Chapter 3 #2
“If they wanted us gone, we wouldn’t be standing here,” Blake said.
His tone was steady, but his eyes tracked the white mist curling over the dock.
“This isn’t a hit. It’s surveillance. They’re watching how we handle the heat, and if we’re the newlywed couple wanting to move on, they want to make sure we go far away from here. ”
She shifted her weight, every instinct on edge. “You’re saying they’re testing us.”
“Yes. Which means we act like what they think we are.”
Her flashlight beam slid across the warped deck boards, the wet wood gleaming like oil. “A couple of idiots who bought a sinking boat.”
“Exactly,” he said, a faint grin pulling at his mouth. “Once this icy mix ends, I’ll head to the warehouse, talk to Dan, see if he’s tied in. Maybe get a few parts to fake repairs.”
“And I’ll go into town,” she countered. “Supplies, small talk, anything that smells off. Somebody’s bound to know something.”
He met her eyes, and for a moment, the rain and the dark fell away. “Stay sharp, Viv. Laurel Tide’s got eyes here; we can’t afford one wrong move.”
She nodded once. “I don’t plan on giving them a second chance.”
Lightning tore across the sky, the light flaring against the windows of the cabin—then reflecting off something metal near the dock. Not the boat. Farther. Higher.
A glint. Watching.
Her pulse leapt. “Blake.”
He followed her gaze, but by the time he turned, it was gone.
Only fog. Only sleet.
But the echo of that shimmer burned in her mind.
Blake exhaled slowly. “We move separate. If they’re tracking us, maybe we’ll flush them out.”
Vivian’s throat felt tight. “And if they move first?”
He looked back toward the dark water, jaw tense. “Then you win. We follow protocol and call it in. Believe it or not, I’m not trying to get us killed.”
The storm broke overhead with a sharp crack of thunder, the sound rolling through the harbor and rattling the deck beneath their feet.
“Then I guess we both should get some rest for now,” Vivan suggested.
Blake gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Because I don’t think we’re the only ones waiting for this storm to pass.”
Blake paused, just long enough to glance back over the rail. Beyond the marina lights, past the curtain of fog, a faint red pinpoint blinked once—then vanished into the dark.
The wind snapped the door shut behind them as the rain thickened.
Blake stood in the salon watching out the window to the stern of the Windward Lady, coffee cooling in his hand, watching his breath cloud into the air.
The world was quiet except for the groan of wood and the distant clang of a buoy—too quiet, the kind that made instinct crawl up the back of his neck.
The image of that red pinpoint blinking in the fog replayed in his mind, over and over. A signal? A warning? A laser? Whatever it was, it had been close. Too close.
Vivian was right.
He didn’t want to admit it—not to her, not to himself—but she saw through him better than anyone else ever had.
She knew exactly what kind of man he was.
The one who would charge headfirst into danger, who’d break orders, chain of command, and logic just to corner the devil he was after.
He’d done it before, and he would again.
Because once he got a scent on his man, nothing short of blood stopped him.
But Vivian… he wouldn’t take chances with her.
Maybe that’s why Maddox stuck them together again—to keep him in check.
Or maybe Maddox was playing the long game, hoping Vivian would keep him alive just long enough to get results.
Or maybe his first instinct was correct, and Maddox was the one feeding intel to Laurel Tide.
He couldn’t tell which of these options was worse.
He drained the rest of his coffee. Either way, he wasn’t about to lose another op—or his partner.
The generator sat gutted below deck, still stinking faintly of melted plastic.
The scorch marks from last night’s discovery had been real.
Someone had tampered with it, someone close.
Dan? Or the so-called boat broker on deck yesterday saying he didn’t know the boat had been sold?
The only way to find out was to get closer.
Vivian sat with a folder in her lap, reading through every clue again.
“Try not to get yourself killed in town,” he called softly.
She rose and headed for the wheelhouse. “Don’t give them a reason to finish what they started.”
A wry smile tugged at his mouth. Same old Viv—steady voice, cold eyes, but he’d seen the tremor in her hands last night. She was rattled. They both were.
Blake grabbed his coat, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and stepped out onto the dock. The boards creaked under his boots, every sound amplified by the morning stillness.
From the wheelhouse window, Vivian watched him go—he could feel her gaze even before he turned. Always alert. Always trying to anticipate the next move before he made it.
He gave a small two-finger salute without looking back and headed up the dock, the air cold enough to sting his lungs.
The marina was waking up. The sound of a diesel truck starting somewhere up the road.
The tang of oil and wet rope filled his nose as he spotted Dan crouched near the warehouse, untying a crate with his thin hands.
“Morning,” Blake said easily, stepping into view.
Dan looked up, face red from the cold. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d start on that bent shackle. Need a working anchor before we can pull out of here.” Blake dropped his duffel bag, with the shackle and some chain inside, with a loud clank. “Mind if I borrow a hammer?”
Dan grinned, handing one over. “Sure thing. You two settle in all right?”
Blake’s smile was casual, practiced. “Trying to. The wife’s already making lists of repairs and color palettes. You know how it is.”
Dan chuckled, shaking his head. “Ain’t been married in twenty years. Can’t afford the paint or the arguments.”
“Yeah, well, she’s worth it,” Blake said, giving the shackle a slow, rhythmic tap, metal ringing against the damp morning air. “So you work these docks often?”
“Every day. Somebody’s gotta keep this place standing.”
“Must hear a lot of stories.”
Dan shrugged. “People talk. Mostly nonsense.”
Blake smiled faintly, watching the man’s hands. Thin but strong, capable, steady—but his nails were too clean for a dockhand, and his jacket was new, the kind issued for private security or hired contractors. A mismatch for a man claiming to fix boats.
Dan didn’t answer right away. He leaned his hip against a stack of empty crab traps, arms folded, studying Blake like a man weighing his next hand in a poker game. “You wanna ask me something?”
Blake didn’t flinch. “Just curious,” he said, straightening from where he’d been crouched, then letting out a long breath.
“The wife—she’s into all that connection stuff.
Feng shui, energy flow, getting to know the boat’s soul before she paints it.
” He gave an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Don’t tell her I told you that, or I’ll be sleeping in the bilge. ”
Dan snorted. “Never met a man who could explain feng shui with a straight face.”
“Yeah, well, marriage changes you,” Blake said, flashing a grin that was just a little too easy.
But Dan’s eyes sharpened. “Funny thing, that boat’s got a history. You’re not the first one to take interest.”
Blake’s heart kicked once, but his face stayed relaxed. “No kidding. Someone else get photos that made the boat look like a fancy yacht prior to buying her then found out they bought a fixer-upper?”
“No. Some guy came around about two months back. Thought he was the new owner—real sure of it too. Hired me for a few small repairs, said he was getting her ready for open water. But then he stopped hiring me and had someone else work on it after I asked a few too many questions.”
Blake tilted his head, as if only half-listening, but every detail burned into his memory. “That so?”
Dan nodded slowly. “Then he calls a week later, says the sale didn’t go through, and not to touch the boat again. Didn’t even pay what he owed me. Told me someone else would handle it.”
“That’s unlucky,” Blake said.
“Yeah, well, he wasn’t the type to get unlucky,” Dan muttered. “The guy knew boats. The real kind of sailor, not the weekend type. Heard he collects ‘em. Old ones. Says they don’t build ‘em like this anymore.”
Collects boats. That set something crawling under Blake’s skin. The Windward Lady wasn’t worth collecting unless you were after what might be hidden inside her.
He kept his expression neutral, even gave a short laugh. “Guess I beat him to it then. Hope he’s not the type to hold grudges.”
Dan shrugged, already turning back to his workbench. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen him since.”
“I think we have. Man boarded early this morning saying as much. That he had someone interested in buying her. Kind of freaked the missus out a bit.”
“Made a boat call, huh?” Dan shrugged. “Not cool, but not surprising either.”
Blake gave a slow nod, tone casual. “Appreciate the info. I’ll tell the wife. She’ll probably want to sage the thing next.”
Dan barked a laugh, shaking his head. “By the way, might want to try to put that in the anvil and bend it.”
“Yeah, thinking the same thing.” If he knew where the anvil was and how to bend it right. “Need to get back to help Vivian with some cleaning.”
“I can do that on the cheap for you.” He perked up like a bird in spring.
“That’d be great. Thanks. Stop by when you’re done. I think there’s something wrong with the generator.”
Blake studied Dan’s response.
“Sure, I’ll be by in a couple hours, after I finish this and another job I have,” Dan said without so much as a twitch. The man didn’t know about the generator sabotage or was a really good actor.
Blake walked down the dock, each step heavy with thought. Someone had claimed ownership of the Windward Lady before the Bureau ever processed the sale. Someone confident enough to hire dockworkers under false pretenses—and then vanish.
He reached the end of the pier and paused, scanning the horizon. The fog was thinning, sunlight fighting its way through in pale streaks. Somewhere out there, someone had planted that matchhead bomb. Someone who still believed the boat belonged to them.
He flexed his hand, knuckles stiff from the cold, and looked back toward the warehouse where Dan had already disappeared inside.
If that mystery owner was coming back for the Windward Lady, they were already one step behind. And Laurel Tide didn’t strike him as the kind of organization that left unfinished business floating in a harbor.
As Blake reached the boat, he felt it—the weight of eyes again. A prickle at the base of his neck, sharp and certain. Someone was watching, not from the warehouse, but higher—farther inland, near the bluff.
He paused, adjusting his collar like a man warding off the cold, and scanned the rooftops without turning his head. Nothing. But the feeling didn’t fade.
Whatever Maddox had set in motion by pairing him with Vivian—Blake was starting to think they’d already walked straight into the center of it.
He turned toward the end of the pier, adjusting his collar against the cold. The gulls cried overhead, the wind slicing sharper off the water. For a moment, everything felt suspended—too still, too quiet.
Then the sound hit him.
A scream.
High, raw, and unmistakably Vivian’s.
It tore through him, echoing off the hulls and pilings and his gut.
Blake ran—boots hammering the slick boards, breath burning his lungs, and reached Windward Lady full of smoke.