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.
