Risky Romance (Wolf Security #4)

1. Whisper

CHAPTER 1

Whisper

I adjusted the focus on my binoculars and zoomed in on the decrepit boat in the shallow water ahead. The vessel had been spotted yesterday by Tory, our Border Force pilot, from the cockpit of our amphibious plane Ladybeetle . The boat was tilted at an angle that was all wrong. Torn canvas sails flapped in the mild breeze like the wings of a dying moth, and the deck was a web of rotting ropes and corroded metal. The old boat looked like it should have sunk years ago. “I have a bad feeling about this, boss.”

“Keep it together, Whisper.” Ryder guided our Border Force rubber raft toward the suspicious vessel.

The contrast between the crystal blue water and that boat couldn’t have been starker. The boat had a metal hull, and its once-white paint was barely visible through the patchwork of rust and algae.

“You be careful when we board, Whisper.” Ryder dialed the engine down a notch. “We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Yes, sir.” Beyond the boat, the remote North Queensland coastline stretched before us as a seemingly endless expanse of desolate beauty. It was hard to believe that places like this still existed in the world—untouched by human civilization and teeming with an eerie sense of isolation.

Miles of dark foliage stretched behind and impenetrable wall of mangrove-infested shoreline with tangled roots that reached into the crystal blue water like skeletal fingers grasping for something to hang onto.

The landscape was devoid of any human presence—no buildings, no roads, not even a stray piece of litter marred the wild beauty. Unfortunately, this area was also a smuggler’s gateway, where ruthless assholes could slip through the cracks of border control unnoticed.

“I hate this part of the coast,” I muttered, peering through binoculars into the vegetation for faces staring back at me.

“Just stay focused.” Ryder’s voice was steady but tense.

“Yes, boss.” I wanted to believe the boat ahead was simply abandoned, but the oppressive atmosphere was getting to me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we were about to discover was not going to be pretty.

Earlier this year, we recovered a stray shipping container from the ocean that had collided with a boat, causing it to sink. Inside the container we found the bodies of women and children who had died because of ruthless human traffickers. The grim sight was forever seared into my memory, and I couldn’t shake the thought of their agonizing end, trapped in that metal coffin as it bobbed aimlessly in the vast ocean.

Please don’t let this vessel contain the same horror.

As we drew closer, the extent of the boat’s decay became clearer. A jagged gash ran along its starboard side, just above the waterline, suggesting it had collided with something big. Makeshift patches of mismatched metal were haphazardly bolted over parts of the damage, but rust and mold marred the amateur repairs. The wheelhouse windows were shattered, with only jagged shards remaining in the frames.

The mast listed to one side and was held in place by frayed ropes. Debris littered the deck: broken crates, tangled fishing nets, and the remains of what looked like a rubber life raft.

This boat had weathered some serious storms.

“Approaching target vessel now,” Ryder relayed into our encrypted radio to Jeff, another Border Force officer. Jeff had remained onboard Stingray , our sleek new Border Force vessel, which had replaced our previous one after it had been riddled with bullets during an ambush last year. Jeff’s orders to stay aboard Stingray came from Ryder. He wanted Jeff to maintain a line of communication with HQ and provide a quick exit strategy if things went south.

“Copy that,” Jeff’s voice crackled back. “I have eyes on you, but no other signs of activity out there. But watch yourselves.”

In our line of work, misjudging stillness on a vessel could be just as dangerous as armed pirates, which we’d encountered a few times.

As for me being chosen to investigate the vessel with Ryder, I had a hunch about that. If there were women and children trapped on this floating hellhole, a female officer might appear less threatening. It was a delicate balance: we needed to be prepared for a fight but also be ready to offer comfort to terrified victims.

On my hip was my service weapon, and strapped to my ankle was my dive knife. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need to use either as a weapon, but I would if I needed to.

Ryder maneuvered our raft to the starboard side of the crippled boat, and as I tied us to a metal pole, Ryder turned off our engine. An eerie silence took over. Gentle waves lapped against the peeling hull and every creak from the vessel sent a shiver up my spine.

My heart raced. Something was very wrong here.

“This is Border Force,” I called, my voice echoing across the water. “Is anyone on board?”

Silence bounced back to me.

Ryder nodded at me, and I climbed onto the flaking top deck. The weathered boards creaked beneath my feet and each plank sagged, ready to give way as I tested my footfalls.

“Hello. Is anyone here?” As I inched toward the wheelhouse, I rested my hand on my holstered weapon. “This is Border Force. Can anyone hear me?”

The silence was surreal, like the kind that settled over a place when something terrible had happened.

A rustling noise caught my attention, followed by a whimper that sounded all too human. Ryder and I exchanged glances and crept forward.

“Come out with your hands up,” Ryder called across the cluttered deck.

The boat was even worse up close. Rusted nails jutted from rotting planks, and pools of stagnant water collected in every dip and hollow. Unease inched up my spine.

Passing the vacant wheelhouse, we approached a hatch. A foul odor assaulted my nostrils.

“That can’t be good.” Ryder indicated for me to step back.

I gagged, fighting the urge to retch as Ryder wriggled out the rusty screwdriver that kept the latch locked. The hinges shrieked as he opened the hatch and the stench that billowed out was almost visible, a nauseating mix of decay, sweat, and fear—the unmistakable scent of human suffering.

We shone our flashlights into the darkness below, and my heart clenched.

Huddled together in the cramped space were men, women, and children with wide eyes and dirt-lined faces riddled with fear and desperation.

Ryder showed his hands. “It’s okay. We’re here to save you.”

Breathing through my mouth, I squatted at the edge of the hatch.

“Oh my god.” I gagged, covering my nose and mouth with my arm as bile rose in my throat.

The people below were packed in like sardines, barely room to move. The smell of unwashed bodies and sickness was overwhelming.

How can people do this to other human beings?

I tried to make eye contact with a frail young woman in a dirty pink dress hugging a small child to her hip, but she squinted against the glare. Her cheekbones stood out sharply, and her eyes were sunken with malnourishment and fear.

“You’re safe now,” I said softly. “We’re here to help. Do you speak English?”

She didn’t nod or shake her head, but the sheer terror etched on her face told me more than enough.

My heart broke for her, for all of them.

Ryder touched my shoulder. “We need to check the rest?—”

Footsteps thundered behind us. Standing, I spun around.

Three men charged at us.

I ducked beneath a wild punch from a young man whose skin looked severely sunburned.

Ryder dodged fists from the other two men. He punched the cheek of one guy, and the attacker stumbled sideways.

I ducked another swing from the young man. Using his momentum, I shoved him off balance. He stumbled backward, and I kicked his midsection. He crashed into the side railing and crumbled to the deck.

“Don’t do it,” Ryder yelled as he gripped one attacker in a two-arm chokehold. The other bastard crept toward him, swinging a length of rusty chain.

I unclipped my gun.

My attacker charged at me and a glint of metal shone in his hand. A knife.

He slashed the blade side to side, missing me by inches. I stumbled over tangled ropes and fishing nets and tripped on a broken section of railing. When he lunged again, I grabbed the timber and swung it like a baseball bat connecting with his shoulder and shattering the wood on impact.

The knife clattered to the deck.

His eyes darted from me to his knife. The bastard looked so young, maybe younger than my nineteen-year-old brother, Dane. How did this guy get caught up in this bullshit?

Behind him, our rubber raft bobbed in the distance. Shit! They must have cut it free.

He charged at me, crossing the deck in his bare feet. I shoved him and kicked his ribs. He stumbled, losing his balance, and crashed into a stack of wire baskets.

Before I could pull my gun, he launched to his feet and charged at me roaring like a wounded lion. He dropped his shoulder and rammed into my chest. We hit the deck in a tangle of limbs.

I punched his back. He punched my sides.

But either his aim was off, or his energy was draining. My brothers punch me harder, even when mucking around.

I rammed my knee into his balls, and as he howled in agony, I shoved him off me.

Scrambling to my feet, I pulled my gun. “Don’t move, asshole.”

My heart pounded in my ears as I aimed my gun at his head. I had never shot anyone before, but I was trained to do so, and I was angry enough to pull the trigger.

He swung a rope at me, and I didn’t see the metal hook on the end until it was too late. The hook connected with my knuckles. Pain ripped through my fingers as my gun flew from my grip, skittered across the deck, and disappeared over the side of the boat.

I grabbed a metal bucket and swung it hard into his head. The metallic clang reverberated in my ears as he staggered back, dazed. I lunged forward, driving my knee into his stomach. As he doubled over, gasping, I brought my elbow down on the back of his skull.

He crumpled to the deck, then rolled over toward the side and fell into the water.

“Dammit!” I raced to the edge and couldn’t believe the bastard was swimming toward the shore. His strokes were strong but frantic.

I turned to Ryder. He had one attacker sprawled out cold on the deck with a trickle of blood running from his nose. The other man had his arm locked behind his back and his face was contorted with pain as Ryder rammed his head into the wheelhouse wall.

Ryder shook his head at me like he knew exactly what I was going to do.

“I have to get him,” I said, emptying my pockets and removing my gun belt.

“Whisper, no,” Ryder said. “Stay on the boat.”

“I can’t let him get away. Not after what they’ve done to those people.”

“Stay here. That’s an order!” He clenched his jaw, glaring at me.

I hesitated, torn between following orders and letting that despicable human escape. The faces of those people below deck flashed through my mind—their sunken eyes, their desperation. I can’t let him get away.

“Sorry, sir,” I muttered and as I dove overboard, Ryder yelled my name.

The warm water enveloped me as I struck out with powerful strokes. The bastard had a head start, but my daily pool training made me a strong swimmer. As I closed the distance between us, my lungs burned.

I was right on his tail, but he reached the shallows first and in knee-deep water he stumbled through the maze of mangrove-twisted roots. Rising in the water, I attempted to chase after him, but the thick mud and mangled mangroves made it damn hard. Using the roots to pull myself forward, I forced my legs to move, determined to catch him.

He stumbled and his legs gave way in the sticky mud. As he struggled to regain his footing, he spun around, and his eyes locked onto mine with a mixture of surprise and desperation. With a wheezing gasp, he kicked out wildly.

His shoe connected with my cheek, sending me stumbling backward, and I tripped on a slippery root, splashing into the muddy water.

He dove on top of me and his hands closed around my throat like a vice. I bucked, trying to throw him off, but he had the better position.

His grip tightened. His bloodshot eyes flared.

As I clawed at his hands, darkness edged into my vision. Mangrove roots dug into my back as I tried to twist beneath him.

I couldn’t breathe. My lungs burned.

My knife!

I dragged my foot through the mud and my vision blurred as I reached down. My fingers were numb as I scraped my hand through the sludge, frantically searching for my ankle holster.

Each second took an eternity. His stranglehold tightened even more around my throat.

Oh God. I’m going to die.

The world faded around me, darkening more at the edges of my eyes as my lungs screamed for air.

No! I am not dying here. Not like this. And not by a fucking human trafficker.

I arched my back, lifting my foot, and my fingertips brushed the hilt of the knife. Hope flared through me, giving me a burst of energy.

The asshole leaned in closer, putting more weight on my throat.

Stars danced in my vision.

Now or never.

I wrenched the knife free, and the blade flashed in the sunlight as I drove it into his thigh.

His howl of pain pierced the air, primal and agonized. His grip loosened, and my chest heaved as I gulped in precious air.

He clenched his fist to punch my face.

I twisted the knife blade deeper.

Screaming, he toppled sideways and splashed into the muddy water.

I scrambled away, gasping. My throat was raw and aching.

He thrashed in the shallow water, clutching his leg above where the knife was embedded in his thigh. Blood seeped between his fingers, turning the murky water lapping at the wound a sickening shade of red.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins and as I staggered to my feet, my legs were rubber bands, and my vision swam.

The man slumped back in the shallows, groaning. The fight had left him, replaced by defeat and obvious pain. He reached for the knife handle.

“No. Don’t touch the knife.” I splashed through the water to him.

He gasped, peering up at me with sheer terror.

“Do you understand English?”

Tears swam in his eyes as he nodded.

“Don’t take the knife out. It will increase the bleeding.” Despite what he’d done, I couldn’t let him bleed out.

“I don’t want to die.” He sounded like a timid child.

“Help is coming,” I said, unsure if I was reassuring him or myself. “Just hold on.”

Hooking my hands under his armpits, I dragged him from the water, trying to block out his howls of pain. I knelt in the mud and pressed my hand around the hilt of the knife, holding it steady, and he whimpered.

“Just stay still,” I said, through ragged breaths. “How old are you?”

His chin dimpled. “Sixteen.”

“Oh, jeez. You’re just a kid. What the hell are you doing involved in this shit?”

His face paled. Maybe from blood loss. Maybe from the reality of his situation.

As my rush of adrenalin faded, my own critical situation crashed over me. I’d disobeyed a direct order and pursued a suspect without backup. And I’d stabbed him.

The consequences of my actions threatened to overwhelm me.

How would I explain this to Ryder? I barely believed it myself.

The knife in his leg was damning evidence of how far I’d gone.

“Don’t let me die.” He seemed to be growing younger by the minute.

“You’re not going to die. What’s your name?”

“Marcus.”

“You’re not going to die, Marcus.”

He better not die. Despite what he’d done, he was just a kid.

My hands shook as I pressed down on the wound.

“Stay with me,” I muttered as I stared across the ocean. “Just stay with me.”

The rubber dinghy was barely a dot in the distance, and Stingray was too big to come into shore.

As I tried to stem the blood oozing through my fingers, I prayed that this boy was still alive when Ryder finally reached me.

I couldn’t live with myself if it was my knife that killed him.