Chapter 10
10
CRUZ
T he faint tapping of Crystal’s fingers on the dash is the only sound as I steer Serenity toward the dock. The early morning haze is just lifting off the water, and Pelican Point’s silhouette sharpens against the sun. We should still be a few steps ahead of Remy, or if it isn't him, whoever’s tracking us. Emphasis on should.
Crystal’s humming some old sea shanty under her breath, low and absentminded, but her eyes are sharp—sweeping the shoreline like she’s a lighthouse in reverse, casting out beams of curiosity and suspicion. Her fingers drum against the seat rhythmically, like she's trying to keep her nerves in check while she mentally catalogs every suspicious nook and cranny. It’s the kind of focus that says she’s already five steps ahead and looking for the trap she knows is waiting. That laser-focus isn’t just for history anymore—it’s survival. And from the way her brow tightens when she spots a shadow that lingers too long or a figure that ducks behind the bait shop a second too early, I know she feels it too: we’re being watched.
Me? I’m scanning, too—but it’s not the harbor that’s raising the hairs on my neck. It’s her.
Crystal.
The way she’s carrying herself—too steady, too contained. Her grip on that notebook is tighter than usual, her silence wound around her like a second skin. She’s trying to hold it all in, trying to out-stubborn the danger she knows is circling. And it’s working. To anyone else, she looks like confidence wrapped in denim and resolve. But I know better.
I know what quiet looks like when it’s bracing for impact.
She walks beside me like she’s armored up—hair twisted into that high battle-bun she does when she means business, gladiator sandals tied tight like she’s expecting to run. And the notebook? It’s clutched like it’s sacred. Like whatever she’s discovered inside it is more valuable than her own safety.
“Hey,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”
She glances at me, the edge of her mouth twitching like she wants to argue—but doesn’t. Instead, she nods once. Quick. Grateful. Then keeps walking.
We dock quietly, the engine ticking as it cools, tension settling around us like heat before a summer storm. No words pass between us as we disembark. Just movement. Intentional. Focused. The marina workers don’t even glance up. Or maybe we’re moving too fast for it to register.
Her sandals slap lightly against the dock, rhythm steady, but I can feel the pulse of her nerves in the way she walks—precise, almost mechanical. And I hate it. I hate that she’s holding so much inside. That this town, this legend, this danger is pulling her into something dark, and she’s ready to face it head-on without backup.
“We’re close,” she says under her breath, more to herself than to me.
“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Close means we stay sharp. And we stay side by side. No solo hero moves.”
Another nod. Firmer this time.
We’re halfway down the boardwalk when I spot them.
Two guys outside the bait shop—slouched too perfectly, their laughter too loud, too timed. It’s theater. A show meant for us. One nudges the other, subtly tilting his chin in our direction. I don’t stop walking, but my body tenses, muscles coiled and ready.
Then I feel it. The third.
The glint in the glass of the shop window gives him away—a quick reflection, just enough to trigger every alarm in my head. Broad shoulders. Flash of metal. Movement.
“Crystal—” I start, reaching for her.
Too late.
The hit comes fast, brutal. A white-hot burst explodes behind my eyes, and I stagger. I catch one last glimpse of her—eyes wide, struggling, a hand clamped over her mouth—and then the darkness hits like a hammer to the skull.
And the last thought I manage before everything goes under is her name… Crystal.
* * *
My head throbs like it’s been used as a battering ram, and the taste of blood lingers bitter on my tongue. I blink, slow and groggy, vision swimming in and out of focus until the surrounding shadows sharpen into something I recognize—concrete walls, old pipes, the faint stench of mildew and sweat. My wrists burn. Zip ties bite into my skin, holding me captive to a rusted metal chair bolted to the floor.
I’m not just restrained. I’m entombed in muscle memory and ghosts. The worst part? I know exactly where I am—the old SEAL training boathouse, where we learned how to survive things meant to break us. It’s damp, the walls sweating with mildew and the stench of old fear. Every echo carries the weight of barked orders and groans of exertion, the kind of place built to shape men into weapons. But now? It feels like a tomb. Cold, metallic, and full of unfinished business.
Pelican Point used to run offshore prep programs—basic obstacle courses, dive certifications, tactical simulations. I spent a brutal summer grinding through those courses when I was barely more than a kid with something to prove. Remy was there too—loud, relentless, always needing to be the biggest presence in the room. We bled together on this concrete, learned to survive side by side. But somewhere along the way, while I forged discipline, Remy let his demons win. This place built us both. But only one of us walked away better for it.
His voice cuts through the fog. Lazy. Drawling. Still smug. Still bitter. "Been a while, Cruz."
I roll my jaw and blink away the fuzz. He’s leaning against a crate, arms crossed, posture loose like a man with nothing to lose and a score to settle. His face is half-shadowed by the flickering overhead light, but the smirk cutting across it is unmistakably Remy—twisted and hungry. Like this isn’t just revenge—it’s personal. Like he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for years, each day darker than the last.
“Remy.” I make it sound casual, like we’re bumping into each other at a dive bar. Not a hostage situation. “Still compensating for that frag grenade you dropped in training?”
He laughs. Low and humorless. “Still hiding behind medals and camera crews?”
He circles me slowly, boots scuffing the concrete with deliberate rhythm, like a predator drawing out the moment before a strike. I let him. Every second he wastes with posturing is another second I need—another breath to clear the fog, another beat to catalog the space, the exits, the timing. His voice is a slow poison, bitter and drawn-out, but I drink it down, because beneath the venom is an opening. And I intend to use it.
“You think you’re better than me,” he says. “Walked away from the teams, got rich playing Jacques Cousteau..."
"Cousteau was an oceanographer and an explorer. I'm a treasure hunter."
"And a rich celebrity. You could’ve pulled me in. Given me a shot. But no. You left me behind.”
“That’s not what happened.”
He steps closer, boots grinding into the concrete like punctuation to a threat, his breath sharp and hot with fury. I don’t flinch. I want him closer—close enough to smell the desperation curling under all that bravado, close enough to see the rot behind his eyes. The overhead light flickers again, casting long shadows that dance across his clenched fists. He’s not just here to talk. He’s here to hurt something. Maybe me. Maybe the world that forgot him. But I stay still, calm. Because if I move too soon, I lose my edge. And right now? That’s all I’ve got.
“I froze once,” he growls. “Once. And you sold me out. Like I was weak.”
“You were reckless. And you nearly got the two of us killed. I didn’t sell you out. You imploded. You quit.”
His fist slams into the crate beside me with a violent crack that sends splinters flying, the sound ricocheting through the concrete walls like a gunshot. The impact vibrates through the floor, a brutal punctuation to his spiraling rage—a warning, a promise, and a threat all in one.
I don’t blink. I want him angry. Unfocused. Sloppy. Let him lean into the rage, let it blur the edges of his control—that’s where mistakes live. And I’m counting on him to make one.
“I watched you on that stupid show,” he says. “With your perfect boat. Your perfect life. You think you earned it?”
I lean back just slightly, scanning the room with peripheral vision. There—zip ties binding my wrists, one edge pressed against the rusted bolt anchoring the chair leg. The metal's flaking, but the corner is jagged, almost serrated. Sharp enough to bleed if I pull too hard, but maybe just sharp enough to cut through plastic. It's a risk. A calculated one. But I'm running low on time, and the taste of urgency is bitter on my tongue. I inch my wrist toward it, slow and deliberate, praying Remy's too caught up in his own performance to notice. One slip, one jerk too fast, and this whole thing detonates. But if I time it right...
“You’re pissed because I moved on,” I say. “Because I didn’t drown in the same guilt you marinated in.”
“Because you forgot me.”
“No. I remembered. I just stopped pretending you were still the guy I’d trust with my six.”
He lunges, but I’m ready. The second he shifts, I twist hard—my chair tips backward with a crash, metal screaming against concrete. My wrist jerks with a searing bolt of pain as I wrench it against the bolt—skin tears, blood slicks my grip—but the zip tie snaps with a sharp pop. I hit the ground, roll hard, and come up swinging. No hesitation. Just instinct. Just fury.
He curses. Too slow. I'm already moving. My fist slams into his gut—hard enough to fold him in half—then snaps upward into his jaw with bone-jarring precision. There's a crack, maybe his nose, maybe just the sound of all that arrogance hitting the floor. He goes down in a heap, groaning, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing at air like he can't quite believe what's happening.
He looks up at me, dazed, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. But there's no fight left. Just bitter defeat. I don't wait to savor it.
I spit to the side, wipe the blood from my brow, and bolt for the door.
Crystal. I'm coming.
Crystal.
I don’t know where they took her. I don’t know who else Remy’s working with. But I know one thing: I have to find her.
* * *
CRYSTAL
Okay. Think. They don't consider me much of a threat. I'm not even tied up—kind of insulting when I think about it, but it does make things easier. I'm in a small room—maybe a supply closet. I peer out the small grimy window. Two thugs. One parked outside the door with a gun tucked too obviously into his waistband. One distracted by his reflection in a freezer glass, fixing his hair like it's prom night. I'm in a back room that smells like moldy oranges, oil, and something vaguely metallic. And the air feels... wrong. Still. Charged. Like this place is holding its breath. Like I'm not just a historian in the wrong place at the wrong time—but a loose end someone forgot to tie off.
Do they not realize there's a second door? Amateurs. I take a deep breath, steady my hands, and slip out quietly—one step, then two. This isn’t exactly stealth ops, but it’ll do. I do the one thing no one expects from a historian: I become invisible. Historians usually stand out—too tweed, too nose-in-book—but I’ve learned how to vanish in plain sight. I grab an old apron from a hook on the wall, streak a smear of dirt across my cheek, and tousle my bun so I look more harried than hunted. When Freezer Guy yells about a radio check and the other one turns his head, I dart past the shelves like I’ve done this a hundred times, duck into the produce section, and walk out the front with a crate of wilted lettuce like I belong to the damn building. No one stops me. No one even blinks. Sometimes being underestimated is the sharpest weapon in the room.
No one sees me. No one stops me. But that buzzing in my ears? That’s not adrenaline anymore—it’s dread, coiling tighter with every step.
Ten minutes later, I round the curve of the marina path and freeze.
Cruz is limping down the edge of the dock, his stride uneven, blood trickling from a gash above his eyebrow. His shirt is torn, knuckles bruised, jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone. His expression isn’t just furious—it’s scorched-earth.
He looks like someone who’s been to war. Like someone who lost and clawed his way back out. And the way his eyes rake over the dock like he’s ready to take on an army?
Yeah. Someone lit a fuse, and Cruz Devlin is about to burn the world down.
“You okay?” we ask at the same time.
I almost cry. He almost smiles.
Back on Serenity, we patch each other up in silence. Until finally, he speaks and tells me everything. About Remy. About the guilt. The sabotage. The trail of burned trust. I don't flinch and I don’t walk away. I take his hand, bruised knuckles and all, and say the only thing that matters:
“We finish this. Together.”
* * *
CRUZ
I exhale—long and heavy—like a dam finally cracking under the pressure. The air in the cabin feels different now, like it’s been holding its breath right alongside me. But the quiet doesn’t last. A sharp burst of static snaps through the radio, loud enough to make both of us flinch, and then the voice cuts through—jagged, urgent, unmistakably real.
"Boss… you might want to see this,” Denny says in an urgent, tight voice.
The monitor lights up, casting an eerie green glow across the cabin as static flickers for a heartbeat, then clears. Grainy drone footage stutters across the screen—windswept trees bending in gusts, the drone’s mechanical shadow skating like a ghost over the underbrush. Then it jerks. Freezes. Zooms in, frame by frame, like it’s holding its breath just as we do.
A figure—not Remy. Smaller. Hooded. Standing motionless on the bluff above the cove, just beyond the tree line, a silhouette half-eaten by shadows. Watching the Serenity. Not moving. Not approaching. Just… observing. Like a predator sizing up a kill, or worse—marking territory.
The drone buzzes overhead, its mechanical whine slicing through the air—but the figure doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look up. Just stands there, unnervingly still. The kind of still that sends every instinct screaming. Then, like something out of a nightmare, the figure turns. Not startled. Not afraid. Just... deliberate. Measured. A slow pivot, cloaked in shadow, as if acknowledging the watcher behind the lens. They hold the frame a second longer than any normal person would—too long. Then, without a word or sign, they vanish into the trees, swallowed by the dark like they were never there.
Except we both know they were. And they wanted us to see them.
Whoever it is… they knew we were watching. And they wanted us to know they saw, and they’re already one step ahead.