Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The gator wouldn't stop staring at Juniper like she was its last meal before execution.
Juniper tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.
She'd faced bullets aimed at her chest. She'd been dropped behind enemy lines in the dead of night and wondered if she was going to make it back alive.
She'd woken up in hospital beds not knowing what country she'd been in and prayed to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in that it was a friendly government.
She'd rather experience all that than stare into this living fossil’s eyes. Death by gator didn't seem like an easy way to go.
It had settled against the underside of the rail, motionless, but one gold eye stayed rolled up at her, unblinking. Every few seconds its jaw sawed open another inch on a hiss that rattled her teeth.
Violence, she understood. War almost made sense. This thing wanted to eat her, and there was nothing behind the eye to even try to reason with. Absolutely nothing.
She had a death grip on Sterling's arm, and she wasn't letting go.
"Here comes Trent," Sterling said.
The diesel engine had a knock to it. The tires crunched on the shell drive.
The swing of high beams lit up the porch like a scene from a horror movie.
She could picture the evening news, now.
Stacey Mohawk all decked out in her best suit.
Her hair perfectly styled. Her make-up just right.
She'd do her best to look empathetic even though she was dancing on the inside, hoping this was her shot at the big time as she reported on the grotesque deaths of two Calusa Cove residents who were eaten alive by a monster.
Christ, Juniper had been watching too many old Hitchcock and Spielberg movies.
Another hiss.
She dug her nails into Sterling's bare shoulders.
"It's okay. We're gonna be okay," he said.
She continued to stare at the long, armored back. The mud caked in its ridges. The sheer size of the animal. She'd seen many gators floating on the water.
But never this close.
And she never wanted to see them this close again.
The truck’s engine cut, and she heard a door slam.
"You two okay?" Trent asked.
"That's a relative term," Sterling said.
She shifted her gaze across the yard, and watched Trent stroll toward the porch, nice and easy.
"Gator's hurt. Back leg. And he's all worked up," Sterling said.
"You two stay exactly where you are. Don't come down or move until I tell you. Got it?" Trent paused ten feet away.
"Yeah. We got it," Sterling said.
"And then when we do, we're gonna talk about why you're shirtless."
"No, we're not." Sterling tensed. "Just take care of that gator."
Trent moved slowly, the shell shifting under his boots, circling wide toward the steps.
She could do the not-coming-down thing. That wouldn't be hard. The not-making-a-sound part was going to be a problem. She pressed her face into Sterling's neck. The gator's body had torqued. Its head swung toward the stairs, mouth opened wider, if that was possible, and the hiss grew louder.
"I know, I know." Trent came up the steps behind it carrying a pole, long with a cable loop running down its length.
"Look at you, big fella. Look at the trouble you got into.
" He didn't rush. He talked the entire time, this low, unbroken, sing-song stream, half of it to the gator and half of it to nobody.
"Easy. You're all turned around, aren't you?
You just want to get back to the water, and somebody put you up here on this nice lady's porch.
That wasn't your idea. I know it wasn't."
She wanted to ask him how he knew someone put the gator up here.
But now wasn't the time. And the bigger question was why.
It was always the why. She also wanted to ask him if he was crazy for doing this alone.
Any other situation, she'd be on the deck, helping out.
Or telling Sterling to give the man a hand. This was out of her league.
She watched in awe as Trent worked the pole out over the animal. The gator wanted to track him but couldn't quite manage it, that bad leg slowing its pivot. Trent floated the loop down toward the snout and missed.
He didn't flinch. He didn't cuss. He didn't even break a sweat. All he did was draw it back and float it again.
"Sterling," Trent said barely above a whisper. "When he goes, he's gonna go for the steps. That's his out. I need the two of you off that end of the rail. Slow. Toward me, then past me to the wall. Now's good."
Her body went rigid.
"You want me to go toward the danger? Are you crazy?" During missions, running toward the problem was a way of life. It was what she'd been trained to do. There was nothing in the FBI handbook about facing down a killer gator.
Sterling's hand closed over hers, and he peeled it off his arm. "With me. Nice and slow."
"We're all gonna die." But she made herself do what didn't feel instinctual at all, because she trusted Sterling. And Trent, crazy as that man was.
Keeping her eyes on the alligator, her feet found the boards. Sterling's body stayed between her and the gator—always the protector. She appreciated that about him.
They edged along the rail in a half-crouch while Trent held the animal's attention with the pole and his voice.
Saying things like, I see you. It's okay.
I know. It sucks to be injured and away from your people.
I'm gonna take you to Mallor's Landing. I'm gonna feed you.
Nurse you. Dolly's gonna protect you. It's gonna be alright.
The man had lost his mind. But Dove once told her that he went outside every morning and talked to the gators.
Juniper sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. Eight feet. Six. She could smell it now under the rot—the… bait. Someone had lured that poor animal up here with that reptile musk, swamp and meat that was always lingering around Mallor's Landing.
They cleared Trent. The second they did, the gator moved.
It came off the boards, rapidly lunging toward the open steps.
Trent dropped the loop and it slipped over the animal’s snout.
He hauled back on the pole, and the cable snapped tight behind the animal's jaws and the whole porch splintered into a deafening chaos of thrashing scales and tearing wood.
The gator rolled. It was the most violent thing she'd ever seen a living body do—it spun on its own axis, again and again, trying to wrench the cable out of his hands.
Its tail whipped around in a flat hard arc that smacked into a porch chair and sent it cartwheeling off into the dark.
She wrapped her arms around Sterling's waist and buried her head into his chest, but she couldn't stop watching. She was a deer in headlights—still and staring.
Sterling rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "It's okay. It's over. Ish."
"What does ish mean?" She glanced up.
"Tail!" Trent had his weight back on the pole, boots skidding, riding it. "Need help with the tail."
"I think that means you," she whispered.
"Fuck," Sterling mumbled. "I swore I'd never do this."
Headlights swung across them. Another truck.
"Oh, thank God," Sterling said.
The truck jerked to a stop, and the driver's side door opened.
"On it." Cullen was up the steps and across the porch at a dead run.
He didn't hesitate, didn't slow, just read the whole thing in a stride and threw himself onto the back third of the animal, both arms wrapping the base of the tail, pinning it down with his chest and his whole weight.
The gator bucked under him. He rode it, swore and held.
"Secure him." Trent walked the pole down, hand over hand, shortening it, forcing the snared head toward the floor. He rested a booted foot onto the back of the skull, just behind the eyes, and pressed it flat to the boards. Crouching, he pinned that enormous head under one leg.
"He’s crazy." She blinked. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. She'd watched this shit on television before. She'd heard wild stories of things Trent, even Cullen, had done over the years, but she thought they’d been exaggerating.
Well, they hadn’t. And she had an up-close view.
"I need tape," Trent said. "Sterling, it's in my back pocket. Can you grab it for me, but don't get too close to his head. I'm strong, but he's stronger."
She glanced up at Sterling. "You're just gonna leave me here?"
"You'll be fine." He kissed her temple.
"Right." She stood there with her spine pressed firmly against the wall and her heart lodged in her throat. "Be careful," she whispered. "And don't lose any fingers."
"That's actually not funny." Sterling reached into Trent's back pocket, pulled out a roll of tape, and handed it to him, before he turned and made his way back to Juniper. He tugged her close and she leaned into him, one hand on his back, the other resting center chest.
Trent wound the tape around the snout. "Sorry about this. But it won't be for very long."
"He talks to them like they understand," she said.
"I think they do." Sterling squeezed her hip. "His father's the same way."
Down in the yard, a third set of headlights broke through the trees. "Who's that?"
"I texted Dawson." Sterling pointed toward the bait under the chairs. "I noticed right after we climbed up here but didn't want to freak you out."
"I smelled the rot, and it reminded me of the chicken quarters at Mallor's Landing."
"Exactly," Sterling said.
"Let's get this fella back to my place," Trent said.
"He's gonna be okay?" she asked as tears welled in her eyes and she realized she was about to cry about a damn gator.
"He's gonna be great." Trent glanced up and smiled.
"He's got a nasty cut on his leg. Looks like a knife wound.
But I'll get him cleaned and fed, and he can hang out at the Landing ‘til he's right.
" He shifted his gaze toward Sterling. "He didn't do anything wrong tonight.
Somebody used him. That's evident by the chum that's still under the sofa. "
Sterling nodded. "It's why Dawson's here."
Under the fear still draining out of her, under the gratitude so big it hurt, she knew she needed to tell Sterling the truth tonight. She might lose her job. She might lose her friends. She might lose everything.
But Sterling deserved to know why she was really in Calusa Cove.