Chapter 14
The trail behind Cypress Ridge wound like a lazy snake through the dense brush, the late-afternoon sun casting golden shards through the canopy overhead.
Fletcher moved slowly, boots crunching along packed earth and pine needles, clipboard in hand, surveying a downed tree reported near mile marker six in Calusa Cove Park.
This was the part of his job that he loved.
The quiet, peaceful, rich beauty of the land that surrounded the Everglades.
The hours he could walk in silence and be connected to the earth.
As a kid, he hadn’t truly grown to appreciate this spot.
While he’d loved living here and had only a few regrets, he hadn’t fully come to understand what it all meant.
Perhaps no one had until they’d lived a little and seen a little heartache.
It took searching the world for something that had already lived in his heart to see what had always been a part of him.
To know what had always grounded him in ways many couldn’t understand.
The Navy and being a SEAL had taught him honor, duty, and what being loyal really meant. It had given him brothers. A family he chose. A family who, no matter what, had his six. It had brought him full circle, giving him perspective he couldn’t have ever gained anywhere else.
Sometimes, that saddened him because it meant he had to accept that he and Baily had had no chance back then. It hadn’t been their time. He’d needed the space to grow and evolve, and while she’d been able to do all that living in Calusa Cove…he hadn’t. He’d needed the distance.
He paused in the clearing. Birdsong echoed in the stillness. Too still, he realized. He frowned.
There was something wrong with the silence.
He felt this thick weight of soundlessness.
The unease of it. How it had an edge to it as if it were waiting for something to happen.
He knew this sensation well. It had happened in battle all the time.
He’d never welcomed it, but out there, while fighting for country, it had been a way of life.
But it didn’t belong in Calusa Cove.
He squatted, scanning the area and reaching for a broken limb blocking the path, when the crack of a rifle split the air.
A searing pain tore through his upper arm, white-hot and blinding.
He dropped instantly, the world tilting as he slammed shoulder-first into the ground, sending leaves scattering.
“Shit—”
Blood soaked through the sleeve of his Parks and Rec shirt.
He dragged himself behind the trunk of a long-dead sabal palm, adrenaline slamming into his bloodstream like a freight train.
He took in a slow, shallow breath. The shot had come from the northeast, from a high location, and he’d been damn lucky he’d moved when he had or that bullet might have landed in the back of his head.
Testing whether the shooter was still there—and in the same location—he shifted, rustling the leaves, but staying behind the trunk.
Another shot cracked overhead—clean, precise. A sniper.
He pulled out his cell, opting for that instead of his radio. Too much noise and the possibility the enemy was listening to his frequency. He pressed the phone to his ear. It rang twice.
“Hey man, what’s—”
“Dawson. I’ve been hit,” Fletcher whispered.
“Did you say hit? As in shot?” Dawson asked.
“Yeah. Sniper. Clean. Still there, in a tree maybe fifty yards away. I’m on the Cypress Ridge Trail. North fork. I’m bunkered behind a tree between Marker Six and Seven. Closer to Six, about a half a klick from the bend. Need backup.”
Crack. Bark exploded above him, spraying splinters across his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered, pressing his hand hard over the wound on his arm. It wasn’t too bad—the bullet went through, clean—but it burned like hell. His fingers trembled as he reached for his sidearm. Just in case.
A full two minutes passed.
“I’m en route. Patrol car had a damn flat. Taking my personal vehicle. ETA eight minutes. Texted Hayes and Keaton. Hayes is on the way. Keaton’s with Decker. Told him to stick by his side. Stay down. Stay sharp. And watch your fucking back.”
Fletcher sucked in a slow breath and kept low.
He needed to think like Hayes, the sniper of the group.
They were patient people in the field. They could lie on their bellies, propped up on their elbows, eyes peering through a scope…
for flipping hours, and not bat an eyelash.
Everyone thought it took a unique personality style to be a demolitions man on a team?
No. It was the sniper who stood out as the odd duck.
Sweat slicked his brow. His ears strained for movement, but the shooter—if military trained—would be able to stick this out for a very long time.
Five minutes ticked by. Three more to go, and Dawson was never late.
Eight minutes was a long time under fire.
He tapped his phone with bloodied fingers, heart hammering, and dialed Baily.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hey! I’m with Chloe and Silas. We are waiting for Hayes before we—”
“I just needed to hear your voice,” Fletcher said, barely above a whisper. “You okay?”
There was a pause. “Yeah. I’m fine. We’re fine. Why? Fletcher, what happened? You sound…off.”
“I’m up on the trail. There’s been an…incident. Gunfire.” God, he shouldn’t lie to her, but he didn’t want her freaking out. Not yet anyway. “Dawson and Hayes are on their way, but I needed to know you were safe.”
A sharp inhale. “Fletcher…”
“Stay where you are,” he said. “Stay with Chloe and Silas until I say otherwise. Please.”
“I will. I swear. Just—just be careful. I…I…I love you, okay?”
He closed his eyes, the words hitting him harder than the bullet. “I love you, too.”
The line disconnected.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t said those words to each other a million times. However, it had been years since they’d tumbled from her lips. Years before, he’d felt the weight of their impact.
Years since that part of his world had been put back together.
Another few minutes crawled by before the crunch of boots sounded over breaking twigs.
Fletcher sucked in breath, held his weapon, and shifted. He peered over the tree trunk, scanning the area.
Nothing. No movement. Only the sharp sound of an owl. Only it wasn’t a real one.
Dawson.
Fletcher responded with his own owl noise. A few more repeated.
Hayes.
The gang was all here. But they had a job to do.
Find the fucking sniper.
Unfortunately, Fletcher was the sitting duck. His job was to do nothing but wait.
He craned his ear, listening to every little noise. Even the stillness told him something.
Crack. Pop.
Movement and gunfire. Just one round.
Thud.
Then boots. Dawson’s voice called out, “Fletcher! Talk to me!”
“You’re going to fucking pay for that,” a deep male voice said.
“You shot our friend first,” Hayes said, with the kind of pride dipped in a sense of humility that he’d always had when he hit his target. “I think the law might be on our side.”
“Here,” Fletcher called, lifting his hand enough to wave. All the energy he’d stored in his muscles left like a bird taking flight.
Dawson crouched beside him seconds later, already assessing the wound. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”
“Just a flesh wound.”
“Right, because a bullet going in one side of your biceps and coming out the other end isn’t a big deal.” Dawson lifted his gaze, waving a hand. “At least Hayes didn’t kill the asshole, so now I get to have some fun and question him.”
Fletcher grunted. “I want to be there.”
“I can let him stew in a cell while you get that cleaned out and stitched up.” Dawson took off his jacket, ripped off a piece of his shirt, and tied off Fletcher’s upper arm.
“Hey,” Remy called. “Tully and I did a sweep. We didn’t see anyone else. Thanks to a rainy winter, we did see tracks. One set. Leading right to the tree where Hayes took out the shooter. That’s it, other than Fletcher’s tracks.”
“Good. Now go read that jerk-off his rights and haul his ass to the station. I’m gonna take this guy to the hospital.”
“You got it, boss,” Remy said.
Fletcher dropped his head against the tree trunk.
“You’re looking a little pale there, buddy.” Dawson applied more pressure to the wound. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“No.” Fletcher sat up taller, taking Dawson’s hand, and with some effort, he stood. His legs were wobbly and his brain foggy. But he’d had to deal with far worse and walked a longer distance to receive help.
Dawson’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen. “It’s Keaton.” He answered with a clipped, “Yeah?”
Fletcher couldn’t hear the words, but he saw Dawson’s expression tighten as they moved as swiftly as Fletcher could handle down the path.
“What?” Dawson paused mid-step. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
” Another long moment stretched. “Okay, heading there now with Fletcher. See you soon.” Dawson hung up and turned.
“Decker collapsed while eating a burger at Massey’s Pub.
Keaton was there with him. Said one minute he was eating dinner, pretending to argue with Keaton, just in case someone from that damn boat parade was a plant, the next he was gasping for air like his lungs stopped working.
EMS got him stabilized, but they’re running tests. ”
“He’s too young to have had a heart attack,” Fletcher said, ignoring the throb in his arm. “Not to mention, someone tried to drown Baily and kill me with a stray bullet. What just happened to Decker can’t be a coincidence.”
“That’s what Keaton believes. He said it looked like Decker was choking on nothing. Couldn’t breathe. Skin flushed. No obstruction. He suspects poison. His father-in-law’s girlfriend is running some tests…off the books.”
“That’s nice of Emily. She’s a good person and a great doctor.” Fletcher eyed the parking lot.