Chapter 8
8
CRUZ
T he boardwalk creaks behind us as we head back to Serenity, Crystal’s hand tucked in mine, her silence clinging to the space between us like fog. Not the kind that says she’s pissed—no storm brewing in her jaw, no clipped sass on the tip of her tongue. This is different. This silence is hollowed out and heavy, shaped like the shadow of a narrow escape. I know it. Too well. It’s the kind that sits in your chest after the dust clears and you realize how close you came to never walking away.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low, steady. Like I’m not two seconds from losing my mind that she almost didn’t make it out.
She nods, but it’s automatic, reflexive. Her grip on my hand tightens, just slightly. "Yeah. Just... processing."
I let her have the silence a bit longer, but not too long. Not when she keeps glancing over her shoulder like the shadows are whispering her name.
"You were lucky," I say quietly.
Her laugh is hollow and sharp. "Yeah, well. Luck’s just probability wearing a mask, right?" She lifts her hand to brush her hair back, but it’s shaking. She shoves it into her hoodie pocket instead.
"That was no accident," I say, slowing our pace as Serenity comes into view. "That rig was meant to collapse."
She swallows hard. "I know. I felt it. Just… the way it gave, the way it waited. It wasn’t natural."
"Which means someone knew you’d be there."
She stops walking, turns to face me. "So what do we do? Hide? Run?"
"No," I say. "We prepare."
Back at the boat, I break off from her, trying not to look like I want to wrap her in every kind of protection I can offer and never let her out of arm’s reach. Instead, I get to work. Trail cams go up fast—covering the dock, the approach paths, and the gear boat slip. I add infrared to one, motion-triggered alerts to another, the paranoid kind of setup that only comes from experience and knowing exactly how fast things can go sideways.
Crystal perches on the edge of Serenity’s stern, silent but watching. Not interfering, just… present. Sharp eyes cataloging everything.
Denny shows up a few hours later, drone case under one arm, his posture stiff in a way that screams something’s wrong. He doesn’t greet us with a joke or a smirk—just a nod and a clipped, "Got footage for you." He leads me inside, opens the laptop, fingers flying. "Didn’t want to say anything until I cleaned it up. Been up all night. Watch."
Grainy footage fills the screen—a drone’s-eye view, shot in infrared. The marina at night, eerily quiet. Then, movement. A figure in a hoodie, slipping through the shadows like a ghost with purpose.
I lean in. Heart rate ticks up. Gait’s familiar. Slouched. Deliberate. Left foot drags ever so slightly.
"Slow it down," I say.
Denny does. Frame by frame. Closer. Clearer.
Shit.
Crystal comes up behind us, breath catching. "Who is that?"
I don’t answer right away. Because I already know. Even before the screen sharpens, even before the resolution cleans up the grain into a silhouette that guts me with recognition.
Remy.
"Someone I used to trust," I say finally, eyes glued to the screen. "Someone who thinks he’s got something to prove."
Her voice tightens. "That’s him? The one you pulled out of the wreck?"
I nod. "Yeah. And he’s not just watching anymore. He’s here to finish something."
The footage shows Remy pausing near the gear boat, crouching low. Hands move quick. Then he’s gone. Out of frame. A shadow disappearing like smoke.
Crystal swears under her breath. "So what now?"
"Now," I say, turning to her, voice low and lethal, "we make sure he knows we’re not the ones being hunted."
But deep inside, I know what this means. Remy’s here. And he’s not just circling. He’s loaded for war. And this time, he wants it personal.
Watching my face, Denny asks, "You recognize him?" His eyes darting to mine.
I nod once, slowly. "Yeah. I do."
My stomach knots with something sour. It’s been years since that op went to hell and Remy froze up inside that wreck. I hauled him out, nearly got both of us killed. He got cleared medically, but never looked at me the same. Like I’d stolen something from him just by surviving.
He left the Navy bitter, reckless—coiled like a live wire with nowhere to ground out. Slid off the grid not long after his discharge, whispers following him like oil slicks in his wake. I’d hear rumors—mercenary jobs in failed states, black ops for private clients with deep pockets and no conscience, maybe even a stint with one of those off-the-books crews who don’t care what they break as long as they get paid. And now he’s here, crawling back out of the shadows like a ghost with a vendetta. Near Crystal. Near me. Which means it’s not just about gold anymore. It’s about me. It’s about what I walked away from—and who never forgave me for it.
"What do you want to do?" Denny asks.
"Nothing yet," I say.
Denny nods, but his eyes say he’s not convinced. We've talked about Remy. He knows some of it, but not all. It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with Remy my way.
Later that afternoon, Crystal and I take the Zodiac back to the coves, and suit up for a dive. The silence between us is weighty—coiled and humming, not hostile but charged, like we’re both waiting for the other to say something that neither of us is ready to hear. Her eyes flicker toward mine once, searching, but I give her nothing. I can’t—not yet. Not until I figure out what exactly we're dealing with. She doesn’t press. She seems to understand that something has happened, but that I need a bit of time to reconcile my own thoughts.
We slip beneath the surface, letting the ocean swallow the unsaid. Down here, in the hush of blue, the tension doesn’t vanish—it sharpens. The water is cooler than I expected; the light dimmed by the churned-up silt from a squall. The cove feels different—tighter, more closed-in, as if the sea itself is holding its breath. My gut churns. Something’s coming. I don’t know what—but I know we’re not alone.
The cove is darker today, like the ocean is trying to hide something. Visibility isn’t good, and there’s an odd pressure behind my ears, the kind that makes your instincts twitch before your brain catches up. But we keep going, deeper, feeling along the walls until the current shifts and we find it—a tunnel outlet, masked by seaweed and time, leading straight inland. A tight, jagged chute carved by both man and nature, opening up toward the collapsed route under the boardwalk. A perfect smuggling channel.
Then I spot it—halfway embedded in a limestone pocket, the outline unmistakable--the remnants of old Spanish cargo crates. Not dozens, but enough. Waterlogged, decayed, barely holding shape, their wood like tissue in the saltwater. They pulse with the tide, fragile and ghostlike, as if a strong exhale might shatter them.
But they’re there. Real. Tangible. Ancient. My heart hammers as Crystal turns to me, eyes wide behind her mask. I take her hand and squeeze—just once. Not just for confirmation. For connection. For the kind of shared truth that changes everything.
And in the back of my mind, a thought flickers like a warning light: if we found this… there's a very good chance somebody else has as well. Butfor a moment, the weight of the world lifts. We found something, and we found it together.
We surface slowly, breaking the still tension of the sea with deliberate calm. As soon as we breach, Crystal rips off her mask and draws in a shaky breath, like she hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding it in. The sun is just beginning to dip, bleeding fire across the horizon, turning the surrounding water into rippling gold. I reach for her tank strap and guide her toward the Zodiac, keeping one hand steady on her back. Her skin is warm from the dive, her breathing sharp but steadying.
We clamber onto the boat in sync, fluid and practiced. I help her strip her gear, then tug off my own. The air smells like salt and dusk and old secrets clawing their way to the surface. We sit on the edge for a second, catching our breath. Crystal’s eyes flick back to where we dove, calculating, hungry with curiosity and adrenaline.
I glance at her, wiping a line of water from my brow. "Still think this is just another tall tale cooked up in some dusty archive? Or are we officially in holy-shit-it’s-real territory now?"
She exhales a breathy laugh, more disbelief than humor. "That was real. The crates, the tunnel outlet… It's all real."
And the look she gives me isn’t just triumph—it’s wonder laced with dread. Eyes wide, mouth parted slightly like she’s caught between breathless awe and the sharp edge of realization. There’s something haunted in it too. Like a truth she didn’t expect to find is now staring back at her. Not just about the La Reina . Not just about me. But about how close the shadows are getting. How real the threat has become. There’s fear in that look—the kind that lingers even when you tell yourself you’re safe. And I can feel it, too. Tension riding just under my skin like the water itself has teeth. Whatever we just uncovered, we’re not the only ones who know it’s there. And someone out there is willing to bleed for it.
But that night, everything tilts again. The air changes the second the sun drops beneath the edge of the water—cooler, sharper, as if even the breeze knows something’s coming. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind that presses in around you, not with peace, but with warning.
By the time I ease back into the water to check the underwater cams, every sense I have is dialed up to eleven. It’s not just suspicion anymore—it’s instinct. Hunter-level, bone-deep awareness that we’re not alone out here. That the ocean’s hiding more than secrets.
And I’m right.
One camera is missing. Not drifted off with the current, not shaken loose by tide or storm surge. Ripped. The tether is frayed in a way that isn’t natural—clean, calculated, and cruel. Like someone wanted me to notice. Wanted to send a message.
I dive deeper, throat tightening as I spot the busted cam half-buried in a crevice, its casing cracked. But it’s what’s inside that stops me cold.
A note.
Sealed in waterproof casing. Thick paper. Blocky handwriting. Black ink bleeding into the plastic like a warning from something already drowning.
Six words: Turn back, Devlin. This is mine.
The ocean sways around me, but the chill that races down my spine isn’t from the water. It’s from the certainty that this isn’t just a race for gold anymore. It’s a war. And someone just fired the first shot.
I surface slowly, the sky above me pitch-dark now. And for the first time since this expedition started, I feel it—not just the threat, but the promise of what’s coming. There's no doubt in my mind who left the message, Remy. He's closing in.