“What’s going on?” Sterling asked.
He raised his cell so Sterling and Flagler could see the text.
“Fuck,” Sterling mumbled.
“Buddy typed a message to the unknown number.
Who is this? Where?
It went underlived.
He hit call. Disconnected.
“God damn it.”
“It’s a trap,” Sterling said.
“I know.” Buddy stood, tucking more than cash under the basket of fires to cover at least a couple of meals they hadn’t ordered. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t just leave her and Cullen out there, even if we do warn them.”
Flagler was already up. “I’m coming.”
“Follow me to the marina,” Buddy said. “And call Dawson on your way. Tell him I need to borrow a boat and that he should meet us there. Tell him what’s going on.”
They were out the door in a line—Buddy first, Flagler two steps behind, Sterling the anchor. The afternoon heat radiated off the sidewalk. Buddy climbed into his borrowed truck—courtesy of the Aegis Network. Flagler followed in his four-door sedan that screamed federal agent.
He set his cell in the carrier and tapped Fallon’s contact information.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said, picking up on the first ring.
“Listen, I need you and Cullen?—”
“Sorry, call coming over the radio. I gotta go. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” The line went dead.
“Fuck.” He smashed his hand against the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal, just a tad. Lots of people out walking. “Take my cell and text her.”
“And say what? Run? Hide? She’s answering a work call.”
“I get it. But ask her to text me back her location.”
“Okay, but let's face it. This isn’t about her, and we both know if they wanted her dead, they could’ve killed her. Harley told us she thought they missed Fallon on purpose. That they were aiming for the boat. The water. Not Fallon, and the only reason Trent got shot was because he tossed a motherfucking big ass snake at them. They wanted to scare Fallon and send you a message, and that’s what this is, too. Or maybe they just want to kill you.” Sterling spoke faster than Buddy had ever heard before. And when he spoke quickly, it meant he wasn’t thinking about the words. He wasn’t choosing carefully. His instincts were kicking in.
And maybe—just maybe—he was right.
“Besides, Keaton will know where she went if it’s a work call.”
That was true, but it didn’t make Buddy feel any better. Whoever was targeting Fallon—targeting him—was going to pay.
He was going to make damn sure of it.
The stillness of the Everglades usually brought a sense of serenity to Fallon’s aching heart—especially this time of year, when the air turned heavy with memory. Out here, surrounded by cypress and sawgrass, something in her settled.
The water sat dark and slick, reflecting light off its surface like polished stone, despite looking like liquid mud. Gators floated in the distance, half-submerged kings of a realm that didn’t care about human grief or its anniversaries. Her father used to say the swamp had a soul—that if you were quiet long enough, you could hear it speak.
He’d been right.
This was her sanctuary. Her church. Her reminder that life went on, even after loss.
But today, the stillness weighed too heavy. The air felt thick. The water looked darker, denser, like oil pooled beneath the surface. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.
