Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Sin’s gaze snaps back to mine. And his voice goes even lower. “You haven’t seen charming yet.”
THREE
SIN
The Boathouse sits on the edge of Tidehaven’s marsh like it grew out of salt and stubbornness. From the road it looks like a renovated relic, all weathered brick and wide steel doors, the kind shrimp boats used to back into when this place still smelled like diesel and brine and hard labor. Now it smells like bleach, coffee, and gun oil. Progress, I guess.
The tide is low. Mud flats glisten under the late-day sun, and the marsh grass sways like it’s whispering secrets to itself. The driver turns into the lot, and my eyes sweep the perimeter out of habit. He parks where we can see the main entrance and the boat bay door. No blind spots. No surprises.
Rowan sits in the back seat, sunglasses off now, face angled toward the building. Her expression is casual enough to fool someone who doesn’t do this for a living.
I know better.
Her knee bounces once, quick and subtle, then stills like she caught herself doing it. Her fingers tighten around her tote strap, knuckles pale for half a second. She’s scared. She’s also fighting it the same way she fights everything else, by turning it into a joke before it can turn into a problem.
The driver cuts the engine. “We’re here.”
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” I open the door. “Come on, it’s headquarters for the company your mom hired.”
“Sure.” She sighs. “Headquarters for fishermen. Or pirates. Or fisherman pirates.”
I glance at her. “You want to stay in the car, that’s an option.”
Her chin lifts. “I’m not staying in the car. That’s how women end up in documentaries.”
“Fair point.” I get out first, circle around, and open her door. Not because she needs help. Because I like controlling entry and exit. Because if anything comes at us, it’s coming at me first.
Rowan steps down, tote on her shoulder like she’s walking into a networking event instead of a security facility. She looks up at the building again, eyes tracking the big boat-bay doors and the cameras tucked into the corners of the structure. She notices everything. That’s part of why she’s in this mess.
“Salt & Steel,” she murmurs. “Your people?”
“Yeah.”
“And they’re… good?”
I meet her gaze. “They’re paranoid. Which is what you want right now.”
Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Fantastic. Nothing says comfort like professional paranoia.”
“Stay close,” I tell her.
“I’m right here.”
“That’s the point.”
We head toward the entrance. The building is solid, heavy. Reinforced doors. Keypad. Camera lens angled to catch faces, not just movement. A discreet intercom. I punch the code and the lock releases with a soft click.
Rowan’s shoulders loosen a fraction when we step inside, like the barrier matters more than she wants to admit.
The main floor opens into a wide space that still carries the bones of the old cannery. Tall ceilings. Exposed beams. Concrete polished smooth. The boat bay to the left holds two rigid inflatables on trailers and a smaller craft lifted on a rack. There’s a dive locker wall beyond it, rows of wetsuits and tanks and gear labeled with names. The tactical gym sits on the right, mats and heavy bags, a squat rack built like it could survive a hurricane. Everything has a place. Everything is clean in that way that says someone here has control issues.
I work here when I’m not deployed with the US Navy as a SEAL.
Up above, a glassed-in loft overlooks the entire floor. The Bridge. Ops windows tinted slightly so the people inside can see out without being seen.
Rowan tilts her head, taking it in. “This is like if a CrossFit gym married a Coast Guard station.”
“Don’t insult them like that.”
She snorts quietly, and I catch it for what it is. A release valve. A woman trying to keep herself from cracking.
Footsteps echo from the back corridor. Calder Hayes appears like he owns the oxygen. Late-thirties. Tall. Built in a way that doesn’t scream gym rat but does say he can put you on the ground if he wanted to. Dark hair, calm eyes, expression set to “I have handled worse than whatever you brought me.”
He wears a fitted black long-sleeve with the Salt & Steel logo stamped small on the chest. Jeans. Boots. No visible weapon, which means he has at least two.
“Sinclair Hawthorne,” Cal says as he approaches. His voice is steady. “When do I get to have you working here full time?”
I laugh. “I’ve got a few months before re-enlistment.”
Cal asks, “And what are you going to do?”
I suck in a deep breath. “With the case with my father I’m thinking about sticking around more.”
Cal smiles at that. “Well, there’s always a full-time position here if you want it.” His gaze turns to Rowan. “You must be Rowan.”