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Nothing but calm, dark water.
“We should head back,” Fletcher said softly.
“No, not until we find her. She’s out here. Somewhere.” Only, he knew the chances that she’d actually be found were close to none. Her boat had been located fifteen miles out at sea. It had been stripped of all its navigational equipment, and not a single piece of scuba gear had been found.
Either she had resurfaced, and she was drifting somewhere, near dead, or the pirates had killed her and Mallary. Or worse.
It was theworsethat he couldn’t bring himself to even think about. Human trafficking was a huge thing in these parts, and you didn’t have to be a young girl or boy for it to happen to you.
“It’s nearly four in the morning.” Fletcher put his hand on Keaton’s shoulder. “We’ve been out here all night.”
“I don’t care.” Keaton continued to scan the dark ocean. Miles and miles of pitch-black nothingness stared back. He dropped his hand to his side in defeat.
“Let’s go check in with everyone else. Regroup. Rest. And then we can come back out.”
Keaton nodded. He leaned back on the seat and pulled out his cell, reading the last text he’d received.
Trinity:Doing safety checks and going down for one last dive. Mallary is beside herself. Not sure I want her out here with me again, but I’ll fill you in on that tonight. I’ll text when we surface and are heading in.
He’d responded, letting her know he’d see her at the docks, but she’d never gotten his text, and her phone hadn’t been recovered from the vessel.
“Why don’t we head in from the north?” Keaton said. “Dawson and Hayes covered that area earlier but radioed saying they were heading in from the south.”
“That’s a reasonable request.”
“Take it slow. Please.”
Fletcher maneuvered the fishing boat toward the channel, and Keaton continued to use the spotlight, cutting through darkness barely illuminated by the glow of the moon. It would be a miracle…
“Over there.” Keaton’s heart slammed into his throat. “On the red channel buoy. Do you see that?” He held the light on the channel marker. A faint figure—a silhouette—illuminated under the bright light. Water, pushed by the current, swirled around the buoy.
“I see something. But I can’t make out what it is.” Fletcher swiveled the steering wheel to the starboard.
“Something…someone… Oh my God. That’s a person holding on to that buoy.” Keaton stepped to the side of the boat, clutching the spotlight in one hand and gripping the side rail with the other. He squinted, trying to take in the figure. “Blond hair. Jesus, that’s her. That’s Trinity.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Radio it in.” He shoved the spotlight at his buddy, then raced to the bow of the boat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Jumping in to save her. What does it look like?”
“Before you do that, why don’t you let me get a little closer?” Fletcher said, giving the boat a little more gas.
“I can live with that.” Keaton kept his eyes locked on that buoy and the body. She had to be alive. No way could she be clinging to that without breath in her lungs.
Once Fletcher was fifteen feet away, Keaton stepped up on the bow and dove into the water. The chilly ocean seeped into his clothing. He surfaced, and with his sight locked on Trinity, he swam as fast as possible.
He’d spent a lifetime as a sailor. He’d joined the Navy the second he’d turned eighteen. His parents had supported his decision, even though they had wanted him to at least entertain the offers that had rolled his way to play college football.
He hadn’t given a crap about that. All that had done was put him at the center of attention as a star quarterback. Football had merely been something he’d done to exert energy. It hadn’t been about having apassion for the sport but a passion to be part of something.
Nothing ever happened in a vacuum, but his coaches—even some of his teammates—had put him on a pedestal.
Not the Navy, especially not in boot camp. There, he’d just been a man.
The Navy—specifically, being a SEAL—had taught him that while he was a member of an elite team, that made him special, and humility mattered. What he’d done for his country—for his fellow man—hadn’t deserved the spotlight. He’d always been good with that. Every medal he’d ever received, while important, had never been displayed. They were more reminders of lives lost. Battles forged. And the freedoms he’d fought for.
“Trinity,” he choked on her name as he approached the buoy. Thank God the waters were calm. No wind. No rain. No weather to contend with. He grabbed the channel marker with one hand and wrapped his arm around Trinity’s body with the other.
She moaned. Her limp body slithered into the water.