Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The Everglades shimmered like sweat on sick skin.
Even after years on patrol, Fallon still hadn’t learned how to breathe properly in the dense heat only the Glades could provide.
It bored down, thick and unrelenting, like the swamp had decided functioning lungs were optional.
Cicadas droned in waves. A heron rose ahead of her skiff, beating silver off its wings before vanishing into the sawgrass.
It had been five days since they’d rescued the girl.
Five days of waiting for lab results that still hadn’t come in.
And two days, since Buddy had kissed her like he meant it—and then gone quiet. So quiet, it was as if he’d ghosted her without completely ignoring her.
She told herself it hadn’t been that long, and they were both busy with life and jobs. That she’d been the one who slipped out of the Crab Shack two days ago with barely a goodbye. But would it have killed him to reach out to see if she was okay?
He hadn’t.
And out here, where the airboat’s engine was the only sound and she didn’t have to pretend to be fine, the silence between her and Buddy scraped harder than she wanted to admit.
She reached for her cell, which was in its holder mounted on the helm. She tapped the screen.
No text from Buddy. Not that she’d expected one. They were friends. Nothing more, and he didn’t owe her anything.
She’d seen him twice yesterday and the first time had been when she’d brought her phone to his office for Mia Sarich to connect to it remotely.
But he’d had to leave to meet a client, and Dove finished the job.
The second time had been late that afternoon when he showed up at the marina to help with the stage.
He’d committed, and if he was anything, he was a man of his word.
But by the time he’d arrived, she was about to head out and they barely exchanged glances.
On the plus side, Mia had confirmed her phone was clean. No trace software, no virus, no ghost number embedded in the message. Which left her with one conclusion—someone had wanted her to see those words.
You can’t save them all.
Fallon adjusted her sunglasses, cut the throttle, and let the airboat glide.
The water here was glass. Still enough to see minnows flick like silver sparks beneath the surface.
She’d come farther than usual—Sector Six, where the channels grew narrow and the mangroves closed in like fingers.
Officially, she was checking for illegal net traps after a tip came through on her cell from a local number.
She didn’t know who, but it was local, so worth checking out.
Unofficially, she was chasing an itch that had been crawling under her skin since they’d found the girl.
She rubbed her nose. The Everglades had a rich scent, like a greenhouse full of moss and algae. But there was something in the air that didn’t belong—and it wasn’t just the fuel and bilge water wafting off her boat.
Pushing her glasses on top of her head, she narrowed her stare and scanned the area and that’s when she saw it. A slick of oil floating between two roots. Her gut tightened.
The oil spread from behind a tangle of mangroves, where the cut line was wrong—like someone had forced their way through. She lifted the binoculars from the dash. The lens caught a hunk of metal—half-hidden, low in the water. Not a prop.
A barrel.
She reached for her radio. “FWC Four-One-Two, checking possible illegal discharge—Sector Six, south edge of the run—”
The rest of her call drowned under the roar of another engine.
Louder. Closer.
Fallon whipped her head around just in time to see a dark airboat blast from the cover of reeds, wake curling behind it like claws. Two men. No markings. Mounted rifle gleaming under the sun.
“Son of a—”
The first shot tore through open air. The second hit water a foot from her hull, spraying mud and algae. Fallon slammed the throttle. Her boat screamed forward, spray pelting her face. Bullets pinged off the stern rail.
“FWC Officer Reeves—under fire—Sector Six,” she shouted into the mic, but static swallowed her voice. The other airboat’s roar was too close.
She ducked as another round shredded the canopy above her head. Her fuel gauge blinked. The needle dropped fast—too fast.
“Damn it.” She jerked the handle, skimming the edge of a narrow pass. Roots blurred past. The smell of gas cut through the rot and salt.
The channel opened, and she caught sight of movement to her right—another airboat, smaller, familiar. Trent.
He was with Harley Mavis, the new mangrove trimmer, the one who didn’t know when to quit asking questions. They were maybe fifty yards away, parked along the edge of a flat where the sawgrass turned gold in the sun.
Trent stood when he saw her boat fishtailing. His arm shot up. The bastard had no fear.
“Get down,” she shouted, though he couldn’t hear her.
Her hull slammed a wake, ricocheted. The steering yoke jerked hard, nearly sending her into the mangroves. Behind her, the man holding the mounted rifle fired again. The crack echoed across the marsh like thunder.
Fallon swerved into open water. Her boat coughed, then caught, then coughed again. The smell of gasoline thickened. She was running out of time.
Through the blur of adrenaline, she saw Trent climb back into his seat, spin his airboat, and gun the engine in the opposite direction.
What the fuck was he doing?
She glanced between the tiny island and the wider open waters. Neither option would provide safety.
An engine whine cutting from in front startled her. She turned just as Trent’s boat flew into view, screaming past hers like a missile.
No one was at the helm.
“Trent,” she yelled, but the word tore apart in the wake.
The seemingly empty airboat veered toward the gunmen. For a heartbeat, Fallon thought it was going to crash straight into them. Instead, a flash of motion on the deck—a shape—then something thick and alive launched through the air. Long, with a large, raging mouth wide open.
A python.
She blinked, disbelieving.
The snake hit the gunmen’s deck in a writhing coil. One of them swore and fired reflexively, but he’d already lost control. The boat pitched sideways as the python twisted, angry and loud.
Fallon didn’t waste the chance. She gunned her throttle, trying to outrun the chaos, but the cough of her engine came back worse. The gas smell bit at her eyes.
A new roar rose in front of her.
Keaton.
His airboat barreled through the reeds, lights and sirens blazing.
Fallon risked a glance back. The gunmen fired again—wildly this time. One shot caught Trent’s hull. The other—
Her heart stopped. Trent staggered.
“Trent,” she screamed.
The gunmen peeled off, their airboat limping but moving fast, disappearing down a side channel.
Keaton’s boat closed in. Fallon cut her engine and coasted hard into Trent’s line. Harley was already kneeling beside him, hands slick with blood, pressing down on his abdomen.
“I told him not to—he wouldn’t listen—” Harley’s voice cracked.
Fallon jumped across the boats, boots slipping. “Hold pressure. Do you know if the bullet exited?”
“It did,” Harley said. “Clean pass, but it’s bad.”
Trent’s face had gone gray, sweat shining across his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. “Did the snake hit its target?”
“Yeah,” Fallon said. “Ten points for accuracy.”
He tried to grin. Failed. “Told you I had good aim.”
“Save your strength.” Harley wiped her chin on her shoulder. “You’re going to need it for that hot date of yours, tonight. Though, it’s gonna happen in a hospital room.”
“That can’t be sexy.” Trent coughed.
Fallon stared at Trent. “Please tell me you don’t actually have a date with Dove?”
“Of course he does,” Harley said. “He’s gone through all the locals.”
“You haven’t dated me.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“That’s because I’m smarter than everyone else in this town.” Harley held one hand on his gut, the other on his back.
“Not true. You’ve just got the hots for Cullen Delaney,” Fallon said.
Harley didn’t confirm or deny, and that spoke volumes.
Keaton came in hot, bumping his hull alongside hers. “Chopper’s inbound—fourteen minutes out and docks are twenty, so we hold here.”
Fallon cut Trent’s shirt, pressed gauze and wrapped. Harley kept pressure. Blood-soaked fast, dark and too much.
Trent wheezed. “Hey, Reeves…”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Buddy he owes me a beer.”
“You’ll tell him yourself.”
The air throbbed with heat and the rot of churned water. The Everglades were too quiet. No birds, no gators close enough to break the surface. Just the low, distant hum of an approaching helicopter.
Fallon looked east, into the sun, until the glare turned white.
She wasn’t religious, but she found herself praying anyway—half to the swamp, half to whatever gods watched over fools who threw snakes at gunmen.
The blades hit first, chopping through the air, the sound growing louder, closer. Fallon’s hair whipped against her face.
“Hold on, Trent,” she said, voice barely audible over the wind. “Hold on.”
The medevac chopper crested the cypress line, sunlight flashing off its rotors. Keaton signaled with a flare. The wind beat down, scattering sawgrass and spray.
Fallon stayed low beside Trent, hand pressed to his shoulder, the swamp wind hammering every inch of her skin.
The world narrowed to noise, blood, and the smell of jet fuel.
The helicopter dipped low, wind beating the swamp into submission. Keaton braced against the gust, shouting over the roar as the medics lowered themselves onto the boat—two of them, lean and efficient, gear bags slung across their chests.
“Male, late thirties,” Keaton said. “Gunshot wound—entry right lower abdomen, exit right flank. Conscious but fading.”
One medic nodded and dropped beside Trent, assessing fast. The other passed Fallon a roll of gauze without looking, already unwrapping saline.
Fallon took it. Her fingers were slick with blood. It felt tacky, too warm. She didn’t realize she was shaking until she tried to press again and Keaton’s hand steadied hers.
“Hey,” he said, softer now, voice pitched for her alone. “You did good.”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Sure you did. You lived, and so will he.”
Trent groaned as they lifted him onto the basket dangling from the chopper. His eyes cracked open. “That… snake’s gonna need a raise.”
Harley let out a strangled laugh that sounded more like relief. “You can argue with him about it when you’re not bleeding on my boots.”
Trent’s mouth twitched. “Deal.”
The medics secured Trent in the basket and signaled thumbs up. Seconds later, the basket was inside the helicopter, and a ladder dangled from the opening. One of the medics climbed up. Then the second. Wind howled across the flats as they lifted. The noise turned her chest hollow.
Fallon shielded her face from the spray, watching as the blades of the chopper beat the air until it felt like her heartbeat had synced with them.
Then it was gone—just the echo, and the smell of gas and salt and swamp.
Keaton shut off his radio and leaned against his console. “That didn’t feel completely random. Not when we found a girl out here five days ago.”
Fallon nodded. “I know.”
He looked at her, jaw tight. “We’ll run it down. State, Feds, whoever. I’ve already sent a message to Dawson and Buddy—”
Her head snapped up. “Buddy knows?”
“He was with Dawson when the call came through. I gave them an update, and he’s been blowing up my phone ever since.” Keaton paused, side-eyeing her. “I bet yours is too, and if you don’t respond soon, he’ll just show up like a beast.”
“I’m fine,” she said, too fast.
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Keaton checked the channel again, then climbed back into his airboat. “We’ll need to tow you in since you’ve got no gas left. And we’ll need to check the hull back at the docks.”
“Copy that.”
“Harely, Dawson will want a statement. You good to drive Trent’s boat in?”
“Yeah.” Harley nodded.
“Alright. Let’s go before someone else shows up.
Coast Guard is gonna send someone back here and will add in patrols now.
” He tossed Fallon a line, and she tied it to the bow cleat before easing back behind the helm.
“Be careful what you touch, Dawson will need to check the boats over, see if we can find any wedged bullets anywhere.”
“Copy that,” Harley said.
Fallon stared at her cell, and a message from Buddy stared back.
Buddy: Heard what happened—worried about you. Check in, okay?
Nine words, and she felt them land low and steady, the way his voice had sounded when he’d whispered her name right before he’d kissed her that first time.
She could almost see him in her head—jaw tight, eyes dark, pacing in his kitchen because sitting still never was his thing.
Another text.
Buddy: Don’t make me drive out there. Because I will.
Her throat caught. A laugh wanted to come up but died halfway. She typed, I’m fine, and stared at the words for a long second. Then deleted them.
Fallon: I’m fine. Chopper just left with Trent.
The three dots pulsed.
Buddy: Good. But don’t tell me fine if you’re not.
That one got her. Because he would know. He always did.
She wiped her palm on her pants and tucked the phone away, staring out across the water as Keaton slowly navigated back toward the FWC docks.
Somewhere under the sound of cicadas and her own heartbeat, she thought she heard the echo of gunfire again—the mechanical stutter that didn’t belong in her swamp. Only it wasn’t real—not this time.
Fallon drew in a breath, held it until her ribs hurt, and slowly let it go.
She could almost hear Buddy’s voice in her head. We’ll be careful.
“Yeah,” she murmured to the swamp. “We better be.”