4. Darius
DARIUS
The morning sun was already baking the grassy banks behind Pete’s Diner, turning the glassy surface of the lake into a sheet of glittering silver.
It was barely nine o'clock, but the shoreline was already packed with spectators, the rich, savory aroma of frying bacon and fresh coffee from the diner’s kitchen drifting over the water.
Down by the marina slip, the annual Summer Lake Games was shifting into high gear, the air thick with the sound of laughter, clattering oars, and the occasional blast of a megaphone.
Darius adjusted the tight strap of his orange life vest, his sneakers slipping slightly on the damp, algae-slicked wooden planks of the dock.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back.
He had spent the last eight hours buried in corporate legal dockets and had hardly slept, but today, his focus was strictly anchored to the water.
Maggie stood at the very edge of the dock, her clipboard clutched to her chest and her whistle dangling from a red lanyard.
"I want clean, synchronized strokes!" Maggie barked, her voice easily carrying over the lakeside noise.
"The Sanibel team has been rowing together in a club since college, but we have raw horsepower. Do not let them get ahead at the turn!"
Darius looked down at the boat bobbing against the rubber tires lining the dock.
It was a heavy, classic wooden rowing gig from the local marina, painted a weathered off-white with the name Salty’s Pride stenciled in faded blue letters near the bow.
Built for stability and rough coastal chop, the craft carried a solid weight that felt massive compared to the sleek, needle-thin carbon-fiber shell the Sanibel team was currently launching in the adjacent lane.
"We’re going to have to pull twice as hard just to move this log," Martin grumbled, stepping carefully into the bow seat and adjusting his black seat cushion.
He was wearing his loud tropical shirt under his life vest, the bright fabric peeking out like a neon beacon.
"My lower back is already protesting, and we haven't even cleared the dock. "
"Just focus on your breathing," Owen advised, sliding into the second seat and testing the pivot of his heavy wooden oar.
He adjusted his glasses, his knuckles white against the dark grain of the wood.
"We have the weight advantage on the straightaway.
Once we get this beast moving, the momentum will carry us. "
Michael climbed in next, taking the third position with an intense focus.
He gripped his oar, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his navy blue team shirt.
He didn't say a word, but the fierce, competitive line of his jaw told Darius everything he needed to know.
The attorney wanted to win, and he wanted to win badly.
Darius stepped into the stroke seat at the stern, his fingers wrapping around the thick, worn handle of his oar.
The wood felt cool and solid in his palms, a grounding reality that helped steady the rapid beat of his pulse.
He took his seat, bracing his sneakers against the wooden footrests, his gaze shifting toward the shoreline.
Linda stood near the canopy tent, in the shade of the old oaks, her navy baseball cap pulled low, watching him.
She caught his eye and offered a small, private nod of encouragement.
It was a simple, silent gesture, but it sent a sudden rush of determination straight through his chest. He was going to pull this boat across the lake if it was the last thing he did.
"Alright, boys, eyes on me," Baxter announced, sliding into the small coxswain's seat at the very stern of the gig, his hands firmly gripping the black rudder lines.
He looked remarkably pleased with his assignment, a wide, confident grin on his face as he looked over his rowing crew.
"I am the captain of this ship now, which means you pull when I tell you to pull. "
"Just steer us straight, cousin," Darius muttered, adjusting his grip. "And keep your instructions short."
"In, out, slide, pull," Baxter chanted, testing the swing of the wooden rudder. "It's a simple rhythm. Just match the stroke pace, and we'll leave those Sanibel club racers in our wake."
In the adjacent lane, the Eagle View team from Sanibel sat in their needle-thin carbon-fiber boat, looking like a professional collegiate crew in their matching neon green athletic shirts.
Their coxswain was wearing a high-tech headset, her voice low and clinical as she spoke into a small microphone.
They looked polished, synchronized, and highly confident.
Pete stood on the floating starter's raft near the middle of the cove, a bright orange starter's pistol raised toward the clear blue sky.
"Rowing gig division, heat one!" Pete's voice boomed over the PA system, building the suspense across the shoreline. "Back up to the starting rope!"
Baxter pulled the rudder lines, guiding Salty’s Pride backward until the stern touched the floating yellow marker. The four rowers held their oars flat against the water, stabilizing the heavy wooden craft as the gentle ripples of the lake lapped against the hull.
"On your marks..." Pete called out, the crowd on the banks falling into a hushed, expectant silence.
Darius crouched forward, his chest nearly touching his knees as he reached his oar back, the wooden blade hovering just above the glassy surface of the water. He locked his focus onto the back of Michael’s shoulders, his muscles coiled tight like a spring.
"Get set..."
CRACK!
The starter pistol fired with a puff of white smoke, and the peaceful morning vanished in an instant.
"Pull!" Baxter screamed, his voice cracking with excitement.
Darius plunged his wooden blade into the lake, his thigh muscles straining as he drove his legs back against the footrests.
The heavy oar fought against the resistance of the water, the wood groaning under the sudden, massive strain as the five of them threw their collective weight into the first stroke.
The boat surged forward with a heavy, wet splash, the race for Sweet Blossom Bay officially underway.
"Hold the line!" Baxter yelled, his voice cracking as the nose of the heavy wooden gig began to swing toward the yellow turn marker. "Sanibel is creeping up on our port side! Pull, you lazy sailors, pull!"
Darius dug his oar deep into the water, his shoulders burning as they fought the heavy weight of the turn.
The lake sprayed over the bow, cooling his face for a split second, but his focus didn't waver from the man rowing directly in front of him.
Michael was pulling with a fierce intensity, his jaw set hard as he strained against the wood.
"You've been holding out on us," Michael gasped between strokes, his voice tight from the physical effort. He took a quick, ragged breath as they cleared the marker. "What really happened yesterday at the meeting with the Winebergs?"
Darius braced his feet against the wooden pegs, the blinding glare of the silver water beginning to fade as his thoughts slipped back to the chilled corridor of the second floor, where he'd been waiting for the trap to close.
Darius
Yesterday morning at the meeting
The heavy linen-blend suit jacket felt stiff against Darius's shoulders as he stepped into the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the Sanibel hotel.
Just twenty minutes earlier, he had been standing in the blistering mid-morning sun on the shores of Sweet Blossom Bay, watching the kids bounce across inflatable water courses and listening to Maggie bark orders like a marine drill sergeant.
But a single text message on his phone had changed the entire trajectory of the weekend.
He crossed the polished marble floor, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone, until he reached the designated private meeting suite on the second floor.
Baxter was already waiting for him in the corridor, standing beside a tall, sweating young man who looked like he was about to physically vibrate out of his skin. It was Rory.
Rory looked a mess. His shirt was untucked, his hair was pushed back in frantic clumps, and his eyes darted constantly toward the elevators as if expecting the ground to open up beneath him.
"You got him?" Darius asked quietly, stopping in front of Baxter with a sharp, assessing gaze.
"Oh, he’s got more than just himself," Baxter said, a grim, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He gestured to the trembling man. "Rory here realized that loyalty to the Winebergs has an expiration date, and it turns out today is the day. He’s singing like a canary."
"I had no choice!" Rory blurted out in a high, panicked whisper, his hands wringing together.
"They told me it was just harmless corporate scouting!
They said they just wanted to reposition market value!
But when I saw the actual engineering sabotage reports, when I realized what they were doing to the South Carolina site and Hearts Hotel, I knew I was going down for corporate espionage alone.
They used me for months. They have every single text, every wire transfer receipt, and every falsified inspection draft stored on a secured cloud server.
And I have the master keys to access it all right now. "
Darius felt a cold, hard satisfaction settle deep in his chest. The trap was finally closing.
"Good," Darius said, his voice turning into something icy. "Because you are going to walk into that conference room with us, hand over every shred of proof, and verify every single signature before federal investigators arrive."
They pushed the door to the boardroom open and walked in seeing Dr. Debbi Wineberg typing on her laptop. She barely lifted her head to see who it was.
“Just put the water on the side table,” she said dismissively, without a glance.