Chapter 11 #2
“A year ago, but it was all bullshit. That rig could have operated for another decade. The bastards just swooped in, shut us down, and we were all marched off like the place was contaminated. Didn’t even use our men to plug the pipe.”
Stone saw the pain in her eyes. “We’ll get them, Frankie. I promise.”
“There you go again, making promises.” Her gorgeous lip twitched like she was fighting a smirk.
It took everything he had to hold back from kissing her. “I only make promises that I damn well keep.”
The afternoon crept into evening. Shadows lengthened across the porch as the bayou transformed with the fading light. Frogs began their nightly chorus, battling for attention with the cicadas. A cool breeze slipped through the trees, carrying damp odors through the vegetation.
Stone’s frustration grew with each page. “There’s no pattern here I can see.”
“Maybe we’re looking at it wrong,” Frankie said, rubbing her eyes. “Dad thought in layers. He always said everything came in layers, either start at the bottom or the top, and the truth would come to light.”
Stone frowned, trying to work that in the context of what he was seeing on the pages.
The mosquitoes arrived with the dusk, forcing them inside. Stone’s cabin felt smaller in the evening light and way too intimate. He’d never had anyone else in his cabin before, let alone a stunning woman like Frankie.
He switched on the lamps, casting a warm glow across the wooden walls while Frankie spread the notebook across his kitchen counter.
“Keep at it,” he said, moving toward the fridge. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
He twisted the caps off two beers and slid one across the counter. She took it with a quick nod and drank without hesitation. Stone found himself watching, oddly pleased that she drank beer. Another small detail about Frankie that felt right.
As he chopped potatoes and carrots and seared meat, Frankie called out information from the notebook.
When he’d finished preparing their food, they sat at his small table, with the simple meal divided between them. The night sounds of the bayou filtered through the screens: bullfrogs, crickets, the occasional splash of a creature breaking the water’s surface.
“You never talk about your mom,” he said, knife hesitating over his steak.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Nope.”
He took a bite and waited, knowing silence had a way of drawing out her words.
Finally, she set down her fork.
“Mom took off when I was seven. Dad raised me.” She traced the condensation on her beer bottle with her finger. “He started bringing me out to the rig ’cause he had nobody else. Said I was stubborn enough to survive out there.”
“You? Stubborn?” His eyes widened in mock disbelief.
She thumped his arm, but a smile broke through. “Shut up.”
He grinned, warmth spreading through his chest. Stone couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this kind of easy banter with anyone. Frankie made him feel like himself again. Before all the bullshit changed him . . . hardened him.
“So you were out on the rig as a kid,” he said, leaning back. “What about school?”
“The rig was my school.” She speared a piece of potato. “Dad said if I was gonna follow him around like his shadow, I might as well learn a skill that’s useful.”
A glint of pride shimmered in her eyes. “By thirteen, I could identify every tool in the kit and knew which one he wanted before he asked for it.”
“Impressive.”
She tilted her beer bottle, eyes fixed on the label.
“I started welding at sixteen. Underwater welding by eighteen.” Her knuckles whitened around the bottle. “Men hated that I did that. Said it was a man’s job.”
“Some men are fucking idiots.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended.
Her eyes met his, a genuine smile breaking through the hardness. “Yep. No argument from me.”
She set the bottle down. “Dad loved that rig,” she said.
“Called it the last honest place left. The shutdown was fucking bullshit. Nothing added up. In the days between the announcement and us being booted off, Dad documented everything: power surges, unauthorized deliveries, and security codes changing. But they confiscated it all when we were kicked off. Wouldn’t let us take anything, not even personal stuff.
Said our belongings would be boxed up and brought to shore, and we had to collect within a month or it was trashed. ”
Stone leaned forward. “Did Digger tell anyone else about his suspicions?”
She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the table.
“Dad didn’t trust anyone after the shutdown announcement, but he was onto something, Stone. I know it in my bones.” Her voice cracked as she looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “And that’s why they killed him.”
When her chin trembled, Stone moved beside her, wrapped his arm across her shoulders, and pulled her against him.
She angrily wiped away a tear with the heel of her hand.
Stone brushed his fingers through her hair. The strands smelled distinctly of Frankie, and his chest tightened at how much that simple detail affected him. “You miss your dad, and your grief is still raw. That’s okay.”
Memories of Dane surfaced. “Dane was like a brother to me. Some mornings, I still reach for my phone to call him, and then it hits me all over again.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the sadness in her gaze nearly broke him. “Does it ever stop feeling like someone cut your heart out?”
“No.” His answer was quiet but firm. “It doesn’t. But you learn to carry it, somehow. And you keep going.”
Neither of them spoke. He pulled her against him again, his hand resting on the back of her head. She didn’t resist, sinking into the comfort of his embrace. Outside, an owl called into the stillness, its mournful cry blended into the weight of the moment.
The windows had turned dark, casting their reflection back at them. They were just two people bound by grief, searching for answers that could get them killed.
Frankie sat tucked into his arms, and in the window reflection, she looked so perfect there that it startled him. It felt familiar, as though the universe had been leading him to this moment all along. Yesterday, they’d been strangers. Tonight, they were allies in a fight neither could let go.
She eased away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. A wobbly smile tugged at her lips. “You’re a good man, Stone. Better than most.”
“Thanks,” he said, managing a small smile of his own. “I try.”
They both reached for their beers. Stone took a long pull, then set his bottle down and gazed at the open notebook between them. The page was filled with messy scribbles of dates and numbers. None of it made sense.
“Whatever your dad found . . . we’ll figure it out. Together.” He nodded at Frankie.
“Good.” She wiped the last trace of tears from her cheek. “So where do we start?”
Leaning in, Stone scanned the chaotic scrawl in the notebook. “The night we met, what made you follow those guys out to the rig? How’d you even find them?”
As Frankie flipped to the last few pages of the notebook, the grief in her expression vanished and was replaced by focus. She smoothed the paper flat and tapped a column on the right side.
“Dad kept notes. Every Wednesday and Thursday, right at midnight, a boat came up one of the back tributaries with no lights or radio chatter.”
Stone’s brow creased. “Why those nights?”
“No idea, but I watched them five times, trying to track their movements through the narrow channels. Took me that long to figure out their destination was Blackwater Deep.” She shook her head. “Should’ve figured it out sooner.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Stone said. “I felt the same way when the digital signature Dane gave me in Damascus showed up here in the goddamn Louisiana bayou.”
She backhanded his chest, a spark of her usual fire returning. “Hey. Watch it. This goddamn bayou is my home.”
He raised his hands. “No judgment from me.”
Her eyes lit up. “Maybe the boxes that were on that boat they drove through the bayou came from somewhere that only operates on those nights. Like a specific flight schedule or a trucking route.”
Stone tapped his finger on the table. “Good thinking. You might be onto something.”
Her expression shifted, eyes flying wide as she glanced at the clock.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s Thursday. They’ll be back again in four hours.” She stood fast, chair scraping. “This might be our only chance to grab those bastards.”
“Not happening, Frankie. There are at least four of them.”
She slammed her palm on the table. “Remember what we heard on the rig? Final testing. The legs are nearly ready.” She pierced him with her intense gaze.
“Whatever they’re planning, Stone, it’s happening soon. We don’t have time to waste.”
Her expression was a cocktail of determination and grief-fueled rage. She would never back down.
More importantly, she was right.
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. We’re on the same page. We’ll make those bastards talk.”
“They’re armed, Frankie.” He caught her wrist.
Her eyes flashed as she yanked her arm free. She nodded toward Weasel’s shotgun propped against the wall. “I’ll use that.”
“No, you won’t,” he said.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That thing kicks like a mule and it’s half busted. You’ll break your damn shoulder before you hit a target.”
She crossed her arms. “You got anything better?”
He sighed, then pushed back on his chair. “Wait here.” He marched to his bedroom. A few beats later, he returned with a compact black pistol and an extra mag. He set them on the table like a peace offering. “Glock nineteen. Seventeen rounds. Less noise, more control. You’ll thank me later.”
She eyed the weapon, unimpressed. “I’ve used a Glock before. But it’s not as scary-looking as a shotgun.”
“You want scary or effective?”
She grumbled, but picked it up and checked the weight. A fierce smile spread across her gorgeous lips. “I have an idea. I’ll lure them here, and you can set a trap.”
His gut sank.
She’s fucking serious.