Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Buddy pulled into the parking lot of the marina and skidded to a stop in the first available parking spot.
Mitchell’s Marina was busier than usual for a weekday—guides swapping gas cans, deckhands coiling lines, gulls calculating theft. Dawson was waiting at the far slip in a Calusa Cove police boat, sunglasses on, posture loose enough to fool anyone who hadn’t worked with him.
“Thanks for coming,” Buddy said.
“You couldn’t’ve kept me away.” Dawson shoved his glasses on top of his head.
Sterling peeled off for the Everglades Overwatch shed. “Keys?”
Baily met him outside and tossed a ring the size of a fist. “You break it, you bought it.”
Dawson stepped in close. “All our airboats have trackers. If this is bait—and it is—I can ride quiet on your signal. No lights. No markings. We’ll shadow you in a plain hull, and since I’m the chief, I can pretty much write my own rule book.”
Buddy’s phone buzzed again.
Unknown Caller: Come alone, or all three die.
He swallowed hard. “Text says three will die if I don’t come alone?”
Sterling met his eyes. “Fallon, Cullen, and…?”
“Harley? She’s out there trimming mangrove.” Buddy’s stomach knotted. “Where the hell are they?”
“Keaton said there was a distress call from a kayaker, and Fallon hasn’t reported back yet. That area isn’t scheduled for mangrove maintenance. I think Harley’s doing private contracts today,” Dawson said.
Another ping.
Unknown Caller: I am trying to help. If I’m caught, I die too.
Buddy scanned the rooflines, the pilings, the stacked crab traps. He felt watched because he was watched. “Cameras?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Fletcher did a sweep an hour ago,” Dawson said. “Nothing funny, and we regularly check the software in all our systems because of the trouble a couple of years ago. It hasn’t been hacked. No one’s watching from here.”
Buddy looked from the text to Dawson. His mouth was already making the call his brain hated. “Give me ten. Then you come the long way around Hoag Island, no decals. If you’re inside five minutes of my wake, they’ll smell you.”
“Copy,” Dawson said. “Martyrs make paperwork.” He held Buddy’s gaze. “Don’t be a martyr.”
Buddy tapped the screen on his phone—Fallon, then Cullen. Both went to voicemail. He didn’t leave one. Words were a weight, and he wouldn’t drop any that might be found by someone else.
Sterling had two airboats ready—tanks topped off, hulls clean, radios checked. “Yours is number four,” he said. “Tracker pinged. Dawson’s got you.”
Flagler stepped into the second without ceremony. “The Bureau appreciates the loan,” he said dryly to no one. “I’d better not see an alligator out there. I hate those creatures, and I’ve seen enough of them already.”
Buddy swung onto the deck, fired the ignition, and the fan screamed to life. He didn’t look back. He pulled out, nose down, and let the river take him, white wake unrolling like a dare.
The Glades grabbed heat and flung it back.
Sawgrass hissed against the hull; dragonflies stitched green lines in the air.
Sector markers flew by in quick slashes—painted poles, numbers Buddy had memorized long before he’d admit this place felt like home.
Sector Five meant narrower cuts, mangroves with knuckles for roots, the kind of water that ate mistakes and called it a light snack.
He watched everything at once. The glare, the dark seams that meant deeper channels, the margins where a boat might sit with its prop out and a man with a long gun could think about range and wind. The text rode shotgun, words repeating in a rhythm he couldn’t escape.
If you want to save her.
He had failed to save two. Their faces lived in a box in his closet, and on the bad nights, behind his eyelids. He said their names out loud every day.
Maya. Sophie.
He’d never forget.
And he’d never be able to forgive himself.
Wind shifted left. Smoke threaded the air, thin at first, then thicker, dragging its own shadow. Buddy opened the throttle, and the boat leapt, as if grateful to be told what to do.
Buddy banked hard around a curve, and the world opened to brightness and wrong—an old Seminole shack at the waterline, dry boards stacked under a grass roof, the whole thing licked orange and then swallowed by flames.
Two boats rode at the edge of the reeds—Fallon’s FWC airboat and Cullen’s patched skiff, both nosed in ugly like they’d been shoved into the reeds. Fallon and Cullen were a blur—bucket, throw, bucket, throw—steam rising where muddy water hit heat.
Buddy cut power before the last turn and let momentum carry him in with a quietness that felt like respect. He put a hand to his radio, making sure he was on the proper channel. It crackled to life before he could press the mic.
“Buddy, this is Keaton. There’s a fire in Sector Five. Same coordinates I sent Fallon.”
“I know. I’m staring at it.”
“Fire rescue on the way,” Keaton said. “Sending everyone in. This takes precedence. For now.”
Buddy cradled the mic and dropped anchor against the mangroves, hopped down, and his boots hit muck with purpose.
“Fallon!” His voice was bigger than the space could hold. She turned—face streaked with smoke, hair caught under a cap, eyes steady—the right arm of her uniform charred.
“There’s another bucket over there,” she shouted over the roar, pointing. “We’ve got to get this under control. Fire department at least ten minutes out.”
Sterling brought his boat in tight, Flagler’s hull just behind.
The shack’s beams groaned. A corner fell, and the roof punched smoke into a low ceiling over the water. Heat bent the air. Buddy moved Fallon back two steps with a hand on her shoulder—gentle, no argument in it. She resisted, then gave him those two steps because she’d seen the roof list, too.
“Anyone else here?” he asked her.
She shook her head once. “I don’t know.” She raced to the waterline, dipped her bucket in and ran back to the flames, tossing what looked like a droplet onto a raging inferno.
As Cullen marched toward him, Buddy stood in his path. “That’s not going to do anything.” He looked Cullen up and down. Shirt torn up. Parts of his pants were burned away, but the exposed skin looked unharmed. Silas was first going to be grateful that both Cullen and Fallon were okay.
Then he was going to kick Buddy right to the moon.
Cullen blinked. His eyes locked in on something that wasn’t in the Glades. Something far away. Ghosts from his past that haunted his present. His nostrils flared with each breath. His lips drew into a tight line.
For a brief moment, Buddy thought Cullen might either shove him out of the way or clock him.
But he did neither. His features softened. He dropped his bucket, and his shoulders slumped. Yet, he said nothing, and that was okay.
Buddy squeezed his shoulder. “You tried. That’s what matters.”
Fallon came rushing back. “Don’t just stand—”
“Dumping buckets isn’t going to stop that.” Carefully, he placed his hands on her shoulders, making sure he didn’t touch any of the burns. “Listen.” He raised his hand. “Sirens. Water Fire Rescue is minutes away. Let them handle this.”
Tears poured out of her eyes like rain.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He wiped them away, leaned in, and kissed her forehead.
“We got a call—someone in trouble…” she managed through a sob. “We went in, and it flashed. But no one was there. Just… nothing.”
Cullen inched closer. “Do you smell that?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I should’ve noticed it when we got here, but we heard someone calling for help. I swear, it wasn’t just me who heard it.”
“He’s right. I heard a faint whisper. A girl. It was a girl calling for help. There’s a kayak in the reeds around the bend.”
Buddy’s muscles went cold and rigid.
You can’t save them all.
He made himself catalog what he had. Of what Dove had put on the whiteboard. He visualized it and added this scene.
“There’s a girl out here somewhere. Somewhere close.” He placed his hands on his hips as the water fire boats approached. Hoses pointing toward the flames. Men shouting. Dawson and Sterling pulled up and jumped off their boats, racing toward him. “This was a test,” he said to no one in particular.
“What?” Fallon asked.
“I was focused on you. On Cullen.” He ran his hand across his mouth and down his chin. “When I couldn’t save Myia and Sophie, Simon taunted me after I arrested him. He told me that if I thought more about the victims and less about him—that if I’d done that, they might have lived.”
“Only, he’d still be out there.”
“Which is always the catch-22,” Cullen said as he eased in next to them. “My old staff sergeant used to tell me collateral damage is unavoidable. I’ve always hated that term.”
“So have I. But whoever this is, he wants to see how I react—to choices.” Buddy squinted, scanning the waterway.
A gator floated in the center, as if it were the one watching.
Studying him. “He told me there were three people out here who could die. He wanted me to choose who could live. Friend and lover? Or victim?”
“You don’t think this is about your old case anymore?” Fallon asked.
“Oh, it is. I’m sure this prick is trafficking girls. And he has something to do with Simon’s pipeline. They all know each other. Honor among thieves and shit.” Buddy rubbed the back of his neck. “That was the ruse to get me to come out and play this fucked up game.”
“Buddy.” Cullen stepped closer to the waterline. His boot sank in the muck. “What the hell is that over there?”
The channel across from them sat like a black eye. The mangrove on that side had a split—wide enough to take a man sideways—total disrespect to the beauty of the Everglades.
Buddy squinted into the tangle, and the shape that didn’t belong resolved: fabric where there shouldn’t be any, a body handing at an odd angle, a hand turned palm-out, as if asking and not receiving. He let his eyes adjust to the green and the black, then saw it whole.