Deadly Currents (Hidden Bay #3)

Chapter 1

The sea never gives back what it claims . . .”

Her father’s voice echoed through her thoughts, gritty and sharp—like the wind whipping around her and the salt cutting into her cheeks early on this Monday morning.

Cressida Valentine stepped back inside the wheelhouse where Captain Everett “Salty” Malloy stood at the helm of the Mariner’s Gambit—an older-than-time fishing trawler.

Next to Malloy, she curled her fingers around the binoculars and peered at the dense marine fog chasing them along the Washington coast. Uneasiness pressed down on her as she scanned the mist-veiled horizon.

Her father had spent his life chasing secrets buried in waters too deep and too dark to trust.

And here I am, chasing them too.

Out of the white rolling cloud, a speedboat emerged, and it headed straight for the Mariner’s Gambit, startling her. “Looks like someone’s coming toward us,” she said.

“Let me see those.” Malloy took the binoculars she offered—they were his, after all—and peered through.

Then he swore under his breath. Gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

His reaction wasn’t a good sign. “Who is it? What’s going on?”

Captain Malloy handed the binoculars back, then stepped to the helm. Despite the early morning cold, sweat beaded his temples, his knuckles white on the wheel. A man on a mission to escape?

“Doesn’t matter.” The tension in his jaw said otherwise.

“What do they want?”

He didn’t answer.

Not good enough. Cressida grabbed his arm. “Captain—”

“Not now.” He shrugged out of her grip and shoved the throttle forward, and the Mariner’s Gambit groaned as it accelerated, slicing through the swells. “I need to get away from them.”

“In this?” She bit her lip, regretting the question. They’d traveled between five and ten knots around the Olympic Peninsula from Port Angeles because fishing trawlers were built for endurance, not speed, Malloy had informed her.

Granted, the old trawler had been updated, boasting modern electronics and “smart” instruments on the dashboard. A necessity, he’d said, since he and his thirty-something son, Dax, were the only ones to crew the sixty-five-foot fishing and sightseeing charter vessel.

He didn’t respond to her comment.

“Why is that boat headed straight for us?” She peered through the binoculars again, hoping to see if Malloy had put more distance between them.

“I don’t want to find out.” He suddenly turned the wheel, and the boat veered hard to port, into a fifteen-foot swell, throwing her sideways against the wall. She lost sight of the pursuers.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered.

But it was.

She wanted to trust Malloy, to believe him, but he wasn’t making it easy.

Her mind raced through the possible scenarios and outcomes—the good and the bad. When the trawler suddenly decelerated and the rumble of motors dimmed, Cressida looked out at the fast-moving fog. “We’re slowing down?”

“They gave up the chase.”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think the trawler had enough speed to escape.”

“I only had to beat them to Hidden Bay. They wouldn’t have followed me in. But that’s not what happened.”

The roar of another engine sliced through the chaos. Cressida turned toward the horizon—and froze. A massive Coast Guard cutter loomed in the distance, its white hull cutting through the waves. Relief washed over her, so sudden it left her knees weak.

Malloy exhaled sharply. “The Kraken.”

“I’m sorry . . . what?” Visions of a mythical creature rising out of the ocean depths, long tentacles flailing, emerged in her mind.

“That’s what they call her—the Kraken.” The ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of Malloy’s mouth. “And she’s on our side.”

Cressida clutched the railing on the wall as the cutter closed in, chasing their pursuers into the eerie fog. Over the last year, she’d traveled the world to research and finish her deceased father’s book about shipwrecks, ghost ships, and the maritime folklore surrounding them.

Dad had been on the Mariner’s Gambit too, with Captain Malloy at the helm giving him a tour of the Washington coast. That’s why Cressida had been willing to pay Malloy the ridiculous amount to charter her out of Port Angeles, through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, then down the stunning rocky coast to Hidden Bay.

She’d wanted to take the same path Dad had taken before he suddenly cut his research trip short.

He’d traveled to DC for an alleged emergency, the details of which he conveniently left out of his journal notes.

He hadn’t returned to finish his research.

Or his book.

With thoughts of her father’s untimely death, her heart edged into a dark place, which she couldn’t afford if she was going to finish Dad’s manuscript.

“Captain Malloy. I paid you well for this service. I need to know what is really going on. Your pursuers were obviously known by the authorities or else they wouldn’t have chased them.”

He grunted in reply. A nonanswer. Fine. She got up and took in the scene with his binoculars again, searching for the Coast Guard cutter, but both vessels had disappeared into the fog, which was now rapidly gaining on the Mariner’s Gambit.

By tomorrow, she’d be in Hidden Bay. Her maritime historian father had already completed most of the research, but Cressida had to go to each place and look for herself because she couldn’t write the book that he’d wanted to write without personally experiencing the atmosphere of each location where various sunken shipwrecks remained.

Of the three million sunken ships, her father had chosen a select few.

In his manuscript, he’d focused, too, on ghost ships—those vessels that had floated aimlessly on the ocean, the crew mysteriously lost.

All the vessels had one thing in common—maritime legend that fascinated her father.

This last vessel was a more recent abandoned, crewless boat—Specter’s Bounty. Dad had come to Hidden Bay for his research.

For this charter, she’d requested that Captain Malloy take her to Cape Disappointment at the mouth of the Columbia River—which was around a hundred nautical miles south of Hidden Bay—then return to Hidden Bay, where she would release the charter.

Her trip on the Mariner’s Gambit was almost over.

On one hand, she would be relieved to finally be at her last destination.

On the other hand, she hadn’t gotten much out of this man who had spent time with her father.

The threat of the chase over, she relaxed, though maybe she shouldn’t have. “Now that’s out of the way, we can get back to the tour.”

Another grunt. “I’m cutting the trip short.”

“What? Why?” She looked out the window and realized they were approaching the bay, not just traveling past on their way south.

“It’s not safe. Told you I didn’t want to take more than two days from the start. I agreed to this for your father’s sake. I was sorry to learn that he died.” His ominous tone left her confused.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the wheelhouse had shifted.

“And I had hoped you could tell me more.”

“I told you all I could.”

What did that mean? That he knew more and was holding back? Or that he’d told her everything? She’d learned that too many questions shut him down.

He continued navigating toward the marina but stopped and dropped anchor out in the bay. “The pier isn’t going to work. We’ll take the skiff.”

“So that’s it?” she asked. “You’re dropping me off here?”

“This is Hidden Bay. Your destination.” He squinted. “I’m not leaving you empty-handed.”

“How’s that?”

“See that bunch of boats out in the middle of the bay? They call themselves pirates.”

He couldn’t be serious. “And why would I want to talk to pirates?”

He snorted a laugh. “They’re not real pirates. That’s just what they call themselves. They’re liveaboards.” Again, he gestured at a group of vessels sprawled in the bay, far from the actual marina and dock. “You’ll want to talk to Diggins, specifically.”

Diggins?

“Just a heads-up in case you were expecting to see fancy yachts instead of derelict boats. This particular group can’t afford to live on land, so they live in the water. They were anchored in Puget Sound, but some of them got run off and moved to Hidden Bay, where they’re welcome to stay.”

“Why are you referring me to this Diggins?”

“You asked about the Specter’s Bounty.”

“And you didn’t know anything.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t know anything. I said I hadn’t seen it. And if I had, the Coast Guard would have, too, and ended the story.”

“What do you know, then?”

“I know you should talk to Diggins.”

“Did you send my father to Diggins?”

“He didn’t ask about the Specter’s Bounty. He didn’t ask anything. Mostly let me talk.”

“And you don’t talk much.”

He lifted a shoulder, his face blank. Yeah, he was holding back.

Dad had worked in a museum for a reason. He wasn’t an investigative reporter like Cressida before she’d been blacklisted from working as such, thanks to her mother. How had Dad learned so much for his book?

“Can you tell me—was it real or not? Or is it just a ghost story?” Her job was to get as many answers from the locals as possible. She wasn’t letting Malloy go without asking.

“I sound like a broken record. Talk to Diggins.”

His son, Dax, was sweeping the deck and gave a brief glance up at the wheelhouse. He’d avoided her, and now his father was being short with her. Rude, even. That boat racing toward them had clearly left him unsettled.

Cressida didn’t like the idea of taking the skiff—the water looked pretty rough, even in the bay.

Regardless, in her cabin, she gathered her things—a duffel, laptop case, and her shoulder bag—then met Malloy and Dax above deck.

She descended the ladder and settled in the much smaller vessel.

Dax lowered her items, handing them down into the skiff.

From the deck, he crossed his arms and watched her.