14. What Kind of Idiot?
14
WHAT KIND OF IDIOT?
EZRA
The morning after the storm is still bitter and harsh. The sky hangs low and heavy, bruised clouds stretching over the island, blotting out the sun. Wind whips against my face as I step outside to assess the damage. My boots crunch against debris—branches, seaweed, and whatever else the storm threw onto the shore.
I glance back at the cottage. Kruz is still asleep, bundled up in the bed where she finally drifted off sometime in the early hours. Before I left I took a long look at her, her dark curls spilled over the pillow, a stark contrast to her pale face, and for once, she looked peaceful, even if it was short-lived.
I’ll let her rest while I figure out just how bad things are out here.
The storm didn’t spare much. The pier looks like it’s barely holding on, the wood warped and splintered even more so than before. A few shingles are missing from the cottage roof, but nothing catastrophic. The gutter on the north side is bent, hanging loose like a broken limb. I make a mental note to fix it when I have the time—and the tools.
What worries me most is the power situation. With the sky this gloomy, the solar panels won’t be much help. I run a hand through my hair, damp from the lingering mist in the air. “ Great ,” I mutter to myself. If the panels don’t get enough light, the battery won’t recharge, and we’ll be stuck relying on the fireplace for warmth and the little gas left in the generator for cooking.
I don’t even want to think about what happens when that runs out.
I tug at my jacket as I scan the horizon. The ocean is still angry, waves churning and crashing against the rocks. It’s the kind of day that makes you question anyone’s sanity for being out here voluntarily.
Which is why the boat doesn’t make sense.
I see it, bobbing dangerously close to the island, tossed by the relentless waves. It’s small, maybe a fishing boat or a dinghy, but it’s way too close. The current dragged it in, but no one in their right mind would be out in this weather. My heart sinks as I take in the way it’s being battered by the waves, each impact pushing it closer to the jagged rocks.
“What kind of idiot…?” I trail off, narrowing my eyes as the boat gets closer. Something about it feels wrong. It’s not just the timing or the weather—there’s an unnatural stillness about it, even as the waves pummel its sides.
The next wave is a big one, slamming the boat hard against the rocks. The sound echoes—a sickening crunch of wood and fiberglass. I swear under my breath and jog down to the shore. The spray from the crashing waves dampens my face as I pick my way over the debris-strewn ground.
By the time I reach the wreck, it’s clear there’s no saving the boat. It’s wedged against the rocks, half-sunken, water sloshing over the edge. The smell of gasoline hangs in the air, mixing with the briny scent of the ocean.
My stomach twists as I take in the damage.
I call out, “Anyone there?” But I already know something’s wrong. There’s no movement, no response. Just the sound of the waves and the groan of the boat’s broken hull.
Climbing onto the rocks, I peer into the boat. Two people—a man and a woman—lie motionless inside, their bodies contorted.
The man is slumped over the controls, his head lolling at an unnatural angle, his skin washed out and lifeless. The woman is crumpled against the side, her face eerily pale, her body still as the storm-drenched air around us. Their clothes are soaked through, their limbs stiff, the unmistakable signs of death written all over them.
Blood pools at the bottom of the boat, diluted by the seawater that’s sloshed in from the storm.
“Shit,” I mutter, my stomach tightening. The wind howls around me, tugging at my clothes as if trying to pull me away from the grim scene.
The storm did this. The sea tossed them around like rag dolls, smashed them against the boat, and left them like this, drifting and forgotten.
For a second, I just stare, trying to piece together what happened. Maybe they got caught too far from shore, their engine failing when they needed it most. Maybe they thought they could ride it out and underestimated the force of it. Maybe they fought to the last second, struggling against the waves before they lost.
It doesn’t matter now. They’re gone.
And the real problem isn’t just the fact that they’re dead—it’s that their presence here means something. No one comes so close to this island by accident.
My foot nudges something loose near the back of the boat, and when I glance down, my breath catches.
Bags—small, tightly packed, and unmistakable—filled with what I can only assume is drugs.
A lot of them.
The sight sends a jolt of adrenaline through me, my mind racing with possibilities.
I crouch, pulling one open just to confirm. White powder spills out onto my fingers.
This complicates everything. My mind races, weighing my options.
The Assembly uses this island for off-the-books dealings—smuggling, laundering, backdoor negotiations far from prying eyes. It’s a place where things happen quietly, away from the mainland, away from any real consequences. But these two? They don’t belong here.
Wrong place, wrong time.
They’re not Assembly. Just some unlucky drug runners who must’ve veered off course during the storm, forced to go out into the weather despite the danger by whoever it is they were working for. But their presence here throws everything off balance. If someone comes looking for them, and I have no doubt they will with the amount of drugs on this boat… Well, that’s the last thing we need.
And if they were being tracked? Even worse.
Whoever sent them out in this mess wouldn’t just leave them to their fate. There’s a good chance the boat has a GPS tracker onboard, something their boss can ping if they don’t check in. Maybe it’s hidden in the console, rigged to send automatic updates on their location. Or maybe it’s something more subtle—an air tag slipped into a duffel bag, a satellite phone with a live connection, a failsafe in case shit went sideways.
I scan the deck, my pulse ticking up. If their people can track this thing, then it won’t be long before someone else shows up. And considering the kind of business they were in, I doubt it’ll be anyone friendly.
This isn’t just about cleaning up the wreckage now. Someone will come looking for this shipment—if they aren’t already.
People who run drugs don’t leave loose ends.
I would know.
I stand and stare out at the horizon, half-expecting another boat to appear at any moment.
I’m not just worried about protecting Kruz from the Assembly anymore. Now I have to deal with this mess too.
The thought of what could happen if they find the drugs—and us—on this island makes my stomach churn.
I glance back toward the cottage, where Kruz is still blissfully unaware of what’s happened.
For her sake, I hope it stays that way.
But I know better than to believe in luck.
The wind picks up again, howling like a living thing as it sweeps across the shore.
I turn back to the wreck, my mind racing.
I search the boat for anything that might offer a clue about who these people were or why they were here.
A wallet, a phone, a scrap of paper—anything.
My fingers tremble as I sift through the wreckage.
I find a small leather bag tucked under the seat. Inside, there’s a phone with a cracked screen and a handful of soggy bills. No IDs, no names.
Just more questions.
The phone might be useful, but it’s dead—waterlogged and unresponsive. Still, I slip it into my pocket, hoping I can salvage something from it later.
My gaze shifts to the bodies, and a wave of nausea washes over me. I need to report this. But to who? The Assembly’s reach extends far, and I can’t trust the local authorities to handle this without getting us caught in their web.
The thought of involving the Assembly is out of the question, even though any other time before now it would have been my first choice.
My jaw tightens as I make my decision, but first I need to go back to the cottage.
No matter how badly I don’t want to tell Kruz, there’s no way around it.
As I straighten, a flash of movement catches my eye. I whip around, heart pounding, but it’s just a gull, circling overhead.
Still, the tension doesn’t leave my body. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched, that the island isn’t as isolated as it seems.
I take one last look at the wreck, the bodies slumped lifelessly inside, and turn back toward the cottage.
Kruz is still asleep when I step inside, her form curled up under the blanket.
For now, she’s safe.
But I know it’s only a matter of time before the storm we’ve been hiding from finds us again.