He leaned in and whispered, “And I’ve already got a way in.”
She quirked a brow at him. “How?”
He handed her the business card Dan gave him, and in the upper right corner was a symbol of a laurel with a wave around it. How did he do it? Thomas Blake could just stand somewhere, and opportunities were thrown at him? He was a magnet to women, leads, and success. He never had to work for anything in life.
Vivian walked up the rickety step ladder leading to a door to the boat, muttering under her breath. The wind whipped through her hair, snow giving way to sleet, tapping a cold rhythm against the deck. She reached for the metal rail to steady herself, and pain seared up her arm.
The jolt hit hard enough to make her stumble. She bit out a curse, jerking her hand back, palm stinging. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the spot where her glove had torn.
A violent tremor seized her forearm, locking her elbow before she forced it down. Her fingers tingled hard, refusing to close fully around anything as she tried to steady her breath.
Blake was there in an instant, hand catching her elbow. “You all right?”
His hands closed around her arms to keep her upright, firm but careful—too careful.
That gentleness shook her more than the jolt had. She yanked back on instinct, pulse skittering from the shock—not from him.
If she didn’t know better, the look in his eyes was worry for her, genuine compassion. But Blake didn’t know what that was.
Fine,” she managed, though her voice wavered. “Except for the part where your boat nearly killed me.”
He crouched beside the rail, fingers brushing the wire running along its base. A tiny arc flared in the mist—blue-white, hissing.
“Deck light,” he muttered. “Wiring’s shot.”
She knelt beside him, ignoring the sting in her palm. The copper was exposed, the insulation stripped clean. Too clean.
Vivian met his eyes, pulse still hammering.
His gaze swept over her, checking for injuries. The thoroughness steadied her more than she liked. Still, something warm flickered beneath the concern, subtle enough she almost missed it. Almost.
“That doesn’t look like wear.”
Blake shook his head. “No. It looks deliberate.”
Sleet drifted harder now, slanting through the beam of the dock light. Somewhere out in the bay, a buoy clanged like a warning.
Vivian swallowed, tasting metal. “You think someone didn’t want us boarding?”
He didn’t answer—just glanced toward the dark marina, eyes narrowing into the fog.
The cold crept deeper into her bones. Maybe the safehouse wasn’t the only thing that felt wrong. As much as she wanted to take down Laurel Tide, she’d find another way that didn’t involve small quarters with Thomas Blake. “Cover blown?”
He shook his head. “No, Laurel is known for not wanting anyone around their place. I’m surprised we even got this boat. But told the broker I was buying it, fixing it up to leave.”
Another flare of blue light sparked from the wire. “Maybe, or they already know who we are, and this boat is wired to kill.
Blake crouched,the acrid scent of scorched insulation mixing with salt air. The faint blue arc sizzled again, snapping through the mist like a warning.
But that wouldn’t scare him off; despite Viv’s constant questioning and trying to kill the op, he wouldn’t be chased away. Jenson had confirmed this was a main coastal hub for Laurel Tide. And that intel had cost too much to walk away. After seven years of taking them down one piece at a time, this clue was the closest he’d come to the heart of the operation. This could be the op that ended this organization for good.
He rose, scanning the deck. Every creak of wood and slap of water against the hull tugged at his instincts. TheWindward Ladymight’ve been a rotted heap, but she wasn’t just neglected. She was tampered with.
Vivian moved past him, checking the aft door. Her flashlight beam cut through the fog, slicing shadows into shape. She moved like she always did—controlled, precise, every motion measured. Except for the way the wet fabric of her jacket clung to her waist, the faint tremor still running through her hand.
He shouldn’t notice things like that. But he did. Always had. Vivian was the one woman he’d wanted to notice him but the only one who never did, despite the close-quarter ops and long nights.
They cleared the wheelhouse. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, the hinges whining. Inside, the air was thick with mildew and engine oil. Charts were scattered across the console, warped from damp sea air. He checked behind the storage bench, under the dash—nothing but cobwebs and a few loose bolts.
