Chapter 38
For the first time in ten bloody days, I wake up without an alarm dragging me out of bed.
It takes a moment for the quiet to register properly.
No radio chatter from the station, no pager buzzing on the nightstand, no voice in the hallway calling my name because someone needs another set of hands.
Just the soft gray light of morning filtering through the curtains and the rare, unfamiliar feeling that the day doesn’t belong to the job.
I lie there staring at the ceiling for a minute, letting my shoulders sink deeper into the mattress while the dull ache from the last stretch of shifts slowly fades into the background.
Ten straight days of cold water, rough surf, and barely enough sleep to function settle deep into your bones.
Knowing I’ve finally got a day off makes the soreness easier to ignore.
Eventually, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and make my way to the kitchen, throwing together something quick to eat while the coffee brews. Nothing fancy. Just enough to start the day.
With nowhere pressing to be, I take my time moving through the morning, throwing a load of laundry into the washer before opening the back door, knowing the scruffy orange cat that’s been visiting lately will already be on the porch like he’s the one paying the mortgage.
I set a little food out for him and lean against the counter with my coffee while he eats, pretending not to notice the way he watches me.
By the time the coffee’s gone cold in my mug, the stiffness in my shoulders is starting to loosen up a bit. I grab my gym bag and head out the door, figuring a workout might shake the rest of it loose.
The air carries that familiar coastal bite, cool and damp with the ocean somewhere just beyond the cliffs.
I toss my gym bag onto the passenger seat and climb into the truck, starting the engine before pulling out onto the road.
A few minutes into the drive, my phone rings through the truck speakers.
García.
I frown slightly and tap the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Didn’t think you knew what a day off was,” I say.
Normally, he’d have something sarcastic ready for me, but today, there’s nothing like that on the other end of the line.
Instead, his voice comes through tight.
“Finn, you near town?”
The change in his tone has my attention sharpening immediately.
“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Why?”
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again.
“We’ve got a situation at the harbor.”
My grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
“What kind of situation?”
“Marine unit call,” he says. “Fishing vessel drifting toward the rocks. Fire department responded first. Coast Guard crew on duty is assisting a vessel out near Otter Rock, and my team in Newport is working a capsized boat.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “So why are you calling me?”
“Search command just activated.”
My stomach drops. “What happened?”
“Man overboard.”
I swing the wheel hard, cutting across the lane to make a sharp U-turn, ignoring the horn that blasts behind me as I press down on the accelerator.
“Who?” I ask.
García exhales.
“Holloway.”
My grip tightens on the wheel.
“I’m on my way,” I say, hanging up before he can respond.
Christ.
I pull into the lot faster than I should, sliding the truck into one of the reserved spaces before jumping out and heading straight inside.
The station is already alive with movement. Radios crackle across the room while people move quickly between equipment racks and computer terminals.
Officer Schwartz spots me first.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“No time,” I respond as I pass. “Where’s command?”
“Operations room,” he calls after me.
Lieutenant Mercer is standing over the operations table when I step into the room. Charts and radios are spread out in front of him, voices overlapping as crews coordinate search patterns out on the water.
I come to a stop and salute.
“Sir.”
His eyes lift immediately.
“You’re not scheduled today, O’Donoghue.”
“No, sir.” I lower my hand. “With all due respect, I’d like to go.”
He studies me for a moment, weighing the request, the room around us still buzzing with activity.
Then he gives a short nod.
“Helicopter’s inbound. Five minutes out.”
That’s all I need to hear.
I turn and head straight for the locker room.
The gear goes on fast, muscle memory taking over as I pull the thermal layer over my skin before stepping into the dry suit.
The material seals tight around my wrists and neck while I clip my harness into place, attaching the strobe light, knife, and tether line the same way I’ve done a hundred times before.
Schwartz appears in the doorway while I’m tightening the last strap.
“Lost visual about ten minutes ago,” he says.
Ten minutes.
The number settles heavily in my chest.
“What’s the water temperature?”
“Fifty-one.”
I let out a slow breath.
Cold water at that temperature doesn’t give a man much time. Swim failure can start in three minutes once the shock hits, and hypothermia follows not long after if you’re not properly insulated.
I know Holloway didn’t go in wearing a wetsuit. He’d be in boat gear — waterproof layers, heavy deck boots — clothing meant for working on the water, not going into it.
He’s a tough swimmer, though.
Hell, that’s how our stupid rivalry started in the first place. When he trained with the marine response unit, he posted better swim times than I did and nearly wrecked my pride in the process.
But even the toughest man can only survive so long in these waters, no matter how strong a swimmer he is.
Schwartz glances at his watch.
“Helicopter’s three minutes out.”
“Grand.”
I pull on my gloves and head toward the bay doors, pushing them open as I step outside.
The first person I see is Chief Prince.
He’s standing just off to the side of the entrance, his big black dog sitting alert beside him like he knows something serious is happening. Nathan’s eyes are fixed out toward the harbor, his shoulders tight.
For a second, I think about what that must feel like.
A man who spent years jumping into the water when things went wrong is now stuck on shore while someone else does the work.
Retirement probably feels grand when you’ve had a run like his, but a moment like this would make a man wish he was still the one in the water.
He turns when the door shuts behind me.
“I thought you were off today,” he says.
“I was,” I answer, walking toward him. “Came in as soon as I heard.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. I can see the worry in his eyes, even though he’s doing his best to keep it locked down.
Nathan steps closer and places a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Leave the bullshit aside,” he says quietly. “Stay focused… and bring him back.”
I nod once.
“I will.”
His hand drops away, leaving the weight of it on my shoulders.
He looks toward the far side of the lot, and I follow his gaze.
May is standing beside her truck, her phone pressed to her ear as she talks to someone.
She’s doing a good job holding herself together, but even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand grips the edge of the truck, her fingers curling against the metal as if she needs something to hold onto.
I make my way toward her.
She looks up, spots me walking toward her, and immediately ends the call, her eyes filling with tears.
Christ, she’s terrified.
I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. She clutches the front of my suit and buries her face against my chest, a soft sob breaking loose.
The sound of the helicopter reaches us then, the low thump of rotor blades growing louder as it approaches the harbor.
Time’s up.
I gently pull back and cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look up at me.
Her eyes are red, shining with fear.
“Don’t worry, lass,” I tell her softly. “I’ll bring him back to you.”