Page 2

CHAPTER 2

R aven Newton pulled her car to a stop behind two police vehicles at the end of a gravel lane only feet from the beach along the Atlantic Ocean on Lantern Beach.

Nestled off the coast of North Carolina, Lantern Beach was a slender barrier island accessible only by ferry. Its isolation was part of its charm. The narrow strip of land sat embraced by the vast Atlantic on one side and the sheltered sound on the other, a sanctuary of undulating sand dunes crowned with swaying sea oats.

The island earned its evocative name generations ago when a desperate lighthouse keeper, unable to light the tower’s beacon during a storm, placed lanterns along the shoreline to guide ships away from the treacherous waters known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.

Originally established as a humble fishing community in the late 1800s, the island remained relatively undiscovered until tourists began arriving in the 1970s, forever altering its character while somehow preserving its soul.

The heart of Lantern Beach pulsed in its quaint downtown, where a weathered wooden boardwalk stretched along the oceanfront, lined with locally owned shops, nostalgic arcades, and ice cream parlors perfuming the salt air with sweet temptations.

A substantial pier jutted into the ocean, topped with a beloved sandwich shop where locals and visitors alike gathered to watch the waves crash below. Instead of towering hotels, the island was dotted with vacation cottages and a handful of bed-and-breakfasts, their pastel exteriors weathered by sea and sun.

A lighthouse stood sentinel at the island’s edge, a silent guardian surrounded by gnarled live oaks that had bent and twisted under decades of coastal winds, creating an otherworldly canopy over the sandy paths leading to its base.

Raven had only been here once before, but she knew life on Lantern Beach moved according to nature’s rhythms rather than the insistent pace of the mainland. Locals collected their mail from PO boxes rather than home delivery, exchanged news at the local market, and conducted business with a relaxed efficiency that frustrated newcomers.

The island’s temperament could shift as quickly as its weather—warm sunshine giving way to cooling evening breezes, placid waters transforming into angry swells during approaching storms. Sandy lanes and gravel roads connected the community, sometimes becoming impassable during the height of tourist season as visitors flooded the two-lane main artery with cars.

Yet despite these occasional inconveniences, Lantern Beach maintained its reputation as a peaceful haven where serious crime was unknown for thirty years—at least until recently.

The strong sense of community among year-round residents created a protective embrace around the island, where everyone seemed to know everyone, their histories intertwined like tangled fishing line.

Local lore whispered of buried treasure and maritime mysteries, stories shared around bonfires that sparked imagination while the Atlantic’s constant rhythm provided a timeless soundtrack to this coastal sanctuary, where the boundary between past and present seemed as fluid as the tides themselves.

Raven wished she was here to enjoy this place.

Instead, she stepped outside and stared at the carnage in front of her.

A beautiful beach house had once stood at this location, mere steps from the beach. Now, the home had been reduced to shambles. Only a few posts and beams remained standing—or leaning or sagging—and burned embers scattered the sandy ground and dune.

The fact only one person had died in the explosion was a near miracle. Thankfully, the two houses on either side had been unoccupied. Otherwise, this could have been even more of a tragedy. Their windows had been blown out and the sides of the houses charred.

Raven knew about tragedy firsthand, and she didn’t wish the feelings on anyone.

“You must be Dr. Newton,” a voice said beside her.

She turned to see an attractive woman in her mid-thirties approaching from a police vehicle. The officer had blonde hair pulled into a low bun and wore a police uniform. Her name badge read Chief Chambers.

Raven extended her hand. “I am. But you can call me Raven. It’s nice to meet you, Chief Chambers.”

“Please, call me Cassidy. Thank you so much for coming. You were highly recommended for this job by one of my colleagues in DC.”

“Whatever I can do to help.” Raven turned back to what had once been a house. “This is heartbreaking.”

Cassidy turned toward the scene also. “You’re right. It really is. The woman, Eleanor Clark, had just posted online this morning about her beachcombing find. People began to warn her that the object was dangerous. But it was already too late.”

Raven frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, especially when something like this could have been prevented. I guess the woman didn’t realize what exactly she was dealing with.”

“No, she didn’t. Eleanor was a nice woman. She and her husband moved to Lantern Beach after winning the lottery a decade ago. They mostly kept to themselves, but they did like to play Bingo down at the local Ruritan Club on occasion.”

Raven stored that fact away as her gaze traveled beyond the house to the ocean on the other side of the dune. “Have these types of devices been found on your shores before?”

Cassidy shook her head. “No, we do occasionally have things that wash ashore—a whole shipping container of Doritos once.”

Raven raised her eyebrows. “No kidding? That sounds fun.”

She let out a quick laugh. “That was before my time. But, yes, I’ve heard stories. This island is full of history—including pirates and rumors of buried treasure.”

“That must attract tourists to the area.”

“It does. Some of the old-timers like to tell stories about World War II when U-boats were off the shore,” Cassidy continued. “Residents had to turn off all the lights on the island so the enemy didn’t know anyone was here. I’m so thankful we’re not living in that time in history anymore. I imagine it was terrifying.”

“Agreed.” Raven paused, her gaze traveling back to the remains of the house. “I’d love to get closer if it’s safe.”

Cassidy nodded. “The scene has been cleared by the fire chief. I’ve already called the State Bureau of Investigation. They’re on standby if we need their help—which we might, depending on what we uncover.”

“Hopefully, this was just a tragic accident.”

“I can’t imagine it would be anything else . . .” Cassidy paused. “Though the fact that Eleanor won the lottery could potentially make her a target.”

“Did anyone stand to inherit her money upon her death?” Raven was only here to investigate the bomb, but it couldn’t hurt to get more information.

“We’re looking into that, but she apparently has a son up in Virginia and two grandchildren. She also has one sister who’s still living, and her late husband’s brother is in California. I’ll be looking into their backgrounds, just to be thorough, and maybe even questioning a few people. You know what they say—love and money can motivate people to do some pretty awful things.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.”

Cassidy nodded at Raven’s black designer heels. “You’ll need to be careful in the rubble.”

Raven let out a laugh. “Don’t worry—I brought different shoes. I had a meeting this morning in DC with the US Head of Antiquities, and I left right after it was over.”

Cassidy released what appeared to be a breath of relief.

Sometimes people assumed Raven got her job because of her looks and connections instead of merit. She loved proving them wrong. She had to time and time again.

She paused another moment. She’d been at scenes like this more than she’d like to admit.

Not scenes exactly like this.

But Raven was one of the leading experts in historical artifacts in the US.

Her official job title was historical authentication specialist for the International Cultural Heritage Protection Agency (ICHPA), a United Nations-adjacent organization. She authenticated artifacts for museums, governments, and private collectors. She also investigated potentially looted or illegally obtained artifacts, provided expertise on historical weapons, and consulted with bomb disposal teams when historical explosives were found.

Her specific expertise was in warfare artifacts from the twentieth century, particularly WWII through the Cold War era. She was often called to examine unexploded ordnances found at construction sites, beaches, or in private collections.

On occasion, the FBI or Interpol contracted her services when dealing with cases involving historical weapons.

She’d traveled extensively for her career and had some significant risks associated with her job. Breaking her ankle while searching a bomb site wasn’t one of them.

Raven changed into some thick-soled boots then walked to the site. She needed to find any leftover traces of the bomb so she could piece together what might have happened. She’d asked Cassidy to leave everything in place.

Sometimes the placement of debris told an investigator a lot about what had happened.

As the chief talked to another officer on the scene, Raven stepped carefully through the debris. Her heart panged at the reality of the loss.

She knew loss all too well.

Her own mother had been killed in Syria when a terrorist planted a car bomb under her father’s vehicle—her father who was a US ambassador in the middle of negotiating a contested peace deal. Her mom had climbed inside instead and . . .

Raven’s throat burned.

Thirteen years had passed since then, but sometimes the pain still felt so fresh . . .

As she stepped toward ground zero, she paused and closed her eyes. Took in a deep breath.

Waves crashed in the background. Seagulls swooped overhead.

Sounds that should be peaceful.

Certainly, Eleanor Clark had appreciated them.

Until she died in an explosion.

Raven’s lips pulled down in a frown.

She opened her eyes again and continued to walk through the destruction. Somehow, a couch cushion had survived as well as several pots and part of a headboard. Broken dishes lay at her feet with clothes strewn around. But mostly she saw splintered wood and melted decking.

She heard another vehicle pull onto the scene behind her, but she didn’t turn to look. Officials would be coming and going all day—probably all week, for that matter.

A scene like this didn’t get investigated in a day.

As Raven searched the area, she squinted as something between the boards caught her eye.

Squatting down, she moved some rubble aside.

A photo underneath had survived the blast.

As the image came into view, her breath caught.

It was a picture of the US Embassy in Syria. Raven knew the place well—she’d lived there at one time.

But why in the world would Eleanor Clark have this photo in her house?

Jake Laudner pulled to a stop at the scene of the blast. He’d already been here this morning, but he wanted another look.

Chief Chambers had called and asked him for his opinion on what had happened.

As a former explosives expert for the Navy, this was his area of expertise. He now worked for a private security group called Blackout. Almost everyone at the company was former military special forces.

He’d only started three months ago, and he was enjoying the job so far. Except for . . .

His throat tightened.

He didn’t want to think about those issues now. Didn’t want to think about how he and his new colleagues—the ones hired with him—weren’t all seeing eye to eye. How he was nearly certain one of them couldn’t be trusted.

Right now, however, Jake needed to focus on the disastrous scene before him.

He climbed from his truck and stared at the massacred beach house. Part of the sand dune that had once stood in front of the house was missing, along with the walkover leading from the home’s deck to the ocean.

His jaw twitched with compassion. This should never have happened. Senseless tragedies could sometimes be the hardest.

Jake turned and surveyed the people on the scene.

Cassidy stood near her car talking to Officer Leggott. They appeared to be deep in conversation, so Jake decided not to interrupt them.

A woman with long, black hair pulled into a ponytail caught his attention. She squatted in the debris as she studied something on the ground.

Jake watched the woman, something about her vaguely familiar. She must be an investigator. Had the state sent someone? Jake thought Cassidy had said the local PD would handle this scene first.

He’d ask her about it later.

Since the chief was occupied, Jake decided to walk the scene again.

He stepped onto the collapsed structure, wooden boards creaking and moaning under his feet. The ruins still smelled of smoke.

He glanced at the rubble and frowned. The medical examiner had been by this morning collecting any remains left of Eleanor.

The poor woman.

Certainly, she’d never envisioned this happening.

Jake wanted to figure out what exactly had caused this. An old ordnance that hadn’t detonated for decades? Or was there more to this story?

As he stepped farther onto the scene, a new sound caught his ear.

He paused as he listened, tension crawling through his muscles.

Was that what he thought it was?

Muscles still rigid, he followed the sound, each step cautious. He needed confirmation before he became the boy who cried wolf.

Because he thought he’d heard a ticking sound—as in a ticking time bomb.

Except, in real life, bombs didn’t usually tick . . . unless the creator wanted to use the sound to draw attention or be dramatic.

As the noise became louder, Jake used his foot to move aside some boards.

That was when he saw it.

A bomb.

With glaring red numbers displaying a countdown.

In twelve seconds, this beast was going to blow—taking down anyone and anything nearby.

He raised his head and yelled, “Everybody, get back! Now!”