Chapter 30
Thirty
Sloane
Iwatched Callan lie there on the deck for a moment, his chest rising and falling hard as he fought to catch his breath. Water pooled beneath him, dripping off his clothes and running across the worn wooden planks of the Mariner.
For a few seconds none of us spoke, just the boat engine idling and the sound of waves against the hull.
As his breathing started to even out, he dragged a hand across his face and pushed himself up onto his elbows.
The moment he moved, his face twisted, a sharp wince.
“You’re hurt.”
He looked up at me, face tight with pain.
“Broke or sprained my ankle,” he muttered.
“Shit.”
I dropped beside him, my knees hitting the deck hard enough to sting. His pant leg clung heavily and soaked against his skin.
“Let me see it.”
He didn’t argue as I pulled the fabric up past his boot, careful. The ankle had already begun to swell, the skin stretched tight and flushed an ugly red.
I pressed gently along the joint.
He hissed through his teeth.
“Yeah… that’s not great.”
“Move it,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Move it?”
“Wiggle it.”
He sighed but rotated his foot slowly; pain crossed his face; but he managed the movement.
I leaned back and studied it, trying to look as if I had any real authority here.
“Probably sprained,” I said, putting on my most clinical voice.
Callan stared at me.
Then he smirked.
“Thanks, Doctor Sloane.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hey, I am a doctor.”
He tilted his head. “Marine biology doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts. Just… not in this specific scenario.”
That earned a small chuckle, quiet and rough, and something about it—the way his eyes softened even through the pain—I let out a breath and relaxed a bit.
I lowered his pant leg carefully, and my fingers lingered against his calf a beat longer than necessary. His eyes caught mine; I didn’t look away.
“You shouldn’t walk on that much,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
“I’ll manage.”
He reached for the railing, already pushing himself upright.
“Callan—”
“I’ll live, Sloane, not the worst injury I’ve ever had.”
I stood with him, close enough that my shoulder pressed against his arm; he didn’t pull away. For a moment his hand found the small of my back—steadying himself, or something else—and the warmth of his palm through my damp shirt sent a current of warmth straight through me.
Then he let go.
Jeff walked over from the wheelhouse, wiping his hands on a rag.
“How bad?”
“Sloane says I’ll live,” Callan said.
Jeff looked at the swollen ankle and grunted. “Lucky you didn’t break it jumping off that wall.”
“Lucky I didn’t get eaten,” Callan muttered.
Ethan leaned against the railing nearby, still watching the water with nervous eyes.
Callan’s expression shifted, the brief lightness draining out of him.
“Jeff.”
Jeff looked over. “Yeah?”
Callan grabbed the railing and straightened, keeping the weight off his bad ankle. Something in his voice had changed—gone quiet and deliberate—and it pulled the attention of everyone on deck.
“The dock pump.”
Jeff rubbed his beard. “Yeah, we definitely need fuel.”
Callan’s grip tightened on the railing.
Jeff noticed the shift.
“When we head north,” Callan said slowly, his gaze drifting toward the open water, “I’m worried we might be sailing straight into worse.”
The wind whipped across the deck.
Jeff folded his arms. “You think the whole coast looks like that parking lot?”
Callan shrugged, but there wasn’t anything casual about it.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan shifted. “So, what do we do?”
Callan looked at Jeff. Then he tapped the map table through the open wheelhouse door.
“That’s what we need to figure out. Exactly what we’re sailing into—before we get there.”
* * *
We stayed quiet as the Mariner pushed out from the channel and into open water. The shoreline shrank behind us, the aquarium building shrinking to a small gray shape against the coast.
Jeff guided the boat about a quarter mile offshore before nodding to Ethan, who throttled the engine down. The sudden quiet hit strangely after everything. The engine idled for a few seconds, then Ethan killed it completely.
The ocean rolled beneath us, the boat rocking with the slow rhythm of the swells.
Jeff stepped out of the wheelhouse and sat on the bench along the deck. Ethan followed, dropping down beside his dad.
Callan and I were already sitting across from them. He had his injured leg stretched out, the ankle swelling visibly through the damp fabric. His hand rested loosely around mine.
I noticed it before he did.
When he realized, he gave my hand a small squeeze instead of pulling away.
Jeff leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“Alright. What’s the plan?”
Callan looked at him, then glanced at me. His grip tightened slightly before he spoke.
“Marina.”
Jeff nodded slowly.
“It’s big,” Callan said, looking around the group.
Ethan frowned. “How big?”
“Hundreds of slips. Maybe more.” He paused. “And the fuel pump sits at the end of the interior docks.”
My stomach dropped. Inside the slips.
Jeff leaned back and exhaled through his nose. “So we’d be boxed in.”
“Yeah.”
Callan let that sit for a second.
“If those things are there, they could be on every dock around us. Every direction.”
The wind pushed my hair across my face. I didn’t bother to fix it.
“Well, if it helps, they can’t swim, so as long as we don’t get close enough for them to jump, we should be fine. The pump is an old crank system,” Callan continued.
Jeff’s eyebrows lifted. “Manual?”
“Never upgraded it. Old marina.”
“How long to fill?”
Callan shrugged. “About ten minutes of cranking for a three-hundred-mile run.”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “Ten minutes? Out in the open?”
Callan nodded. “I’ll do the pumping.”
I shook my head immediately. “With that ankle?”
“I’ll manage.”
“You sure?” Jeff studied him.
“It’s cranking a handle. I can do it sitting down if I have to.”
“But that leaves you completely exposed,” I said, quieter now.
Callan didn’t argue.
“No shit.”
The boat rocked gently beneath us. Nobody spoke for a long moment, each of us turning the plan over, looking for something better and not finding it.
Jeff broke the silence. “So, what’s the plan to get this done?”
Callan glanced at me again. Something passed between us—not quite an apology, closer to trust.
Then he looked back at Jeff.
“You three guard me while I crank the pump.”
Ethan blinked. “Guard?”
“With whatever we’ve got.”
I sighed. “Which is?”
Jeff gestured toward the gear crate behind him. “Heavy gaff hooks. For hauling fish. Long handles, sharp points.”
“Good for keeping distance,” Callan added.
Jeff reached down and tapped the small pistol at his belt. “And I’ve got this. Limited ammo, though.”
“Last resort,” Callan said, firm.
“Last resort,” Jeff agreed.
I sat with it for a second, the picture building in my head: the three of us standing guard on a dock with gaff hooks and a half-loaded pistol while Callan cranked fuel ten minutes in the open.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Jeff and I take the front line.”
Jeff glanced at me. “Are you sure about that?”
I gave him a look. “I’ve wrestled sharks.”
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. “That’s somehow not comforting.”
Callan squeezed my hand again, and when I turned toward him, his expression had changed. The tactical edge had turned more vulnerable.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
I held his gaze. “Yes. I do.”
He searched my face for a moment, as if he wanted to argue but knew better; his thumb traced a slow line across my fingers. Then he let out a breath and nodded, just barely.
Ethan leaned forward. “What about the boat?”
Callan’s focus shifted back to the group. “When I’m close to done, Ethan, you head back here.”
“I’ll start the engine,” Ethan said.
“Exactly. Have her running and ready.”
Jeff picked up the thread. “Tank full, we all run for the boat.”
“And get the hell out,” Ethan said.
“That’s the idea.”
The four of us sat with it, the ocean stretching empty in every direction around us, the coastline a thin, dark line to the west.
Jeff stood first.
“Well,” he said, brushing off his hands. “Sounds like a terrible plan.”
Ethan looked up at him. “So… we’re doing it?”
Jeff nodded once.
Callan’s eyes drifted toward the distant shore.
“It’s the only one we’ve got.”
* * *
Jeff stood at the wheel with one hand on the throttle, guiding the Mariner silently between the outer channel markers. The marina came into view ahead of us, rows of empty slips stretching out in long, narrow lanes.
Beal Marina.
It looked abandoned at first glance, with boats still in their slips, a few sails half unfurled in the wind.
But the stillness had an edge to it, almost too quiet, as if the whole place had stopped breathing.
Ethan stood at the bow railing with one of the gaff hooks in his hands, shifting his grip every few seconds, clearly wishing it were anything else.
Jeff eased the throttle back as he guided us into the marina interior, the engine growling low and ominous in the quiet air, the sound echoing off hulls and dock pilings and coming back to us.
The boat slid forward, barely making a wake as it sliced through the water.
Callan sat beside me on the bench, his injured ankle braced against the deck; he didn’t make a sound.
“You good?” I murmured.
He turned toward me, and his hand came up to my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone.
He leaned in and kissed me, slow and certain, his lips warm against mine, tasting of salt and something deeper—something that made my chest hurt.
His other hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and I leaned into him, my palm pressing against his chest where I could count every beat of his heart beneath.
When we broke apart, neither of us moved far; his breath mingled with mine.
“Come back from this,” I whispered. “That’s all I’m asking—that we come back from this.”
He opened his eyes and looked straight into mine.
“We will.”