurt badly, but he’s rattled. Bad enough to lose focus. Bad enough that he freezes up.

I haul him back through the wreck, both of us moving slowly, carefully. When we surface, he tears off his mask and gasps like he’s never breathed air before.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods. But his hands shake.

We both know what that means. You can train for danger, condition yourself to ignore fear. But sometimes it finds a crack. Remy’s done. Not because he’s weak—but because he finally felt the edge.

And me? Watching him freeze like that... I feel something shift. Not fear. Not failure. Just clarity. This isn't a game anymore. Not a job. Not a calling. It's survival, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm doing it for the right reasons.

Three weeks later, I turn in my gear and walk off the base at Coronado. Nobody believes it. Not at first. But I know… I’m done. I don’t look back.

No fanfare. No salute. No brotherhood. Just silence and salt air. And a single file folder with the words HONORABLE DISCHARGE printed across the top.

I use my pension and a chunk of old savings to buy a 40-foot sailboat docked in Key Largo. She’s a little battered, a little temperamental. Like me.

I name her Serenity .

* * *

The Gulf of Mexico

Six Months Later

I’m anchored near the Dry Tortugas when the producer finds me.

He comes by on a rented speedboat, the engine too loud, his sunglasses too reflective, like he’s trying to blind the ocean. He wears designer board shorts and a linen button down he’s never sweated through. Teeth too white to be trusted.

“Mike Rawley,” he says, stepping on board my boat, extending his hand. I ignore it. “Commander Devlin…”

“I’m not with the Navy anymore. Cruz will do.”

He nods. “Understood. I came across a military blog called ‘Where Are They Now?’ and saw the picture of you and your beautiful boat. I’m working on a new reality TV series about diving for sunken treasure and thought you’d be perfect. You’ve got the background, the track record and God knows you’ve got the looks.”

“Your point?”

“Let me put it like this… I can make you a star.”

“I don’t want to be a star…” I say, turning away.

“How about I can make you rich?”

I stop, turn, and grin at him. “I could handle rich…”

Mike launches into his spiel and the next thing I know, he’s rattling off potential names for the series and thus From SEAL to Salvage: The Rogue Diver is born.

It isn’t just the money, although that certainly sounds good, but the idea of being able to make a living diving for treasure, living on my boat and sailing all over the world with all of my expenses covered, and a guaranteed base salary holds a lot of appeal. I figure if it lasts for one season—hell, one dive—it’ll be good.

Turns out, Mike was right. I become a brand and find myself getting expensive haircuts and lifting a lot of weights to keep my washboard abs and muscular arms and legs in camera-ready shape. I have the Serenity mostly to myself as the camera crew has their own boat that follows me. It’s kind of a lark, but I put in my time as a SEAL. It may be a bit superficial, but it’s not a bad way to make a living… not bad at all.

* * *

RYAN

"I can't believe you're doing this," screeches my kid sister Emma as she bursts into my office, followed by my assistant.

"It's okay Hailey," I say, waving my assistant off. "Emma is kind of a force of nature. You'd do just as well to stand at the edge of the dock and shout at a hurricane."

I was halfway through Crystal Evans' guest lecture at Caltech when Emma burst into the shared office space Candace and I renovated from one of the old dockside warehouses.

We gutted the place last spring and turned the entire ground floor into sleek glass-walled offices with a shared conference space in the middle and a wall-to-wall view of the harbor you can't ignore even if you try. We live upstairs now—Candace insisted on high ceilings and open beams—and I have to admit, it’s the best move we ever made. She's out at one of the redevelopment sites today.

I'm in here, deep in my secret research on the Mar Azul ring, when Emma barges in like I’ve just lit something on fire.

Flopping down in one of my chairs, she glares at me. “You’re really going to send Cruz Devlin to chase the Mar Azul ring so you can use it to propose?”

I don’t look up from my laptop. “Correct.”

“Cruz Devlin; the television star."

"Former SEAL."

"You say tomato... and you’re pairing him with a woman he’s never met. A historian you found online.”

“She’s not just any historian,” I say, clicking through another article. “She’s the top of her field. Crystal Evans has published in Maritime Quarterly and dismantled two major pirate hoaxes before she turned twenty-five.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “You mean the Crystal Evans I’ve followed on social media for three years? The one who shuts down conspiracy theorists in the comments and picks apart 18th-century naval logs for fun?”

“That’s the one.”

Emma blinks. “You’ve been stalking her.”

“Researching,” I correct.

She makes a noise that says she doesn’t buy it for a second. “Again, tomato. So let me get this straight. You're sending Cruz to retrieve a legendary ring for your proposal to Candace, and you’re pairing him with a woman you’re secretly hoping will... will what? Make him seem less of a player? Make him less... feral?”

I lean back in my chair, glancing at my laptop as Crystal gestures through her talk like the stage belongs to her. Passionate. Exacting. Zero tolerance for nonsense.

“She’s brilliant. Grounded. Won’t give a damn about Cruz’s charm. Exactly what he needs.”

Emma gives me a knowing look and snorts. “So this is a double play. You get the ring. Cruz gets... emotionally cornered by a woman who won’t fall for his alphahole routine.”

“Efficient project management,” I say.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re insane. Is this another one of your save the world through matchmaking schemes? What happens when they kill each other?”

I grin. “I've already negotiated that with his show’s producers. In exchange for underwriting all the expenses for both Cruz and Dr. Evans, I get the rights to the footage. Regardless of what happens, I win.”

Emma rolls her eyes, muttering something about SEALs, big brothers and their ridiculous matchmaking tactics, and walks out. I glance back at the screen.

Crystal Evans is exactly what this mission—and Cruz Devlin—needs. And if the ring ends up on Candace’s finger when this is over, all the better.

Let the games begin.

* * *

CRUZ

Somewhere in the

Mediterranean Sea

Present Day

“Yo, Cruz,” calls Denny, my chief cameraman. “Got a cable for you.”

He leans out over the railing of the crew ship and passes it to me.

Cruz,

La Reina de Oro is lying off Pelican Point.

It’s not signed.

“Denny, who’s it from?”

“Unknown. Mike got it up in the New York Office and said you two had talked about it.”

I nod. “We’re about three weeks out. We’ll stop for supplies and get underway. Tell Mike to meet us in Pelican Point, Florida.”

Let the cameras roll…