Then he was going to kick Buddy right to the moon.
Cullen blinked. His eyes locked in on something that wasn’t in the Glades. Something far away. Ghosts from his past that haunted his present. His nostrils flared with each breath. His lips drew into a tight line.
For a brief moment, Buddy thought Cullen might either shove him out of the way or clock him.
But he did neither. His features softened. He dropped his bucket, and his shoulders slumped. Yet, he said nothing, and that was okay.
Buddy squeezed his shoulder. “You tried. That’s what matters.”
Fallon came rushing back. “Don’t just stand?—”
“Dumping buckets isn’t going to stop that.” Carefully, he placed his hands on her shoulders, making sure he didn’t touch any of the burns. “Listen.” He raised his hand. “Sirens. Water Fire Rescue is minutes away. Let them handle this.”
Tears poured out of her eyes like rain.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He wiped them away, leaned in, and kissed her forehead.
“We got a call—someone in trouble…” she managed through a sob. “We went in, and it flashed. But no one was there. Just… nothing.”
Cullen inched closer. “Do you smell that?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I should’ve noticed it when we got here, but we heard someone calling for help. I swear, it wasn’t just me who heard it.”
“He’s right. I heard a faint whisper. A girl. It was a girl calling for help. There’s a kayak in the reeds around the bend.”
Buddy’s muscles went cold and rigid.
You can’t save them all.
He made himself catalog what he had. Of what Dove had put on the whiteboard. He visualized it and added this scene.
“There’s a girl out here somewhere. Somewhere close.” He placed his hands on his hips as the water fire boats approached. Hoses pointing toward the flames. Men shouting. Dawson and Sterling pulled up and jumped off their boats, racing toward him. “This was a test,” he said to no one in particular.
“What?” Fallon asked.
“I was focused on you. On Cullen.” He ran his hand across his mouth and down his chin. “When I couldn’t save Myia and Sophie, Simon taunted me after I arrested him. He told me that if I thought more about the victims and less about him—that if I’d done that, they might have lived.”
“Only, he’d still be out there.”
“Which is always the catch-22,” Cullen said as he eased in next to them. “My old staff sergeant used to tell me collateral damage is unavoidable. I’ve always hated that term.”
“So have I. But whoever this is, he wants to see how I react—to choices.” Buddy squinted, scanning the waterway. A gator floated in the center, as if it were the one watching. Studying him. “He told me there were three people out here who could die. He wanted me to choose who could live. Friend and lover? Or victim?”
“You don’t think this is about your old case anymore?” Fallon asked.
“Oh, it is. I’m sure this prick is trafficking girls. And he has something to do with Simon’s pipeline. They all know each other. Honor among thieves and shit.” Buddy rubbed the back of his neck. “That was the ruse to get me to come out and play this fucked up game.”
“Buddy.” Cullen stepped closer to the waterline. His boot sank in the muck. “What the hell is that over there?”
The channel across from them sat like a black eye. The mangrove on that side had a split—wide enough to take a man sideways—total disrespect to the beauty of the Everglades.
Buddy squinted into the tangle, and the shape that didn’t belong resolved: fabric where there shouldn’t be any, a body handing at an odd angle, a hand turned palm-out, as if asking and not receiving. He let his eyes adjust to the green and the black, then saw it whole.
A body, strung up in the roots, five feet in. Clothing painted with block letters, slashed across the chest.
BLUE 42.
The world went distant—and then knife-sharp.
“Sterling. Flagler. Dawson. Get over here.”
