“Dove, find out what Blue 42 could be—call sign, boat name, coordinates, anything. Also, comb through the files and see if Blue and 42 come up in a combination that I might have missed.”
“On it,” she said.
Buddy rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of stubble grounding him. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours, and he could feel the edges of exhaustion in his bones. But he couldn’t stop. The need to fix what was coming—it was the same impulse that had ruined his marriage and nearly killed him after.
He’d told Fallon the truth, mostly. But he hadn’t told her how the shattered glass around his truck had felt too familiar. How it had taken him right back to the night his wife left—door slamming, his reflection in the mirror, battered and broken, as he tried to understand why he hadn’t fought harder.
But he knew why.
He’d loved Callie, with everything he was, and he’d wanted to protect her. But he couldn’t do his job, the thing he was born to do, and love her at the same time.
One had to go.
And he’d forced her to make that choice.
He’d been a coward.
Now, the ghosts were back, and it was Fallon in the crosshairs.
The door opened. Keaton and Dawson stepped in. Both looked like they’d been running on caffeine and fumes.
“Morning,” Dawson said. “You all look like a crime scene waiting to happen.”
Buddy straightened. “We’re halfway there. Tell me you’ve got something.”
Keaton rubbed a hand through his hair. “Depends on what you call something. I went out to the mangroves where Fallon spotted that oil slick. No barrel. No trash. No sign of discharge. But there’s a break in the mangrove roots—clean. Like a cut, not natural. Something was there.”
Sterling leaned forward. “Boat?”
“Could be,” Keaton said. “Or something dragged through. We also found blue paint on the roots. Sample’s at the lab.”
Buddy felt his pulse hitch. “Blue again.”
Dove went to the board, without Buddy asking her to, which is why he’d brought her with him, and added the details.
“I also traced the phone that texted Fallon. Burner. Deactivated,” Dawson said.
“That means someone lured Fallon out there on purpose,” Buddy swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’ll talk to Flagler. He owes me a favor.”
Dove arched an eyebrow. “You sure that’s such a good idea. I get Dawson and maybe even Chloe. But an active Fed? Don’t care if you know him or not. We’ve got sensitive?—”
“Part of why our company works is because of our contacts.” Buddy pointed at Sterling. “CIA, and someday, we’ll need some inside that alphabet agency. Besides, I know Flagler. He’s a bend the rules if you can kind of guy.”
He pulled out his phone, thumbed Fallon’s contact. She picked up quickly, engine hum in the background.
“Buddy? Is everything okay?”
“Yup. How about you?” he asked.
“Fine. Cullen’s riding my bumper. Sometimes that man sure knows how to talk. He’s like his uncle that way.”
He could picture her — sunglasses, ponytail whipping in the wind. “Be careful,” he said.
“I always am.”
“Docks at four?”
“Promise?”
