Page 3

CHAPTER 3

Rusty

Through the chief’s office window, Rusty watched uniformed officers pass in the bullpen beyond. Behind him, Sarah Williams’ muffled sobs leaked through the walls from the adjacent interview room. It had taken forty minutes just to get his dad to see him, forty minutes Grace Williams might not have. The woman he’d found in the den with the gold cross was in an induced coma, so unfortunately, if she did know where Grace Williams was, he couldn’t ask her.

The harsh fluorescent lights bounced off the polished koa wood desk between them, turning his father’s face gray and deepening every line in his scowl. A framed map of the Big Island hung behind the chief’s chair along with a wall of commendations . . . a testament to twenty years of service to Hawaii County Police.

“Dad.” Rusty thrust Sarah’s phone across the desk’s worn surface. “Just look at the damn photo.”

“I looked.” His father’s voice had the same edge that he used to send Rusty to his room when he was a kid. “Similar cross. I get it.”

“It’s not just similar. It’s identical.”

“There are probably millions of gold crosses like that. Regardless, we have protocols?—”

“Protocols? Bullshit!” Rusty’s words echoed off the glass window and he lowered his voice. “That girl was half-dead this morning, and this girl is missing. And you want me to tell her mother to fill out a form?”

“What I want, Russell, is for you to stop making promises you can’t keep. You’re not in the service anymore.”

The words hit their mark. Always did.

Soda pressed against his leg beneath the desk, steady as ever, while Rusty fought to keep his voice level. “Sarah needed help. You’re up to your eyeballs with that drug bust this morning. What was I supposed to do? Turn her away?”

His father jabbed the desktop, rattling his nameplate. “You’re private security. We’re the police. It’s time you figured out the difference.”

The old argument landed like a punch to the gut. Same words, different day, same dismissal of Rusty and the private K9 protection team he’d worked damn hard to be part of.

“We’ll look after Sarah. Go home, Russell.” The chief swiveled his chair toward the window overlooking Hilo Bay, dismissing him with the same finality his mother had shown that night nearly thirty years ago when she’d driven away, leaving Rusty standing in the driveway. “We’ll handle this.”

Rusty’s grip tightened on Soda’s lead until the leather creaked, then he crossed the chief’s office in three strides and yanked open the door. Forcing control into his voice, he strode to the interview room and opened the door. He met Sarah’s red-rimmed eyes. “The chief will be out to help you soon.”

She strode to him and gripped his arm. “Thank you.”

He didn’t have it in him to respond. With Soda at his side, he strode past the curious glances of the desk sergeants and aimed for the exit.

Rusty shouldered through the exit with Soda at his heels. The parking lot was half-empty, most units were still out, dealing with the morning’s drug bust. He yanked open his truck door, then paused, gripping the frame. No fucking way was he going home. Going home meant four walls closing in, meant memories of Hannah’s brutal lies mixing with his mother’s cold goodbye. Going home meant drowning.

The job was his lifeline, it had been since Delta Force, since Brotherhood filled the void the military left behind.

The station’s glass doors burst open, and a woman stormed out and raced down the concrete steps. “Unbelievable! A whole station full of cops and not one of them can?—”

His gut clenched. Sienna. Two decades hadn’t changed that fierce stride or her tumble of copper-colored hair. Memories he’d buried deep resurfaced like drowning men demanding attention – her wild laughter, her body against his, summer nights together when they’d been young, stupid, and immortal. Now her face was tear-streaked, her breathing ragged, and his chest ached at how distressed she looked.

He slammed his truck door, and Soda leaped from the back, falling in beside him as he approached. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She whirled around, clutching a Jack Russell terrier to her chest. Pickle–his neighbor Dee’s yappy menace. She must be staying at her aunt’s place again. He cataloged details: dirt smudging her Nikes, hands trembling where they clutched Pickle against her chest, eyes darting like a spooked puppy.

Her gaze swept over his tactical gear and lingered on Soda’s K9 vest. “Are you a police officer?”

No recognition flickered in her green eyes. Thank God. “Private security. Brotherhood Protectors.” He kept his voice steady and professional. The last thing he wanted was for her to recognize him. Clearly, she needed help, and he couldn’t walk away, not with her eyes darting to the shadows like that and her hands trembling where she gripped the unnaturally quiet terrier. That spoiled canine usually ricocheted off walls like popping corn. “What’s wrong?”

Soda’s ears pricked forward, alerted to something.

Sienna glanced over her shoulder, scanning the fence line like she expected demons to materialize. Pickle’s usual yapping was replaced by a low whine against her collarbone. “I need the police.” She tried to shoulder past him, clutching Pickle like a shield.

“They’re tied up with a major case,” he said, using the same tone he reserved for skittish witnesses. “I’m a protection officer. I can help you. What happened?”

“Oh. Well . . . I saw . . .” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “There were men. They umm?—”

“Did they hurt you?” he clenched his fists.

Soda inched forward, hackles rising.

“No. Well, no. But they were burying something. Someone.” Her arms tightened around Pickle’s small body. “When they saw me, they . . . they tried to shoot me.”

“Shit. And you’re okay?”

“Yes. But I need to show the police what I saw.”

His chest tightened at how distressed she was. “Did the desk sergeant tell you they’re tied up with a drug bust?” Keeping his voice calm took effort.

“Yes. They said they’d send an officer to meet me when available.” Her tone cracked with frustration. “But the person . . . they could be dying while they?—”

“I can help.” He kept his hands where she could see them, recognizing the wild look in her eyes from all those years ago. “My K9 and I can check out what you saw.” And make mincemeat of their faces, he vowed silently.

“I know what I saw.” Fire blazed in her green eyes—the same passionate fury he remembered all too well. “They were digging a grave, and there was a blue tarp. I told myself I’d watched too many crime shows. But then . . .”

“Okay. Okay. Keep calm.” He started to reach for her but caught himself.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” She jerked back. “They tried to kill me.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He kept his hands where she could see them. “You’re right.”

“Sienna.” Fire still blazed in her eyes. “Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Sorry, Sienna. Okay, I’m Rusty.” She knew him as Russell, and his gut told him that once she realized who he was, she’d want nothing to do with him. But no way was he leaving her like this. “How do you know they were burying a body?”

Her face paled.

“The person in the tarp sat up like they’d jolted awake or something.” She sucked in a massive breath. “And the bastard hit the person in the tarp with the shovel.”

“Son of a bitch.” His mind raced to Sarah’s missing daughter. Jesus, is the body Grace? “Can you take us there?” He gripped Soda’s lead, and the shepherd responded with military alertness.

“Yes.” She straightened her spine, determination replacing fear.

“My truck’s right here.” He sprinted to the RAM, and Soda leaped into the truck bed in one fluid motion.

He opened his door, but Sienna hung back, and her resolve seemed to be crumbling. He raced around to the passenger side. “We need to move.”

Her arms tightened around Pickle, and she looked so scared it ripped his fucking heart out.

“Listen,” he said quietly, “Soda’s not just a guard dog—she’s ex-military like me. I served eight years with Delta Force before I joined Brotherhood Protectors.” No need to mention how his military career had ended. “We’ll protect you.”

Something shifted in her expression, then she marched to his truck and slid into the passenger seat with Pickle clutched to her chest.

He was in the truck and firing the engine before she settled, and her seatbelt clicked as he threw the truck into drive, gravel spitting behind them. “We need to drop your dog off first.”

“Hell no!” She clutched Pickle tighter. “They have my phone, so they know where I’m staying.”

He frowned at her. “It’s not that easy to get information off a locked phone.”

“I know that. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m staying at my aunt’s house, and her address was in my phone case.” Her fingers twisted in Pickle’s fur. “Pickle is staying with me.”

Christ. Dee better not be in danger. She’s been my neighbor since the day I was born.

“Where’s your aunty?”

“Spain. I’m house-sitting, looking after Pickle.” She brushed her hand over Pickle’s back.

Great. Just what they needed. A canine liability that was more damn trouble than a coked-up teenager.

The RAM’s engine growled as he swung onto the main road. He stole a glance at her profile, struggling to connect this hardened woman beside him with the girl who once tangled the sheets with him. That gangly teenager doing handstands and splits on the beach had matured into a completely different woman with quiet strength, guarded edges, and tightly wound tension. But beneath her anger, fear bled through in the way her fingers shook against Pickle’s fur.

“We’ll handle this.” He kept his voice steady, projecting a calm he didn’t quite feel. “I need to know exactly where you saw the men.”

“Well . . .” She shifted in her seat, finally loosening her grip on Pickle. “It was from a lava tube, so we have to show you from there.”

“You were inside a lava tube?”

“Not by choice.” A flash of irritation crossed her face. “This little menace took off after a mongoose and wouldn’t come back when I called.”

Sounds about right.

His entire neighborhood had been on the receiving end of some of Pickle’s adventures.

“Coming up to an intersection here,” he said. “Which way?”

“Take a left, then follow the coastline.” She leaned forward slightly, scanning the road ahead. “I run this route every morning.”

“The whole way? That’s got to be at least five miles.”

“Yeah, well, usually I don’t have to deal with murderers halfway through my workout.” Her attempt at humor fell flat when her voice caught. “After I got away, an old lady in a Prius gave me a ride to the station. She probably thought I was crazy, covered in dirt and babbling about being chased.”

His mind raced with questions, most of them about her. That barefoot surfer girl he remembered was gone, replaced by a woman who carried herself like a warrior. He forced away the memory of sun-bronzed skin and her tiny red bikini to focus on what mattered now. “Tell me about the men you saw.”

As she took a deep breath, she absently stroked Pickle’s ears. “There were two of them. The one watching the other man dig was huge, maybe six-four, shoulders like a fridge. Had this elaborate back tattoo, Japanese, I think. With temple scenes and warriors with swords . . .”

Rusty’s gut turned to ice. Yakuza. This situation was no longer just about a woman and her dog stumbling across something they shouldn’t have seen. This was so much worse. His hand brushed over his tactical vest. Soda also had her K9 armor on. But Sienna didn’t have any protection. He would call his Brotherhood team for backup if they weren’t already committed to providing security for the governor’s visit.

“He used the shovel on that poor person,” Sienna said, her voice dropping.

“He’ll answer for that.” The words came out like gravel, heavy with a promise he was absolutely keeping. Tracking cartels through Colombian jungles had taught him exactly what people were capable of. No, not people—fucking monsters. But that darkness didn’t belong here, not on his sacred Hawaiian shores where he’d once believed that the worst thing in life was storm clouds.

He felt her studying him and fought the urge to turn his head. Had recognition finally clicked? The thought made his pulse jump, though he couldn’t say if from hope or dread.

“I heard them first. They were arguing over the digging.” Her lips twisted. “One called the other a ‘lazy prick’.”

Rusty gestured at the stark volcanic terrain around them. “This ancient lava is harder than concrete. They’d need industrial equipment to break through it.”

“I know, but they were digging in a patch of soil.”

Something cold settled in Rusty’s gut. These bastards must have scouted their location to know exactly where to dig.

“Take that left up there.” She gestured at the fork ahead.

In the truck bed, Soda prowled back and forth, muscles coiled tight beneath her coat. Meanwhile, the terrier had finally stopped shaking in Sienna’s arms.

“Did the other man have tattoos too?” he asked.

“Yes. He had a dragon across his back.” Her voice took on that same clinical precision. “And a skull on his chest that was half-destroyed like something had torn the jaw clean off.”

In his experience, witnesses were often hopeless. Trauma scrambled their memories into a mess of maybes and might-haves. But Sienna’s recall was razor-sharp, clinical. Something about her needled at him. The stiff posture, maybe, or how she wore fear like armor. Or her fingers that constantly smoothed Pickle’s fur. Christ, it was just like Hannah’s endless smoothing of cushions when bullshit had spewed from her mouth.

Gone was the wild-haired girl who’d lived for the next wave with a salt-crusted surfboard forever under her arm. This Sienna had touched darkness and suffered some horrors.

He knew only too well what misery did to a person. His heart clenched for her, and he hoped like hell he was wrong.

“That’s quite the eye for detail you have,” he said, fighting the surge of feelings he had no right to have. “What kind of work are you in?”

She gave a soft laugh. “I’m a computer nerd. Cybersecurity. Basically, I hunt for code that doesn’t belong. Like Where’s Wally with malware.”

Woah. He wasn’t expecting that. She didn’t fit his mold of the tech experts he’d worked with. Then again, nothing about her was ordinary or aligned with his memories of her from eighteen years ago.

His mind flashed to that night on the beach under the full moon, her salt-kissed skin, the way she’d?—

Fark. Get your shit together.

“There it is.” Sienna pointed to a large hole in the lava field that looked like an open mouth.

Making sure his truck was far enough away not to draw attention, the tires crunched on loose gravel as he parked in the dappled shade of an ancient plumeria. Through the thick afternoon heat, the entrance to the lava tube was barely visible.

They climbed out, and as he reached her side, he indicated to Pickle in her arms. “Hang onto him.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. We don’t want?—”

“I said I would.” She glared at him.

Biting back a remark, he instructed Soda to jump out. She leaped from the truck and sat at his side so he could clip her onto the leash.

The volcanic field was empty except for scraggly weeds and a pair of wild goats, one sporting horns bigger than Pickle. Late afternoon sun pierced the cloud bank, turning the horizon to molten silver. At the tunnel mouth, Soda’s hackles lifted, and her nose worked the ground in sharp, professional patterns as she led them in.

Rusty’s flashlight beam glided over walls polished by ancient fire, and the curved surface reflected like burnished steel. The tube was wide enough to walk two abreast, and the ceiling was high above their heads.

“Amazing to think this was once a river of fire,” Sienna said as her palm slid along the polished wall.

“This whole island’s laced with them.” He kept his attention fixed ahead, avoiding her sidelong glance. “Like a subway system nobody uses anymore.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

The probing note in her voice made his shoulders tighten. The last thing he needed was her connecting old dots.

“Just picked up bits of info here and there after leaving the service.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was safer than the truth.

Soda went statue-still, every muscle locked, nose working the air in sharp pulls.

“Easy, girl.”

Her tail rose like a warning flag.

“What is it?” Sienna whispered. “Does she sense something?”

“Maybe.” He pressed his hand to Soda’s back. She was as hard as steel. Not just maybe. “ She’s caught something, but . . .”

He let the rest of his sentence hang, watching Sienna’s reaction from the corner of his eye.

“But what?”

“Could be an old scent. Maybe nothing.”

He signaled Soda forward with two fingers, and she trotted ahead.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered to Sienna, “and hold that dog tight.”

The tunnel split like a serpent’s tongue, and Sienna nodded to the right-hand side where the walls pinched closer, but the ceiling soared beyond his light and was absorbed into the volcanic darkness. Their footsteps echoed in the vast space, multiplying like phantom followers.

“Nearly there,” Sienna breathed. “There’s an opening and a natural ramp up to the clearing.”

He noted her certainty, the same precise recall as those tattoo descriptions.

Soda prowled ahead, body language screaming alert. His thumb found the holster snap at his side, so his gun was ready to draw. Better to be paranoid than dead.

A shaft of afternoon sun speared through a narrow tunnel exit up ahead, painting a golden circle on black stone.

“That’s where—” Sienna started.

“Shhh,” he cut her off.

He gripped Soda’s lead with one hand and pulled his Glock with the other. “Stay here,” he whispered in her ear. He climbed up the natural ramp, then, pressing his back to the cold stone at the tube’s exit, he scanned outside. Nothing. No tattooed killers. No tarp-wrapped body. No freshly dug hole.

He stepped out cautiously, and his boots crunched on a patch of dirt that had somehow survived the lava flow. Soda sniffed the ground, nose to the earth, working in widening circles. The dog’s deliberate sweep heightened his growing unease.

His gut knotted as Soda came up empty. No signs. No tracks. No evidence to back up a single word of Sienna’s story.

It’s all bullshit.

“Clear.” The word was bitter on his tongue.

What the hell is she playing at?

She emerged from the tube, cradling Pickle, and he watched the performance unfold. Her jaw slacked, her eyes widening as she scanned the clearing. She pressed the terrier tighter against her chest like a living shield.

“But . . . this is it. Right here.” Her voice cracked perfectly. “I saw them digging.”

With her free hand, she gestured helplessly at the ground that hadn’t seen a shovel in years.

She was good. Damn good. That precise blend of confusion and desperation, the shocked eyes, the protective curl around the dog, the voice that trembled just enough to trigger every protective instinct in him. Hannah had been equally skilled with her wounded looks and quivering lips that drew him in again and again.

He’d believed every excuse—until the night he tracked her so-called overtime to her fucking her boss at work.

Sienna blinked rapidly, eyes going glassy. “I swear to God, they were right here.”

“Well, they must be magicians ‘cause there’s nothing here now.”

Her fingers twisted in Pickle’s fur as tears pearled on her lashes. “I’m telling the truth.”

The similarity hit him like a punch to the gut. Same damsel in distress playbook.

“Please,” she whispered, clutching Pickle. “You have to believe me. This was the spot.”

Her performance was flawless, just like Hannah’s had been.

Their tears were a weapon in their arsenal.

He turned away. I am not falling for that bullshit again.