I stand slowly, positioning myself so the tidal pool is at my back and the open path ahead. My collection bag hangs from my shoulder, samples I can't afford to lose but won't have hands free to protect if this turns into a confrontation.
Men step from the trees.
They're dressed too well for hikers, wearing dark jackets despite the mild evening temperature and boots meant for urban streets rather than coastal terrain. The one in the center is older, weathered, with shoulders and arms that speak of years spent training rather than hours logged at a gym. The others flank him, younger and harder, moving with practiced efficiency that speaks to professional experience.
They're not locals or tourists. Nothing about their presence suggests coincidence.
"Dr. Mercer." The older man's accent carries Eastern European inflections—Russian, maybe Ukrainian. "We need to have a conversation about your research."
My grip tightens on the knife handle. "I don't know you."
"No. But we know you." He takes another step forward, and the younger men spread out, cutting off escape routes with practiced efficiency. "You've been collecting samples. Asking questions. Making inquiries that attract unwanted attention."
"Marine biology isn't a crime."
"It is when you're investigating things that don't concern you." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "The algae blooms, the drownings, whatever you've been finding in those samples you keep analyzing. You're building a case. We can't allow that."
Ice floods through my veins. They know about my research. They've been watching me, tracking my movements, probably monitoring everything I've done since arriving on Skara.
"Who sent you?"
"That's not relevant." He gestures to my collection bag. "What matters is that you give us your samples, your notes, every piece of data you've collected. Then you leave this island and forget you were ever here."
"And if I refuse?"
The man on the right pulls a knife from his jacket—not a dive knife like mine, but a combat blade meant for killing. "Thenwe make you disappear like the others who asked too many questions."
The threat slams into me with sickening clarity. These men aren't environmental activists or concerned locals. They're enforcers who silence problems before they become threats to whatever operation is running on Skara.
I drop the collection bag and draw my knife in one smooth motion, transferring my weight to the balls of my feet. The self-defense training the Institute required for solo fieldwork kicks in on pure instinct. My heart hammers against my ribs. I'm smaller, outnumbered, and outmatched in weapons. But I'm not going down without a fight.
The man with the combat knife lunges first.
I sidestep on pure instinct, using his momentum against him, and drive my elbow into his kidney as he passes. He grunts, stumbles, but recovers faster than I expected. The second man circles left while the leader moves right, boxing me in against the tidal pool.
I can't win this. Cold certainty floods through me. I can hurt them, maybe delay them, but outnumbered with inferior weapons means I'm going to lose.
The man I struck comes at me again. I drop low, sweep his legs with more luck than skill, and roll away as he crashes into the rocks. But the leader is there, grabbing my arm, twisting until pain shoots through my shoulder and the knife tumbles from my grip.
"Enough games." His breath is hot against my ear. "Give us the research or we kill you here and take it anyway."
A voice cuts through the darkness like a blade.
"Leave. Now."
The men freeze. I twist in the leader's grip, following the sound.
Finn stands at the edge of the clearing, backlit by the moon. He's dressed in black, and the expression on his face carries cold fury that makes rational thought evaporate. Recognition flashes in his eyes—he knows exactly why these men are here and who sent them.
The leader laughs, but there's an edge to it. "This doesn't concern you, friend. Walk away."
"Mine." The word drops like a stone. Finn takes a step forward, and his movement makes the man holding me alter his grip. "Touch her again and I'll rip your throat out before your next breath."
The man with the combat knife points it at me, the blade pressing against my throat. The sharp edge bites my skin. "Back off or I cut her."
Finn goes very still, predator-still. His eyes catch the light like aquamarine stones, and for a heartbeat I see age beyond counting looking out from behind his features.
Then for a fraction of a second, his attention moves past us to the darker shadows beneath the trees, to a threat I can't see but he clearly can.
