Chapter One
The Everglades didn’t keep secrets—just swallowed them whole. And if it didn’t like the taste, it let it get tangled in the reeds—waiting there until something more unsettling unleashed it into the murky water, where it could prey on the innocent.
Bradford “Buddy” Ballard knew that better than most. But today wasn’t about the things hidden in the Glades. It was about new beginnings, a change of pace, and a career that wouldn’t haunt his every move.
And it had nothing to do with a certain female he’d been dreaming about for years—absolutely nothing.
At least that’s what he told himself.
The flat-bottom skiff under his boots hummed across the channel as fat bugs whizzed past his head. The air was thick, the kind of thickness that turned every breath into a chore. This was the part of the Everglades he’d forgotten about. The part he’d chosen to ignore. The part that wasn’t so magical—because almost everything else about this spot was the only place he felt like he could carve out a home.
He stared at his cell sitting on the mount on the console and tried not to think too hard about why he wanted to hear from her so badly. She knew he’d come back to town. They’d texted a couple of times about it. He’d even shot her one when he’d left Jacksonville, and he’d gotten a great, see you when you get here.
But not a peep since, and that shouldn’t bother him. Not to mention, he couldn’t have reached out to Fallon. Actually, he should’ve, but he worried things might end up out of the friend zone, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.
He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand.
Sterling Fox, a fellow Aegis Network Operative, stood at the bow, binoculars up, steady as a gun turret. They’d been mapping approach routes for an eco-outfitter who wanted an honest security assessment and not the brochure version of “safe.” Buddy preferred jobs like this—practical, quiet, a clean problem to solve—no crime scene tape. No blood. No bodies to be taken out in bags.
The radio clipped to his shoulder crackled. Static hissed, then a voice, clear with strain. “FWC Officer Reeves requesting immediate backup in Sector 7. Body found, possibly alive. Repeat—alive.”
Buddy’s pulse increased the second Fallon Reeve’s voice tickled his ears. It was just the sound of an old friend. A crackly noise through the airwaves. It wasn’t something that should give him sweaty palms. And that wasn’t why Buddy reached for the tiller. “We’re changing course.” Or at least not the only reason.
Sterling lowered the binoculars and looked back over his shoulder. “We’re not paid for that,” Sterling said without heat. He’d been working with Buddy for the last couple of months up north. That wasn’t a long time, but long enough to know that Buddy wasn’t the kind of man to steer away from trouble when trouble came calling.
“Then we’re volunteering.” Buddy pushed the throttle and the skiff jumped, the bow skimming over brown-green water. Mangroves shouldered in on both sides, narrowing the channel to a seam. The smell of rot slipped under the cypress, a hard, sweet note that didn’t belong.
The mangroves didn't care what anyone thought of them. Tangled roots arched out of shallow water—sometimes no deeper than a man's knee, more or less—like gnarled fingers reaching for something they'd never quite hold, creating a maze that could swallow a boat if a person weren't careful. They filtered salt, trapped sediment, and made nurseries for things with teeth—all while standing in water that would kill most trees in a season.
Buddy had learned early that mangroves were the Everglades' first line of defense, the kind of barrier that didn't just protect the coastline but reminded humans that nature here played by different rules. Red, black, white—three species doing the same job in their own stubborn way, turning the shoreline into something that was half land, half water, and entirely unforgiving if people didn't respect it.
Sterling braced against the forward rail and checked the handheld GPS. “You remember you’re not FBI anymore. That we’re not expected to be there. Actually, we won’t be welcome.”
“Believe me,” Buddy said. “I remember.”
The radio popped again—shorter transmission, clipped directions, the cool cadence of someone trained to keep panic out of her words. Sector seven. Coordinates. Airlift en route. Then a male voice he recognized as Dawson Ridge acknowledged.
Buddy’s knuckles whitened around the tiller. He listened with the trained ear of an FBI agent. The old habit of building a scene from sound and static was muscle memory he hadn’t been able to strip out, even when he turned his badge in and walked away.
“Two boats ahead,” Sterling said. “On the right bank. I’ve got movement—three figures at the waterline.”
Buddy throttled down just enough to cut wake. The Everglades ate evidence and spit out alibis. You didn’t churn a scene like this. He eased the skiff behind a fringe of mangroves, close but not crowding, and scanned.
Fallon was exactly where she said she’d be—knee-deep in black water at the edge of the roots, uniform soaked to the ribs, hands red with swamp muck and effort.
For a brief second, Buddy held his breath. Her long auburn hair dangled in a braid, which floated on the water. Her skin—slightly paler for most Floridians—glowed under the sun as it tried to peek out from between the clouds. She carried herself with more confidence than most had in their pinky. Not only was she beautiful, but she was also strong, intelligent, and way out of his league for a million and one reasons.
He pushed those thoughts right out of his mind and focused on the scene in front of him.
Two men flanked her in the water, one tall and rangy with a snake-wrangler’s easy balance—Trent Mallor—and another broader through the shoulders, face shadowed by a hat and a week of rough stubble. Cullen Monroe.
Buddy had met Cullen a few times. A former Marine and Silas’ nephew. Silas was the heart of Calusa Cove. If someone wanted to know anything about the history or the current gossip, Silas was the guy to see. He was a little gruff and totally misunderstood. However, he was the kind of man who’d give up his shirt to a stranger. And take in a nephew struggling with PTSD when he had nowhere else to turn.
Between Trent, Cullen, and Fallon, small and limp as a rag, was a young girl.
Damn. He’d seen this scene one too many times. “Hold here.” He scanned the vegetation, looking for signs of boats, huts, people… anything. He found absolutely nothing.
“Fallon,” Buddy called, voice low so it didn’t bounce off the trees. “It’s Buddy. We heard your call. We’re here to help.”
