Betrayal In Calusa Cove (Everglades Overwatch #4)

Chapter 1

Fletcher Dane heard the boots scuffing across the cement flooring.

His spine stiffened in response. His muscles ached.

His bones rattled. It had been at least a full day since his captors had visited his tiny cell.

He’d gone without water, food, and thankfully, the screams coming from his teammates.

He could do anything…but that. He knew no one had broken.

Or at least, that’s what he believed. If one of them had, they’d all be dead.

Only one concerned him, though.

Ken.

He was the only one with a wife and kids.

Not that the rest of them didn’t have something to live for, but Ken had a family. He had people who depended on him for more than a phone call once a week to check in.

Ken also had one foot out the door.

He constantly talked about leaving the Navy, saying his days were numbered, and that he most likely wouldn’t sign his re-enlistment papers. It hadn’t come as a shock to Fletcher or the rest of the team.

Dawson had been the first to mention the words out loud, but Keaton had repeated them, and Hayes had nodded in agreement.

Fletcher just couldn’t imagine it. He’d known Ken his entire life. They’d been best friends since he could remember.

The metal door rattled to life, and Fletcher did his best to mentally and physically prepare himself for the next battle.

He wasn’t afraid. He knew what was coming, and he’d endure.

He’d been electrocuted, waterboarded, cut, burned—you name it, his captors had done it.

All in the name of giving up the mission.

But Fletcher would never talk. He’d die first. The men inflicting the torture seemed to know that line between life and death well and straddled it each and every time they entered this small room to beat Fletcher.

He did his best to keep quiet. All the men did, but pain had a way of escaping no matter what.

He sat up on the grimy mattress his captors had provided and watched as two men entered the room. They hoisted him to his feet and dragged him through the door.

That was new.

He didn’t protest. He didn’t fight. And he sure as hell didn’t say one fucking word. There was no point.

The men led him into a different room at the end of the hall.

His heart hammered in his chest. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.

He knew at any moment, this could be the time they put a bullet through his brain.

He’d been on numerous missions where he and his team had been the ones charging in, coming to the rescue.

But with every passing day, hour, minute, the resolve that his team would be freed… left his mind.

Not that he gave up hope that a team was looking. But he’d accepted they might never be found.

One of the men stuck a long, old-fashioned key into the lock, pushed open the door, and shoved Fletcher into the space.

He stumbled, his muscles too weak to maintain balance and hold him upright.

He fell to his knees. He blinked, staring at a pair of dirty, bloody, bare feet. He glanced up and gasped.

Strapped to a chair in the center of a room that smelled like copper and rot, Ken Mitchell looked nothing like the guy who’d once shot-gunned beers on a Florida beach or teased Baily for not knowing how to tie a proper boating cleat.

His face was swollen and bruised, his eyes barely open.

But when his gaze met Fletcher’s, there was still something there—something sharp and defiant.

Something that told Fletcher this was a man who would not be broken.

Now, he felt like a real asshole for doubting his best friend. The one who had been by his side when his parents had died. The one who had followed him into the Navy, like it was the most normal thing to do.

The man behind Ken said something in a language Fletcher didn’t understand. His tone calm, detached.

“You talk now,” the man said. “Or he dies.”

Ken shook his head and mouthed, No.

Fletcher lifted his chin, rocking back on his heels as the other man grabbed him by the hair.

“You have nothin’ to say?” the man asked.

Fletcher swallowed the bile that smacked the back of his throat.

He held Ken’s gaze. Memories of childhood flashed between the two men.

They’d shared hopes, dreams, and broken hearts.

There might have been a distance between the two men over the last few years—a wedge that had been solidly placed between Ken and the team by marriage, kids, and a different set of goals.

But none of that mattered now. Ken was as solid as they came in battle, and Fletcher knew that.

Fletcher inhaled sharply and blinked.

“Speak, now, or this man will die, and it will be your fault,” the man said, holding Fletcher’s gaze before tilting Ken’s head to the side.

“Fuck off,” Ken muttered. “Neither one of us is saying a damn thing to you.”

“I’ll give you one last chance,” the man behind Ken said. “Tell us what we want to know, and I’ll show him mercy.”

If Fletcher talked, they’d all be dead. If he didn’t, Ken would die, and sure as the day was long, they would all be killed, one by one. This was just another tactic. Just another form of torture.

“I will—”

“Shut up,” Ken interrupted him, glaring. If the tables were turned, he’d be doing the exact same thing.

Talk about a lose-lose.

The man behind Ken pulled a knife and pressed it against Ken’s neck. A few drops of blood trickled down his skin.

“Take care of Baily,” Ken whispered. “And when she really needs help, you’ll find it behind the bait—”

“Last chance,” the man with the knife said, pressing the blade deeper.

Ken looked at Fletcher—right at him—when the blade slid across his throat.

Blood squirted. Fast. Endless. Red over skin. Red on hands. Red that no amount of time could ever wash off.

Fletcher couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

He just sat there and watched the life drain out of the one man he’d sworn he’d protect.

Fletcher jerked awake, breath ragged, T-shirt soaked through. The whir of the ceiling fan overhead too slow. The air in his room too thick. His fists clenched against damp sheets as the image of Ken’s face burned behind his eyelids.

Damn it.

He swung his legs off the bed and pressed his hands against his knees, trying to ground himself. Focus on something real.

The hum of the marina generators.

The distant cry of a heron.

The ever-present scent of salt and oil and old rope.

Over the years since Ken’s death, the nightmares had lessened…

fading into the background. Once he’d come back to Calusa Cove two years ago, they’d started again.

Memories of his childhood mixed with the dream, which only made it worse, but soon, they disappeared into the fog, much like the steam burned off the Everglades in the morning.

However, ever since Tripp’s journal had been found, and more of Ken’s secrets had been uncovered—or more like the realization that he hadn’t known his friend at all—the nightmares taunted him like an alligator waiting to attack.

He pushed off the bed and headed downstairs.

He stuck a mug under the coffeemaker and waited for it to fill before snagging Tripp’s journal.

Then he made a beeline for the porch—barefoot, shirtless, sleep forgotten.

The sky was still black, stars muted by the early morning haze.

The swamp beyond the docks stretched silent and wide.

The hum of the first boat making its way into the Glades caught his attention.

He could see Silas as he headed up the canal and into the opening like he did every morning.

The man was a creature of habit, but lately, since his longtime friend Dewey Hale had turned out to be a serial killer, Silas took to the waterways much earlier—and stayed out longer.

Silas’s wife had mentioned more than once that she was worried about the man.

He’d always been a bit of a character, but now he was withdrawn and disillusioned by the world.

Fletcher couldn’t blame Silas, or half the town, because everyone had felt betrayed by Dewey, especially after what had happened with Paul Massey and his drug running a few months before.

Having two of their trusted townspeople turn out to be criminals, well, that tended to change a town’s perspective.

Fletcher checked the time. It was a little after five in the morning. Soon, the waters would be filled with boaters—people going about their lives, even though a lot had happened in Calusa Cove, everyone was still on edge.

His quiet little hometown, built on legends and myths, was turning out to be full of secrets—the kinds of secrets that got people killed.

He sat in his father’s old favorite chair, which sorely needed some new cushions.

He lifted his feet, propping them up on the ottoman, and sipped the bitter brew while staring at the ripples on the water created by the slight breeze.

This winter had been unseasonably warm for South Florida, and his air conditioning wasn’t working properly.

He’d ordered the part, and it should be arriving today.

That would give him something to tinker with on his day off while he did his best to keep the demons at bay.

But it wasn’t hot enough to really care, and the humidity wasn’t stifling. That was something.

He opened the pages, grateful that Dawson had let him have the damn thing for the next few days.

Fletcher had told Dawson he’d make copies for everyone.

They all had a stake in this now, as they planned to bid on the old Crab Shack as soon as the town put it up for auction.

There was a scheduled town hall meeting next week.

Anyone who had any inclination to purchase it from the town trust would need to file their plans and have them approved before the town would release the land.