Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The light blinked once—green, faint—and vanished.
Isobel thought her eyes were playing tricks, that exhaustion and dark water had finally blurred into one long hallucination. But Rone went still beside her. So still she could almost hear the shift in his breathing, the subtle snap from rest to readiness.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just moved. Fluid, fast, dangerous. The kind of movement that came from training, not panic. “Downstairs,” he said, his voice low, stripped of warmth.
A chill crawled up her spine. “Rone—”
“Go.” He shifted to neutral and cut the engines.
The word wasn’t shouted, but it carried the weight of command. Her heart stuttered. She tripped, caught herself on the handrail near the stairs, but refused to descend. The light from the dash painted his face in hard edges—focused, relentless, all militant again.
“Someone’s out there,” he said. “Half a mile, maybe less. I saw their nav light before they killed it.”
The words scraped through her. “Could it be Coast Guard?”
“Not a chance.” His tone left no room for hope. “They wouldn’t cut lights unless they’re hunting, and if they’re hunting—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Her throat tightened. “Hunting who?”
He didn’t look at her. “Us.”
The word landed like a weight. Heavy. Final.
“Can we outrun them?”
“No. Our only hope is if they don’t see us.” The boat rolled with the swell, cutting through ink-black water. The coastline had long vanished into shadow, and now even the horizon looked like it had dissolved.
Isobel moved closer to him, drawn by the steady certainty in his posture even as fear coiled low in her stomach. She’d seen him calm before, but this was different—this was survival mode. A silence hung between them thick enough to choke on.
“What do we do?”
“Stay low. Stay quiet,” he said. “Not good. They’re headed straight for us. They see us.”
She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. “How long until they—”
“Not long,” he said, cutting her off. His voice was calm, but she could feel the tension radiating from him like heat.
No lights besides the dim green from the console, flickering faintly across his hands on the wheel.
The boat slowed, gliding into silence. The only sounds were the slap of water and the muted thud of her heart.
For a moment, there was nothing. No engine. No movement. Just the endless, suffocating dark.
Then—soft and low—a hum. Mechanical. Steady.
Her head snapped up. “Do you hear that?”
Rone nodded, eyes narrowing. “They’re close.”
The hum cut out. The sea went still again.
Then came the sound that made every muscle in her body seize—a faint clang of metal on metal, somewhere behind them.
Her blood turned to ice.
He grabbed a flare gun from the cabinet. The sound of it clicking into his grip was too loud, too real.
She grabbed the USB drive and tucked it into the inner pocket of her shorts, made for a key, when she ran. “Rone…” she whispered.
“Downstairs. Now.” His voice went razor sharp.
He nudged her down the stairs and left to the master cabin, where he tucked her on the floor next to the berth.
The deck creaked above them. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Each one closer than the last.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She clutched the edge of the bed, trying to quiet the tremor in her hands.
Rone looked at her across the dim cabin, his silhouette tense, coiled like a spring. Their eyes met for a heartbeat—communication without words. Stay quiet. Stay ready.
Another step above them. Then another.
The door hinges groaned.
Rone swung out, arms forward, flare gun ready.
And then… nothing.
“Hey, brother.”
“Blake,” Rone said icily.
The deck above her groaned again—heavier this time. More than one set of boots.
Isobel’s pulse thrummed in her throat. She stayed crouched low, breath caught halfway between a prayer and a scream.
Rone’s silhouette shifted near the door, his stance a perfect mix of readiness and restraint.
She could tell by the set of his shoulders, he knew exactly what kind of danger was about to walk through that door.
“Come on out,” Blake ordered.
Rone nodded and set the flare down. Isobel uncoiled and joined them, walking down the hall to the salon.
Behind Blake came two more men, both armed—semi-automatic weapons slung low but ready, side arms, and vests. They looked prepared for war. The faint smell of gun oil and seawater filled the narrow space, clinging to the air like smoke.
Rone’s body went rigid, blocking her, one arm angled behind him as if to shield her.
“Blake,” he said, his voice flat. No relief. No warmth. Just steel.
Blake’s gaze swept the cabin, landing on Isobel. His eyes narrowed, not cruelly—but clinically. Assessing. “You’ve been busy.”
A flicker of something passed across Blake’s expression—amusement, maybe. “Why you hanging out here with your lights out?” The words slithered through the cabin like a venomous snake.
Isobel’s stomach knotted. She’d known they were connected, but hearing it—hearing that tone—made the air feel thinner.
The two men behind Blake fanned out, clearing corners, movements sharp and efficient.
Rone lifted his hands slowly, not surrendering—containing. “You want to tell me why you came aboard armed?”
Blake’s mouth tipped in a humorless smile. “Because you threw your cell into the mangroves like you thought I couldn’t find you. And because the kind of people chasing that girl—” his gaze flicked to Isobel “—don’t just stop because you went for a joyride in the gulf.”
Isobel’s chest tightened. She didn’t know if it was how Rone reacted, or the way this Blake spoke, or the fact FBI made her cringe, but she didn’t trust him or the situation. “Then why sneak up on us?” she asked, her voice coming out lower than she meant, tight with adrenaline. “Why not call out?”
Blake’s head tilted. “Because, Miss Lane, chatter gets people killed. The fewer transmissions, the less chance they could triangulate. We had to stay dark. Only these two came with me.” He motioned to the men behind him. “They’re the only ones I trust to get you both out alive.”
For a moment, the words sounded reasonable. Almost.
But the edge in his tone… the measured calm… it wasn’t reassurance. It was something else. Something rehearsed.
Rone didn’t relax. If anything, the tension in his body doubled. “And what’s the extraction plan?” he asked, voice like gravel.
Blake smiled again, faint and unreadable. “We’ll discuss that when we’re underway. For now, we need to move. The longer we float here, the better the chance Laurel Tide finds you. You need to come with us.”
Rone didn’t move. His silence stretched long enough that even the waves outside seemed to wait.
Isobel’s pulse climbed higher, faster. Every instinct screamed that something was wrong.
Finally, Rone’s voice broke the quiet. “You came without a team. Without backup.”
“Just us,” Blake said, stepping closer. “Because I couldn’t risk chatter.”
Rone’s jaw ticked. “That’s not how you work.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed—just a sliver. “You don’t know how I work anymore.”
The moment hung suspended, taut as wire.
Isobel’s fingers curled into her palms. Her pulse pounded so loud it filled her ears, drowning the creak of the deck and the whisper of the tide.
She didn’t trust Blake. She didn’t trust the stillness.
And when she glanced at Rone—really looked—she realized he didn’t either.
Rone didn’t buy any of it.
Not the rescue. Not the calm swagger. Not the faint, brotherly smirk Blake wore like armor. He stood, body angled slightly toward Blake, his hand loose at his side—but ready. Always ready.
“You told me to meet you at Coya Costa,” Rone said. His voice came out steady, but his pulse wasn’t. “You said you were assembling a team.”
Blake’s mouth curved, half amused, half dismissive. “Relax, brother. That was the point.”
Rone’s jaw flexed. “The point?”
“I needed you to take the bait.” Blake stepped closer, bracing one gloved hand against the bulkhead as though this were just another day, another op.
“That island? I had one of my undercover agents plant the tracker there at great risk to his cover. He’s been in Laurel for years, trying to take down the organization.
He had to pry that tracker from the mouth of your friend’s dog.
Strange animal, that one. Almost blew the whole setup. ”
A muscle in Rone’s cheek twitched. “Echo.”
Blake nodded. “That’s the one. Smart mutt, just a little too loyal for his own good. I figured if you saw the signal at the same locale as extraction, you’d do what you always do—go off-grid, take the trawler away from shore, and try to play the lone hero.”
Rone’s stomach went cold. He hated how right Blake sounded, hated that his brother still knew his patterns.
“So what?” he asked, voice low. “You used a tracker to smoke me out?”
Blake’s expression barely shifted. “I needed to make sure Laurel Tide believed you were running for Coya Costa. They’ve got eyes everywhere on the mainland. Once you went dark, it was only a matter of time before they came sniffing. We just had to find you first.”
“By sneaking up on us in the middle of the night with rifles.”
Blake shrugged. “Would you rather I knocked?”
Rone’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh, the burn bandage tugging as the movement pulled at the skin beneath. His instincts screamed that none of this added up. Blake was too calm. Too polished. Every sentence was crafted to sound reasonable, and that alone made it dangerous.
Behind him, he could feel Isobel’s eyes boring into him. He didn’t dare look back. Couldn’t. Because if he did, he’d see the question written all over her face. Can you trust him?
And he didn’t have an answer.
Blake’s tone softened, but not enough to sound human. “You’ve always been like this, Rone. Too noble for your own good. That’s why I knew I’d have to come in person. Because based on the way you feel about that woman…”
Rone’s throat locked.