Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Vivian gripped the steering wheel tighter as the road narrowed, the coastline falling away in a sheer drop to her right.
The lighthouse loomed ahead—a tower of cracked stone and rusted steel, its silhouette ghosting in and out of the remnants of fog that hadn’t burned off this part of the island, like something watching her instead of the other way around.
The Jeep’s wipers screeched across the glass, barely keeping up with the drizzle. Her phone buzzed against the console. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Blake.
She let it ring. The sound filled the SUV, too loud in the quiet. When it finally stopped, she exhaled, shoulders tight. He’d said he’d handle Dan; she’d said she’d do a quick recon. She didn’t need his permission to do her job.
She pulled into a turnout tucked under the cliff’s curve—hidden from anyone approaching the lighthouse—shifted into park and killed the engine. The silence hit hard—thick, coastal, damp. Even the gulls were gone.
Her phone buzzed again. A text this time.
BLAKE: Don’t go near the lighthouse. Just found something. Wait for me to go with you.
Vivian frowned, thumb hovering over the screen. Her breath clouded the glass.
Wait for me.
He never used those words. Never asked her to wait. Which meant whatever he’d found was serious.
But if there was something to find, someone had to verify it. And she was already here. And if she was right, Laurel Tide wouldn’t give them much longer to stick around.
He trusted Dan, but if this was a set-up, she needed to make this play before they could set a trap. And Blake would never stand down if he were here.
She slid the phone into her pocket. Sorry, Blake, she texted. You don’t get to have a lead fall in your lap out here. For once, she wasn’t going to play it safe; she’d take a page from Blake’s big, black book of bold moves.
She shoved the SUV door open, the wind biting instantly through her coat. She stepped out, the smell of brine and cold iron sharp enough to sting. Her boots crunched over gravel as she made her way toward the chain-link fence. The gate hung ajar, a single padlock broken and dangling.
She crouched, touching the metal. Cold. The edges rusted where the cut was.
Her pulse ticked up. Freshly snapped.
She pushed through and followed the narrow path up toward the base of the lighthouse. Grass and seaweed tangled around her boots. The air thickened with mist, curling around her like breath.
Halfway there, her phone vibrated again. Another call.
She ignored it.
Her focus locked on the structure. Up close, the lighthouse looked worse—paint peeled down to gray stone, streaked with rust and algae. The old wooden door sagged, one hinge cracked loose.
She pressed her palm against it. The wood groaned but didn’t move. She gave it another shove. The lock chain slipped through with a metallic clang and the door swung inward, groaning like it hadn’t been opened in years.
The smell hit her first—salt, mildew, and something sharp underneath. Hypochlorite.
“Perfect,” she whispered. Someone tried to clean up a blood bath in here.
Her flashlight cut through the gloom. The beam slid across curved concrete walls, a workbench littered with tools, a single folding chair, and a thermos lying on its side.
She crouched beside it, running a gloved finger over the rim.
Dust clung to her glove—except where a thumbprint had smudged it clean.
Someone had been here. Recently.
Her phone buzzed again, the vibration muffled against her.
She pulled it out and checked the screen.
BLAKE: Don’t go inside. I’m on my way. Serious. Just wait.
Her stomach twisted.
If he was panicked enough to text twice and call, it meant he’d found something bad. But she couldn’t just turn back—not when the lead might vanish by the time he got here.
She slipped the phone into her pocket again.
They’d worked too hard for too many years, and they were close, too close, to let Laurel slip through again.
She wouldn’t waste an opportunity to end this.
All of this, the long nights, the constant relocations, the just-out-of-reach promotion. No, for once, she’d see this through.
For Jensen and all the other agents who had perished on the job. She couldn’t waste this opportunity. None of them had.
The metal stairs spiraled upward, each step corroded and slick. She took them carefully, her hand brushing the cold rail bed. Every sound echoed—her boots, her breathing, the wind whistling through cracks in the walls.
Halfway up, her phone buzzed again.
Another call.
She clenched her jaw. She pulled her phone out to shut it off and noticed the signal flickered. With each step she ascended, the bars on her phone dropped until there were zero.
Fine. One less distraction.
The stairwell opened into the lantern room, the curved glass shattered in jagged teeth. Fog poured in like smoke. Her flashlight beam caught on movement. Her pulse stammered.
Just her reflection, broken by the shards.
The room stood empty.
Nothing except a circle drawn directly on the cracked concrete near the center of the room. Red grease pencil. Exactly like the one she and Blake had found on the chart.
Inside the circle lay a single, tarnished shell casing.
A chill crawled up her spine.
She squatted, heart hammering. The casing was clean. No dust, no corrosion. Whatever happened here hadn’t happened long ago.
Her phone buzzed again, startling her. She pulled it out, a half bar flickered on, then off, enough for the text to slip through.
Viv, I mean it. Get out of there. It’s not safe. That chart was bait. Jenson lived on the Lady. He’s gone. I think Maddox knew.
Vivian’s pulse pounded. She tapped the screen, but the signal bar blinked and died completely.
He was wrong. Maddox couldn’t be the leak. No way. She knew the man who’d given her a second chance, brought her up as a solid agent, and had her back since her father’s ruin.
No, he was clean. No doubt in her mind.
A metallic clank echoed from below.
She straightened, every nerve sparking. The sound came again—metal on metal, measured, deliberate. Not the wind.
“Blake?” she called softly, though she knew it wasn’t him. She raised her Glock and aimed for the stairs.
No response.
The creaking grew louder, closer. Something shifting on the floor below. Then—silence.
Her breath fogged the air. Every instinct screamed to get out, but she forced herself to move, slow and steady, toward the edge of the room. She took a step down the stairwell and bent over to see further. Nothing but shadows and the faint echo of dripping water.
Step. Pause. Listen.
Halfway to the bottom, her phone buzzed again—a single vibration this time. She glanced down.
Viv. Answer me!
The door to the outside stood open, fog curling in through the gap. She stepped closer, cautious, every muscle coiled tight.
Then—headlights.
Two bright beams cut through the fog, slicing across the rocks outside. She squinted against the glare. The shape of a vehicle emerged—a dark SUV, low and heavy, the kind that didn’t belong on backroads like these.
Her phone buzzed again, the sound harsh in the quiet.
Another text.
Five minutes out.
Vivian dropped low behind the wall, breath catching in her throat. Through the door, she watched the SUV roll closer, tires crunching over gravel. It stopped just short of the fence, engine idling.
No one got out.
She couldn’t see through the windshield, the tint too dark. But she felt it. That prickling at the base of her neck—the weight of being watched.
She held her breath. Her heart beat stumbled then surged. She swallowed down the anxiety and took in a soothing breath. Panic got you killed.
The light lingered on the door, unmoving.
A thud of adrenaline hit her ribs. Every instinct screamed to stay down, to wait.
After a long moment, the SUV shifted into reverse. The crunch of tires broke the silence as the lights swept away, swallowed again by the fog.
She stayed frozen, listening. One beat. Two. Three.
When nothing moved but the wind, she exhaled. Her breath shook. She eased to her feet, muscles tight from crouching too long.
The phone in her pocket still didn’t have reception. The last message from Blake glared up at her.
Vivian holstered her weapon and turned back toward the stairwell. If Blake’s text was right, and Jenson had been here, she needed that casing—proof, direction, something to tie this to Jenson before whoever had left it decided to come back and erase the evidence.
Her boots clicked against the metal steps as she climbed. The wind outside pressed against the lighthouse walls, a low moan rolling through the structure. The higher she went, the more it sounded like something breathing.
The casing glinted up at her from the cracked floor, a single tear of brass against the concrete.
“Got you,” she whispered, pulling a small evidence pouch from her pocket.
She plucked the casing from the floor, slipped it into her pocket, and pivoted toward the stairs—
A whisper of air.
A scrape of boot on metal.
Not cautious. Not hesitant. Deliberate.
A shadow detached from the curve of the lantern glass above, too controlled to be an accident.
Vivian drew her Glock, turning—
He hit her hard.
Not a shove.
A strike meant to disarm her.
She stumbled and slammed into the railing, sparking pain in her ribs. The flashlight flew from her grasp, spiraling light down the stairwell.
She fired—one shot—too wide, too late.
The man surged forward, his silhouette framed by fractured daylight. She caught the glint of black ink wrapping his wrist—
A laurel wreath.
Laurel Tide.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t taunt.
He simply drove his shoulder into her.
And Vivian fell.
Metal steps crashed into her spine, her ribs, her skull.
The world spun, sharp edges and cold iron ripping through her senses.
The attacker rushed past her, boots pounding toward the open door.