“You good?” he shouted over the sound of the fire chewing through the hut.
“I’m not dead.” She stared at Cullen. His eyes had darkened, and underneath were the same shadows that had been present when he’d first come home. Not as clear, but they were there. Haunting him. Driving him.
She turned her attention to the hut—it was already engulfed by the flames—roof collapsing, sparks leaping into the sky. The fire spread into the dry sawgrass, crackling outward in rings of orange.
“Damn it.” She scrambled to her feet. “We’ve got to stop it before it jumps the waterway.”
Cullen had already grabbed the cooler off her boat and dumped the contents, racing to refill it from the canal. Fallon hit her radio, voice hoarse. “FWC Four-One-Two. We’ve got a structure fire off Sector Five, near the tribal boundary. Possible accelerant—repeat, possible accelerant. Request immediate response.”
Static answered, then Keaton’s clipped reply: “Copy that. Fire unit and rescue en route.”
She tossed the mic aside and grabbed a bucket.
They worked in tandem, throwing water, sloshing mud, anything to slow the spread. The flames hissed but refused to die. Heat pulsed in waves, making her vision ripple. Cullen’s arm was red and blistering, but he didn’t stop.
“Get back,” he shouted as a plank from the roof fell and shattered.
Fallon stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. The entire clearing was orange now—glow on water, fire on dried grass.
Cullen jumped to his feet, grabbed the cooler, and raced back to the waterline. He was a man on a mission, only she wasn’t sure if it was this one or shadows of the past.
The wind shifted, blowing smoke into her face. She coughed, eyes streaming, and in that split second, she thought she heard it again—faint, high, and wrong—a woman’s voice, echoing across the water.
Help me.
She turned toward the sound, heart hammering, but there was nothing—only fire and the endless, watching swamp.
Chapter Twelve
Buddy pulled into the parking lot of the marina and skidded to a stop in the first available parking spot.
Mitchell’s Marina was busier than usual for a weekday—guides swapping gas cans, deckhands coiling lines, gulls calculating theft. Dawson was waiting at the far slip in a Calusa Cove police boat, sunglasses on, posture loose enough to fool anyone who hadn’t worked with him.
“Thanks for coming,” Buddy said.
“You couldn’t’ve kept me away.” Dawson shoved his glasses on top of his head.
Sterling peeled off for the Everglades Overwatch shed. “Keys?”
Baily met him outside and tossed a ring the size of a fist. “You break it, you bought it.”
Dawson stepped in close. “All our airboats have trackers. If this is bait—and it is—I can ride quiet on your signal. No lights. No markings. We’ll shadow you in a plain hull, and since I’m the chief, I can pretty much write my own rule book.”
Buddy’s phone buzzed again.
Unknown Caller: Come alone, or all three die.
He swallowed hard. “Text says three will die if I don’t come alone?”
Sterling met his eyes. “Fallon, Cullen, and…?”
“Harley? She’s out there trimming mangrove.” Buddy’s stomach knotted. “Where the hell are they?”
“Keaton said there was a distress call from a kayaker, and Fallon hasn’t reported back yet. That area isn’t scheduled for mangrove maintenance. I think Harley’s doing private contracts today,” Dawson said.
Another ping.
Unknown Caller: I am trying to help. If I’m caught, I die too.
