Not a shove.
A strike meant to disarm her.
She stumbled and slammed into the railing, sparking pain in her ribs. The flashlight flew from her grasp, spiraling light down the stairwell.
She fired—one shot—too wide, too late.
The man surged forward, his silhouette framed by fractured daylight. She caught the glint of black ink wrapping his wrist?—
A laurel wreath.
Laurel Tide.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t taunt.
He simply drove his shoulder into her.
And Vivian fell.
Metal steps crashed into her spine, her ribs, her skull.
The world spun, sharp edges and cold iron ripping through her senses.
The attacker rushed past her, boots pounding toward the open door.
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was the man with the Laurel tattoo disappearing through the doorway.
The bucketof rust Blake borrowed from Dan fishtailed. Blake hadn’t cared if he blew cover; he had to get to Viv before she ended up as another agent gone missing without a clue. Blake took the last corner too fast, gravel spitting out from under thebald tires. The lighthouse came into view, perched on the cliff like something dead refusing to fall.
He dialed again and again. “Come on, Viv, pick up.”
Voicemail again.
He slid to the edge of a fence and slammed the car into park next to their jeep. He jumped out, boots crunching over frost. The wind hit like knives—salt, cold, and wrong.
His hand went to his weapon. He moved fast, low, scanning the area as he approached the bent chain-link fence. The lock hung broken.
His stomach dropped. She’d gone in.
“Damn it, Viv.”
The door to the lighthouse gaped open, mist curling through the gap like smoke. He hesitated just long enough to check for footprints. Two sets. One small, one larger. The larger set overlapped hers near the doorframe.
He stepped inside, gun up, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. The interior reeked of fuel and old salt. Dust hung in the air like ash. Inside carried a bone-deep chill.
“Vivian?” he called. His voice echoed up the curved walls and died fast.
No answer.
He moved deeper, sweeping the beam across the floor—footprints, drag marks, scuffed metal. His light landed on the thermos near a workbench, then the faint shimmer of a phone lying in the dirt. Cracked screen. Her phone.
“Viv!”
He dropped to one knee, checking the display. Black. Dead. The edges were damp, a faint smear of something red across the corner.
He pushed to his feet and bolted to the stairs, boots clanging against the iron steps. “Vivian! Answer me!”
