Chapter 6
STONE
As sunrise slashed the sky with violent orange hues, Stone kept his binoculars trained on the waters behind them, methodically scanning the stretch between their boat and the oil rig. Three minutes of surveillance. Nothing yet.
Good. But it wouldn’t last.
Frankie’s name was carved into that damn kayak! Fucking hell.
As they entered the first larger channel, the air thickened with scents of damp earth and decaying vegetation in a distinct aroma that clung to everything.
The bayou waters seemed to swallow them whole as he navigated a labyrinth of twisting channels and murky depths that stretched on forever.
The narrow waterways were tailor-made for vanishing, and it was a relief to be out of the open water.
They passed two decrepit fishing boats, but their occupants seemed too absorbed in their morning catch to spare them a glance. Stone had grown to appreciate the locals’ tendency to keep to themselves. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen to hide out in these swamps with his Shadow Hounds team.
“So how long until they trace you, you reckon?” he asked, lowering the binoculars.
Frankie relaxed her grip on the boat side as they bounced over a small wake. “Hours? Days, if I’m lucky? If one of those bastards has a connection to the rig, they already know who I am.”
“Were your crew records up to date at the rig?” he asked.
She turned to him, a flash of irritation sparking in her eyes. “People know me, Stone. I’ve lived around here my whole life. Records or not, it’s not like I’m a stranger in these parts.”
“That’s why I’m taking you somewhere secure.” He left no room for debate in his tone.
“What? Hell no.” Frankie snapped. “I’m not going anywhere with you. And I don’t need your help.”
She straightened her spine.
She was five-foot-four of pure stubborn defiance. Eyes harder than Kevlar. The same determined set to her jaw he’d seen in special forces recruits with a point to prove.
“Those men weren’t weekend warriors, Frankie,” he said, keeping his tone hard. “They’re trained. Armed. Dangerous. And they were shooting to kill.”
“Yeah, no shit. Now pull into shore,” she said, pointing to the riverbank. “I want out.”
“Negative.”
Whether she liked it or not, they were involved now, and he wasn’t about to let her go until he knew she was safe.
She shoved her ass along the seat to the edge, rocking the boat so hard, he had to shift his footing. “Either you take me to shore, or I jump.”
His hand locked on her wrist. “Jesus, woman. There are alligators in these waters.”
A cold smile touched her lips. “I’ll take my chances with the gators over whatever you’ve got planned.”
A flicker of sadness crossed her eyes, but it was quickly hidden behind her mask of defiance again.
“I said, pull into shore,” she repeated, her voice firm.
“Calm down,” he said, but he regretted his words when her eyes flashed with anger.
“Don’t tell me to calm down.”
“Sorry. Okay. Fine.” He throttled back, switching tactics. “I’ll take you home.”
For now.
Regardless of the plan, he had no intention of letting her out of his sight. Only to protect her, he told himself. Yet this firecracker had snagged his attention, a spark he hadn’t felt in years.
The memory of Melissa’s betrayal still carved a hole in his chest. He’d been shipped home from deployment after he’d tangled with a grenade that had gotten too close. Finding Melissa in bed with her boss hurt more than the shrapnel wounds crisscrossing his back.
Frankie rolled her shoulders as if working out a kink. He stayed silent, waiting for her to break the stillness.
Finally, she pointed down a narrow channel. “That way.”
She guided him through a maze of winding channels, each narrower and more humid than the last. The deeper they traveled, the more alligators appeared, sunning themselves along muddy banks. Some massive bastards too.
As they glided around a bend, a six-foot gator pivoted sharply and slid into the water, vanishing beneath the surface in stealth mode. The beast was probably headed straight for them now, silent and deadly beneath the murk.
“You kayak through here?” Stone asked, his eyes locked on a monstrous fourteen-footer as it, too, disappeared smoothly into the dark water.
“Yep.” Frankie shrugged as if dodging alligators was just another Tuesday for her.
Curiosity about this woman tangled through his thoughts, and he forced himself to look away.
Damn it. She’s getting under my skin.
And he was beginning to think it wasn’t all bad.
Around another narrow bend, she pointed to a stilt house ahead. Its weathered planks rose from the murky water, elevated above the mud on crooked stumps. The structure wasn’t much bigger than the log cabin he’d bought when he’d first moved down here. Basic. Functional. Isolated.
Stone eased toward the dock, running threat assessment. Multiple unsecured entry points. No defensive fallback positions. The dense vegetation behind the house could conceal a dozen hostiles. Her place was a tactical nightmare, and there was no fucking way he was letting her stay here alone.
“Thanks for the ride.” She stepped onto weathered planks, her tone a clear dismissal.
“You’re forgetting one important detail. We’re partners now, Frankie.”
A sharp laugh cut through humid air. “We’re not anything.”
He secured the boat and followed. “Those men are hunting you. They’re armed, they’re trained, and they have your name.”
“I can handle myself.”
He closed the gap between them, gripping her shoulders gently but firmly.
“We’re on the same side, for God’s sake. I want to nail those bastards just as badly as you do.” He softened his voice, appealing to reason. “Working together gives us a tactical advantage.”
Uncertainty flickered across her face, guarded but vulnerable. What had happened to make her so fiercely independent and so wary?
“Pack a bag,” he said. “Stay with me at my cabin near Bayou Black. It’s secure, defensible. Once we know it’s safe, I’ll bring you straight back here. I promise.”
She shook her head. “I’ve heard promises before.”
She twisted free of his grip.
“Frankie, for fuck’s sake.” Frustration tightened his chest. “Will you just listen? Those men tried to kill you. They won’t stop. Not now they know you witnessed whatever they’re into.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what exactly are they into?”
“How the hell should I know?” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. Time wasn’t on their side. He took a breath, forcing calm back into his voice. “But if we team up, maybe we can find out.”
She exhaled, and the tension drained slightly from her shoulders.
“Fine.” She flashed him a teasing smirk. “You just want to get me alone in your cabin.”
Stone narrowed his gaze, aiming for unaffected disinterest, but her words sparked a dangerous image of her naked and tangled in his sheets.
He crushed that thought. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not with her. Not now.
She strode along the rickety jetty toward a battered set of stairs. At the bottom stood an array of metal sculptures: a great blue heron caught mid-flight, a snapping turtle etched with intricate shell patterns, an alligator whose scales gleamed in meticulous detail.
Stopping at the base of the steps, she swiveled to him. “Stay here.”
“Hell no,” he shot back. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re safe.”
Groaning, she stomped up the stairs. He followed her sexy ass, pausing only briefly to inspect a sculpted egret, marveling at the precision of its welded feathers.
Inside, the kitchen was spartan yet functional. Utensils dangled from hooks, arranged by size. On a shelf sat two chunky coffee mugs and two dinner plates. He had the impression they were the only crockery she owned. Nothing was wrong with that, he hated clutter too.
Smaller sculptures dotted the windowsills: an artful crawfish, a fat bullfrog, a tiny pelican mid-preen.
He lifted a sculpted catfish from the sill, admiring the skillful detail of its welded whiskers as he stepped into the living room.
Two worn recliners sat facing a modest television with a coffee table positioned between them.
His gaze lingered on the second chair, an unwanted curiosity tightening his jaw.
Who sits there?
He shook off the thought, pissed off that he wanted to know.
Not your business, Stone. Not part of the mission.
“Did you make these sculptures?” he called toward the hallway, breaking the silence.
“Yeah. What about them?” she replied with an unmistakable defensive tone.
“They’re impressive.”
She emerged from a back room, arms folded, suspicion etched across her features. “You don’t need to bullshit me, Stone.”
“I’m not,” he said, with a small chuckle as he returned the metal catfish to its spot. “What’s it going to take for you to trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone.” Her voice was flat and utterly final.
The statement hit him with unexpected weight.
He knew the kind of hurt that came with losing trust in people.
It wasn’t just Melissa’s betrayal that had burned him.
He and his team had been fucked over by someone very close to them.
That treachery had cost them all everything. It had cost Dane his life.
Trust wasn’t just a luxury. It was a tactical liability if misplaced. Trust had to be earned, and even then, it remained a calculated risk that needed constant reassessing.
Frankie strode past him, dropped her backpack on the floor, and then bent over to rummage through her refrigerator’s meager contents.
Her outfit was simple: worn denim shorts, a navy T-shirt, and black ankle-high boots.
Practical. Unremarkable, except the way the fabric hugged her curves was anything but forgettable.
Somehow, those boots made her legs look longer than they were, and lean and toned.
Hot damn, she’s fit.