R I S I N G   T E R R O R

(A Cassandra Fierce Suspense Thriller —Book 4)

M o l l y   B l a c k

Molly Black

Bestselling author Molly Black is author of the MAYA GRAY FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seventeen books; of the RYLIE WOLF FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books; of the TAYLOR SAGE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eight books; of the KATIE WINTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the RUBY HUNTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CAITLIN DARE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the REESE LINK mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CLAIRE KING FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the PIPER WOODS mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the GRACE FORD mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the CASEY BOLT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the JADE SAVAGE mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the ELISE CLOSE psychological thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TESSA FLINT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CLARA PIKE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CASSANDRA FIERCE suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the SERENA KNOX suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Molly loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.mollyblackauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025  by Molly Black. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS BY MOLLY BLACK

SERENA KNOX SUSPENSE THRILLER

RUN AWAY (Book #1)

RUN FROM HERE (Book #2)

RUN HOME (Book #3)

RUN FROM HIM (Book #4)

RUN OUT OF TIME (Book #5)

RUN NOW (Book #6)

RUN SCARED (Book #7)

CASSANDRA FIERCE SUSPENSE THRILLER

RISING TIDE (Book #1)

RISING FEAR (Book #2)

RISING ABYSS (Book #3)

RISING TERROR (Book #4)

RISING DARKNESS(Book #5)

RISING DOUBT (Book #6)

RISING NIGHT (Book #7)

ELISE CLOSE SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND HER LIES (Book #1)

BEHIND HER SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HER SECRETS (Book #3)

BEHIND HER GATES (Book #4)

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS (Book #5)

CLARA PIKE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

REMEMBER THE FEAR (Book #1)

REMEMBER THE DEAD (Book #2)

REMEMBER THE LIES (Book #3)

REMEMBER THE SILENCE (Book #4)

REMEMBER THE PAST (Book #5)

TESSA FLINT MYSTERY SERIES

BARELY SEEN (Book #1)

BARELY HEARD (Book #2)

BARELY FORGOTTEN (Book #3)

BARELY MISSING (Book #4)

BARELY ALIVE (Book #5)

BARELY THERE (Book #6)

BARELY SILENT (Book #7)

JADE SAVAGE MYSTERY SERIES

ALL SHE FEARS (Book #1)

ALL SHE WANTS (Book #2)

ALL SHE REMEMBERS (Book #3)

ALL SHE NEEDS (Book #4)

ALL SHE HIDES (Book #5)

ALL SHE DREADS(Book #6)

ALL SHE LOST (Book #7)

CASEY BOLT MYSTERY SERIES

BROKEN (Book #1)

FLAWED (Book #2)

BLEMISHED (Book #3)

DAMAGED (Book #4)

TWISTED (Book #5)

FRACTURED (Book #6)

TAINTED (Book #7)

GRACE FORD MYSTERY SERIES

NEARLY MINE (Book #1)

NEARLY SAFE (Book #2)

NEARLY FREE (Book #3)

NEARLY GONE (Book #4)

NEARLY HIS (Book #5)

NEARLY LOST (Book #6)

NEARLY DONE (Book #7)

NEARLY NEXT (Book #8)

CLAIRE KING MYSTERY SERIES

ONCE HE SEES (Book #1)

ONCE HE LONGS (Book #2)

ONCE HE TAKES (Book #3)

ONCE HE FEELS (Book #4)

ONCE HE KNOWS (Book #5)

MAYA GRAY MYSTERY SERIES

GIRL ONE: MURDER (Book #1)

GIRL TWO: TAKEN (Book #2)

GIRL THREE: TRAPPED (Book #3)

GIRL FOUR: LURED (Book #4)

GIRL FIVE: BOUND (Book #5)

GIRL SIX: FORSAKEN (Book #6)

GIRL SEVEN: CRAVED (Book #7)

GIRL EIGHT: HUNTED (Book #8)

GIRL NINE: GONE (Book #9)

GIRL TEN: WANTED (Book #10)

GIRL ELEVEN: VANISHED (Book #11)

GIRL TWELVE: (Book #12)

GIRL THIRTEEN: STALKED (Book #13)

GIRL FOURTEEN: SHATTERED (Book #14)

GIRL FIFTEEN: DECEIVED (Book #15)

GIRL SIXTEEN: PURSUED(Book #16)

GIRL SEVENTEEN: ABANDONED (Book #17)

RYLIE WOLF FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

FOUND YOU (Book #1)

CAUGHT YOU (Book #2)

SEE YOU (Book #3)

WANT YOU (Book #4)

TAKE YOU (Book #5)

DARE YOU (Book #6)

TAYLOR SAGE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

DON’T LOOK (Book #1)

DON’T BREATHE (Book #2)

DON’T RUN (Book #3)

DON’T FLINCH (Book #4)

DON’T REMEMBER (Book #5)

DON’T TELL (Book #6)

KATIE WINTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SAVE ME (Book #1)

REACH ME (Book #2)

HIDE ME (Book #3)

BELIEVE ME (Book #4)

HELP ME (Book #5)

FORGET ME (Book #6)

HOLD ME (Book #7)

PROTECT ME (Book #8)

REMEMBER ME (Book #9)

CATCH ME (Book #10)

WATCH ME (Book #11)

RUBY HUNTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IF I RUN (Book #1)

IF I TELL (Book #2)

IF I LIVE (Book #3)

IF I FORGET (Book #4)

IF I RETURN (Book #5)

CAITLIN DARE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

COME GET ME (Book #1)

COME FIND ME (Book #2)

COME TAKE ME (Book #3)

COME CATCH ME (Book #4)

COME SAVE ME (Book #5)

REESE LINK MYSTERY

BEYOND REASON (Book #1)

BEYOND REACH (Book #2)

BEYOND REPAIR (Book #3)

BEYOND DOUBT (Book #4)

BEYOND NORMAL (Book #5)

PIPER WOODS FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMEWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

SOMEWHERE SANE(Book #2)

SOMEWHERE WHOLE (Book #3)

SOMEWHERE FAR (Book #4)

SOMEWHERE WRONG (Book #5)

SOMEWHERE HIDDEN (Book #6)

SOMEWHERE DARK (Book #7)

SOMEWHERE SILENT (Book #8)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

PROLOGUE

The fog clung to the research vessel like a shroud, muffling the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. Dr. Lydia Thornton gripped the railing, her knuckles white as she peered into the impenetrable mist. The Maine coastline had vanished, swallowed by the murky darkness.

A shiver ran through her entire body, and it wasn't from the damp chill in the air. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Lydia's breath caught in her throat as she heard footsteps on the deck behind her. She whirled around, heart pounding, but saw only shadows. 

She wasn’t exactly sure how things had taken such a turn. This was meant to be a routine research trip. Her and two others, somewhere else on the boat. But she didn’t know where they were right now. All she knew was that she was in danger. She was in danger and she had a decent idea why.

With quick strides, Lydia made her way to the control room, locking the door behind her. The glow of instrument panels cast an eerie blue light across the cramped space. Radar screens blinked steadily. Sonar pinged. All normal.

Except for the gnawing fear in her gut.

Lydia's hands trembled as she pulled her tablet out of the small satchel she wore across her chest. She had to warn someone. Anyone. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out cryptic messages.

She typed, then excepted, and then hit Send. Once, twice, and then by the time she had typed out and encrypted the third, her fingers were trembling from fear.

A thud outside the door made Lydia freeze. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. 

Her pulse roared in her ears as realization struck. The danger wasn't out there in the fog. It was here. On her own ship. But who? One of her crew? Or had someone managed to slip aboard unnoticed?

Lydia's gaze darted to the door. The handle jiggled. 

She bit back a small whimper as she desperately tried to finish a final message. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, etched with terror.

Who was out there and why were they singling her out? And what about the rest of the crew? Where were they?

The door burst open with a thunderous crash. A dark figure loomed in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway lights. Lydia's scream caught in her throat as she recognized the unmistakable outline of a man dressed entirely in black, his face obscured by a ski mask.

"No!" Lydia cried, lunging for the exit. Her shoulder slammed into the intruder's chest, but he didn't budge. She stumbled back, her heart in her throat.

“Why?” she cried out. “What do you want?”

But the man was not answering. She sensed that he wasn’t here to talk.

And then she thought it all made a sick sort of sense. Her eyes darted to her tablet, still clutched in her free hand. In a split-second decision, she hurled it past his shoulder, through the open door, and out into the foggy night. The device arced through the air, disappearing into the choppy waters.

There was a brief moment of sadness, of tossing away all of the vital information on the tablet. But it was located elsewhere, too. And now this masked bastard would have to find that other source. She’d not offer it up so easily…

The man’s head snapped around, following the tablet's trajectory. A guttural growl escaped his throat as he realized what she'd done. "You bitch!" he snarled, spinning back to face her.

She knew that voice. Could it be…?

Lydia's momentary triumph evaporated as she saw the rage blazing in his eyes. She stumbled backward, her lower back hitting the edge of the control panel. Eyes filled with fury, the masked man with the familiar voice advanced on her, fists clenched at his sides. 

Lydia's brain seemed to panic and tremble as she searched for a way out. The narrow confines of the control room left her with nowhere to run. She glanced frantically at the array of instruments and monitors surrounding her, hoping for something – anything – she could use as a weapon.

But unless she could figure out a way to use a clipboard as a weapon, she was doomed.

In that moment, staring into the eyes of the masked man, Lydia realized the terrible truth. There would be no talking her way out of this. But the voice did sound familiar. If she could place it and figure out who this was, maybe she could find a way to rationalize things, to beg for her life.

“Please…no,” Lydia said.

But the man lunged forward, pushing her hard against the wall, his breath hot against her ear. Lydia closed her eyes, a single tear rolling down her cheek as she braced herself for what was to come. In her final moments, she thought of the sea and the fog, imagining that she was simply drifting away somewhere out in that endless expanse.

CHAPTER ONE

Cassandra Fierce slowly sipped from a mug of coffee as her eyes scanned her laptop screen. The information in front of her was a collection of crew manifests and passenger lists. Just boring column to most, but absolutely captivating to her. The ship's name glared back at her: SS Horizon. Four years ago, terrorists had stormed its decks, leaving a trail of blood and unanswered questions.

She paused, rubbing her temples. The face of Rashid Al-Mahdi flickered in her mind - the mastermind the CIA been hunting ever since. A ghost who'd slipped through their fingers time and again.

Cassandra pulled up his file, scanning the details she knew by heart. Born in Yemen. Radicalized as a teenager. Rose through the ranks to become one of the most lethal operatives in the Middle East. The Horizon attack was his crowning achievement - and one of the CIA's greatest failures. They'd been so close to catching him last month in Turkey. But Al-Mahdi was always one step ahead, leaving only whispers and bodies in his wake.

Even though this was not information pertaining to one of her own cases, she found it fascinating. Three days ago, she’d received a summons by Commander Richards, telling her that the CIA was requesting her help with research pertaining to the SS Horizon and Al-Mahdi. Cassandra had been thrilled to help…not only because it was work with the CIA, but because she jumped at any excuse to dive into the archives. Fragments of history, forgotten by most, but holding potential keys to the present. She'd solved more than one modern case by connecting dots buried in old incident reports.

She knew it may be a bit conceited, but Cassandra appreciated knowing that the CIA valued her analytical skills as much as her field work. Where others saw random data points, Cassandra found patterns. Connections. The faintest trails that could lead to breakthroughs. It was the third time they’d asked for her help, just one of the many ways the Coast Guard Special Investigations Unit served as an outer extension of government agencies like the CIA and FBI.

She turned back to the screen, determination hardening her features. Somewhere in this digital haystack was the needle that would lead them to Al-Mahdi. Maybe in connections between the crew members, maybe in inaccuracies in the manifests.

A sharp rap on her office door jolted Cassandra from her research-induced trance. She blinked, realizing the morning sun now slanted through her blinds.

"Come in," she called, stretching her stiff shoulders.

The door opened and Mick poked his head in, his usual easy grin replaced by a look of urgency. "Hey, Cass. Richards just pinged me. Wants us both in her office, pronto."

Cassandra's heart quickened. "Both of us? Did he say why?"

Mick shook his head. "Nope, but you know the drill. When Richards calls us in together..."

"There's a case," Cassandra finished, already closing her laptop. A mix of excitement and frustration coursed through her. She hated to leave the research behind.

"Damn," she muttered, grabbing her jacket. "I was looking forward to digging in to that terrorist data."

Mick raised an eyebrow. "The CIA can wait. Richards waits for no one."

As they strode down the hallway, Cassandra's glanced over to her partner. "Any hunches?" she asked Mick.

He shrugged, his stride matching hers. "With Richards? Could be anything from a lost kayaker to a nuclear sub gone rogue."

Cassandra nodded, appreciating his attempt at levity. But she knew that Richards usually saved the most dramatic and unorthodox cases for her and Mick.

They reached the commander's door, exchanging a brief glance before Mick knocked. Richards' muffled voice beckoned them inside.

The click of rapid typing greeted them as they entered. Commander Richards, a study in efficiency, didn't even look up from his laptop. His mostly brown but greying hair was well-maintained, his weathered face set in lines of concentration.

"Have a seat," he ordered, still focused on her screen. "I'm emailing you both details on a case. You'll be out the door as soon as we're done here."

Cassandra and Mick shared a look of mingled anticipation and wariness as they settled into the chairs facing Richards' desk. Whatever this was, it was big enough to warrant immediate deployment. This might be a dangerous one.

Cassandra's fingers itched to check her own phone, to see what information awaited them. But she knew better than to rush Richards. The commander would reveal things in her own time, and not a moment sooner.

So they waited, the only sound in the office the staccato of Richards' typing and the faint hum of the air conditioning. Cassandra's mind whirred with possibilities, each more intriguing than the last. 

Finally, Richards hit 'send' with a decisive click. He then leaned back in his chair, his steely gaze fixing on Cassandra and Mick. "We've got a situation off the Maine coast. A body's been found tethered to a navigational buoy, three miles out."

Cassandra's breath caught. Unusual didn't begin to cover it. She thought over all of the moving pieces of such a case…ocean currents, decomposition rates, potential evidence loss.

"The victim," Richards continued, "is Dr. Lydia Thornton, a renowned marine biologist. She was part of a small research team who was last reported as being located about a mile and a half away from the place where her body was found."

Mick leaned forward. "Foul play?"

"That's what you're going to find out," Richards replied, her tone grim. "Given the... unique circumstances, we need your expertise."

Cassandra nodded, already cataloging the scant details they had. "What about the rest of her team?" she asked, picturing a research vessel adrift, or worse.

Richards' frown deepened. "That's where things get complicated. There were only two others, and no one can locate them. Maine State Police are questioning family members of all three team members as we speak.  As of right now, it’s assumed they were also killed and perhaps thrown overboard."

“If that’s the case,” Mick said, “it seems they left Thornton as a sort of message.”

A chill ran down Cassandra's spine. Missing researchers, a body tied to a buoy—this had the makings of something far more sinister than a simple boating accident.

"I want you two focused on Dr. Thornton," Richards emphasized. "Figure out who tied her to that buoy and why. This isn't just a recovery operation anymore. It's the potential murder of a well-respected marine biologist. We’re talking about a woman who had connections here in DC, all the way to the Senate.”

“Global warming implications?" Mick asked.

“Not sure. Something environmental is all I know. Again…that’s for you guys to find out.”

Cassandra met Richards' gaze, seeing the unspoken weight behind his words. Whatever Dr. Thornton had been researching, it was sensitive enough to warrant their immediate involvement.

"All the information I have on this case is waiting in your inboxes," Richards said. "And as we speak, admin is booking your flights to Bangor."

Cassandra felt a surge of anticipation, her body already humming with the energy of a new case. She glanced at Mick, catching the same mix of excitement and wariness in his eyes.

Richards looked up, her gaze sharp. "Now…get out of here. Head home and pack for a few days." His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "And good luck. Keep me posted."

As they exited the office, Cassandra thought ahead to how she’d need to pack for Maine. It would be chilly for sure, especially if they ended up out on the water. 

"Well, partner," she said, her voice low as they passed back through the hallway. "Pack your thermals. I have a feeling this one's going to be chilling in more ways than one."

They strode down the hallway, their footsteps echoing with purpose. Cassandra's hand instinctively brushed against her hip, where her service weapon usually sat. She'd need to requisition their gear before leaving.

"What's your gut telling you about this one?" Mick asked as they reached the elevator.

They’d come to the elevator, and Cassandra pressed the button to summon it up. "That we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg. Whatever Dr. Thornton was working on, someone wanted it buried along with her. I feel like this one is going to be based on her research."

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. As they stepped inside, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling that this case would push them to their limits. The Maine coast was unforgiving, and whoever they were up against clearly had no qualms about murder.

This case would clearly test them. But wasn’t that why she’d become a special investigator for the coast Guard? To take the cases others weren’t quite cut out for? By the time the elevator came to a stop and the door slid open, Cassandra felt that she was well prepared for the case ahead.

After she went home and packed some warmer clothes, of course.

CHAPTER TWO

Cassandra had never learned to actually enjoy flying. To her, it was just a means to an end, a way to get from Point A to Point B. She neither enjoyed it nor hated it. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she’d manage to catch a nap. She did not grab a nap on the flight to Bangor and honestly, the flight seemed to be over just as soon as it began.

Off the plane, through the airport and the throngs of people, and finally to the rental car desk. These were all necessary steps, of course but as the afternoon ticked away, it all felt like nothing more than obstacles in the way of getting to the crime scene out on the coast…which was another forty-five minutes away.

When they finally had a car and tossed their bags into the trunk, Cassandra checked her watch. 3:17 PM. Her stomach clenched. "We're losing daylight fast."

They took their usual positions—Mick behind the wheel and Cassandra in the passenger seat—and sped away from the airport. Cassandra wasted no time at all as she pulled out her tablet. She figured they’d need to know as much as possible about Dr. Lydia Thornton if they were going to make sense of why she was killed.

She was able to get a decent picture of their victim fairly quickly. There was a wealth of articles and other information scattered around online. And though she didn’t have any social media accounts, it seemed that others had mentioned Thornton in some of their posts.

After about fifteen minutes, Mick glanced over to her and said, “So, what have we got so far?"

Cassandra continued to skim through search results. "Quite a bit, actually. Looks like she was making waves in marine conservation." She tapped on an article. "Here's one from last year - 'Dr. Lydia Thornton Speaks Out Against Cruise Ship Pollution.'"

Mick raised an eyebrow. "Bet that made her some friends in the industry."

"Oh yeah," Cassandra muttered. "Listen to this quote: 'The damage being done to our oceans by unregulated dumping is catastrophic. If we don't act now, the consequences will be irreversible.'"

She scrolled further. "And it wasn't just cruise ships. She was involved in multiple studies on illegal fishing operations too. Not just the environmental impact, but the issue of modern-day sea slavery." She considered it all and added: "These are some very hot topics that usually get swept under the rug. The more I read, the more it looks like Dr. Thornton had a target on her back."

She stared out the window, watching pine trees blur past. The sun was already dipping lower, casting long shadows across the road. Time was slipping away, and they were still so far from answers.

"We're not going to have much time at the scene today," she said, frustration seeping into her voice.

Mick's jaw tightened. "I know. But we'll make the most of it. First light tomorrow, we'll be back out there. And maybe, if local PD has their act together, we can get out there before today is done.”

But Cassandra felt that they were already playing catch-up, even as they drew closer to the coast. She was quite sure Mick was feeling it, too; it was communicated in the heavy silence that rested between them for the remainder of the drive.

The address Richards had included in the file led them to a private marina in the small town of Castle Bluff that looked more like a harbor. A few boats were anchored or tied off to a long pier. But the most noticeable thing was the presence of police cars; Cassandra counted five in all. Several cops were milling around outside of what served as the office, situated around the parking to and then splaying out to join the pier behind it.

As they stepped out of the car, the salty air hit Cassandra's nostrils. Seagulls cried overhead, and the gentle lapping of waves against the docks created a deceptively peaceful atmosphere. She scanned the area, taking in the rows of weathered fishing boats and the single yacht.

A stocky man in a rumpled suit stood waiting for them, his long-ish black hair ruffled by the sea breeze. He was a bit on the younger side…maybe thirty-five or so. He extended a calloused hand as they approached.

"Detective Jack Hawkins," he introduced himself, his grip firm. "Welcome to our little slice of paradise."

Cassandra couldn't miss the hint of sarcasm in his tone. "Agent Cassandra Fierce, and this is my partner, Mick Donovan. Are you the detective in charge of the case?”

He smiled and said, “I don’t know about ‘in charge.’ But I’m the one the PD is coordinating with so…sure. And I don’t mind telling you that I am very happy to see the two of you!”

“Anything new since this morning?” Mick asked.

Hawkins grunted, leading them towards a small office overlooking the harbor. "Not much to tell you that isn't already in the reports. We've interviewed the families of the other two team members. Dead ends all around."

He opened the door to the office, holding it open for them. It looked larger inside than it did from the outside, with a large counter in the back. It appeared to be the sort of place where one could rent boats, jet-skis or kayaks. But the weather this time of year made it hard to imagine anyone investing money in that sort of thing.

“Do you have any theories about the other team members?” Mick asked as they entered the space.

Hawkins paused, leaning against his desk. "My money's on them being fish food by now. Whoever did this wasn't leaving loose ends. If you ask me, they only left Thornton to leave some sort of message."

Cassandra felt a bit of disgust at this comment, but kept her face neutral. "And the crime scene? Has anything new turned up there?"

Hawkins shook his head. "Nothing since the initial sweep. Speaking of which," he glanced at his watch, "we should get you two out there before it gets dark."

He nodded out of a window to the right, towards a sleek speedboat tied to a nearby pier. "That's our ride. Hope you've got your sea legs."

As they walked through a door at the back of the building, the sounds of the ocean seemed to welcome them. As they made their way towards the boat, Cassandra was again overcome with the feeling that they were somehow already behind.

The salt-laden breeze whipped Cassandra's hair as Mick untied the boat. She stepped aboard, her keen eyes scanning the horizon. Detective Hawkins gunned the engine, and they started across the water, which was surprisingly calm.

"So," Hawkins called over the roar one he’d gotten up to speed. "Coast Guard Special Investigations Unit? Never heard of it until yesterday. What's your deal?"

Cassandra gripped the railing, steadying herself. "We're Coast Guard officers, but we operate more like FBI agents," she explained, raising her voice to be heard. "We handle maritime cases that fall outside typical jurisdiction."

Hawkins nodded, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "Specialized, huh? And they sent you two all the way up here for this?"

"The circumstances warranted it," Mick chimed in, his face grim.

“It’s a weird one, I’ll give you that,” Hawkins said.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the ride. The ocean stretched out before them, its blue-green waves dancing in the afternoon sunlight. Seagulls swooped and cried as the boat cut through the water, leaving a gentle wake behind. The coastline had already disappeared from view as they ventured deeper into the open sea. Cassandra gazed out at the horizon, taking in the expanse of water and the clear blue sky above. Despite the peaceful scene, there was a tense energy in the air. The wind whipped through her hair, stinging her cheeks with a cold bite. But she couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the ocean, even in its bitter chill.

After a while, Hawkins’ voice pulled her from her sense of odd peace.

"There," he said, pointing directly ahead. "That's our buoy."

The boat slowed, and Cassandra's stomach clenched. Even from a distance, she could see dark smears on the metal. They looked bright and somehow surreal trapped between the blue sky and the churning water. As they drew up next to it, Hawkins killed the engine and tossed the anchor overboard.

"Jesus," Mick muttered, peering over the side. "What's with the water?"

Cassandra followed his gaze. An odd discoloration surrounded the buoy, like an oil slick but... different. She filed the observation away for later. She knew there could be slight disturbances around buoys and mile markers but this looked different than anything she’d ever seen before.

"The reports mentioned Thornton was tethered here," Cassandra said, forcing herself to focus. "Can you clarify – were actual tether cords used, or ropes?"

Hawkins nodded, understanding dawning on his face. "Both," he said. "There were tether cords and ropes."

Cassandra's eyes lit up with interest. "Do you have photos of the bindings? We didn’t have any in our preliminary files."

"Yeah, we documented everything," Hawkins replied, pulling out his phone. He swiped through a series of images before handing it over.

Cassandra studied the screen intently. The ropes were thick and weathered, clearly meant for maritime use. But it was the knots that caught her attention. 

"Mick, take a look at this," she said, passing the phone to her partner. "What do you make of those knots?"

Mick's eyes widened slightly as he examined the image. "That's a bowline knot," he said, his voice tinged with surprise. "Nothing super fancy, but it's definitely not something your average landlubber would use."

Hawkins leaned in, curiosity piqued. "How does that help us?"

"It might not," Cassandra admitted. "But it tells us something crucial about our killer. He's not just a murderer – he knows his way around boats and the sea. Probably as well as we do."

She paused, letting the implications sink in. The gentle lapping of waves against the hull seemed ominous now, rocking the boat gently.

"And that," she continued, her voice low, "makes him especially dangerous."

Hawkins' face paled slightly as he absorbed her words. He nodded grimly and looked to the buoy. 

“The reports said a fisherman found her body,” Mick said. “He’s been questioned, I assume?”

“Sure has. Story checks out and he had at least four people help to confirm his alibi.” Hawkins sighed and then looked to the buoy with something very close to disgust. “You guys good here?”

Cassandra nodded, staring at the buoy and taking it in, committing it all to memory. “Yeah, I think we’re good here.”

Mick moved to the edge of the boat and hauled up the anchor while Hawkins keyed the ignition. As the boat's engine roared to life, Cassandra cast one last glance at the blood-stained buoy. The discolored water lapped at its base, as if trying to erase the evidence of the horror that had occurred there.

CHAPTER THREE

The salt-laden breeze whipped Cassandra's hair as she strode down the pier, her shoes making creaking noises on the weathered planks. Her eyes scanned the horizon, mind churning over the odd scene they'd just witnessed. And they’d seen it without a body; she could only imagine how grisly it had been with the body of Dr. Thornton still attached.

They’d only taken a few steps from the boat to the pier when Hawkins’s phone rang. It was a small sound, coming from his pocket. He took it out, looked at the caller display and stopped walking. 

“Sorry, agents,” he said. “I need to take this.”

Cassandra and Mick nodded to him as they continued on their way back to the building at the end of the pier.

"Those knots," Mick murmured, matching her brisk pace. "Maybe they aren’t as big of a smoking gun as we originally thought. Bowline aren’t widely known, but…I think enough people would know how to make one.”

“Maybe,” Cassandra said. “I think it’s still worth keeping on the table.”

Mick nodded as they reached the end of the pier, pausing to gaze out at the roiling gray waves. The discolored patch of water near the buoy nagged at Cassandra's thoughts, an ominous stain marring the ocean's surface.

"And you know, I’m more interested in the discoloration we saw around the buoy," she said slowly, turning to face her partner. "I can't shake the feeling it's significant. It could have just been rust and the wear and tear from the underside of the buoy, but…I don’t know. I could have also been…”

"A message?" Mick finished, raising an eyebrow in an almost dramatic fashion.

"Exactly. Just as much as Thornton's body itself."

Mick's eyes narrowed as he considered this. Before he could comment, Detective Hawkins' voice cut through their conversation. He was striding towards them, phone pressed to his ear, his expression taut.

"Yes, we can be there shortly," he was saying. "Thank you for contacting us, Ms. Chen."

Cassandra's pulse quickened. Chen – Emma Chen, more specifically. That was Thornton's research assistant, according to the case file. 

Hawkins pocketed his phone as he reached them. "That was Emma Chen," he said without preamble. "Dr. Thornton's assistant. She's available to talk now. She was on a plane, coming home for Michigan when Dr. Thornton was found."

"Perfect timing," Cassandra said, already moving towards the parking lot. "We need to find out more about Thornton's recent work." Her mind was still lingering in that discolored water. Now that they were away from it, it seemed extremely important. But that was usually how things went on cases like these.

They piled into the rental car, Hawkins behind the wheel because he knew the area. As they pulled away from the harbor, Cassandra's sat pensively in the back seat, piecing together the fragments of evidence they'd gathered. The knots, the blood, the discolored water – each element a potential clue to unraveling the mystery of Thornton's death.

The rental car hummed along the coastal road. Outside and to the left, the ocean was grey, the afternoon quickly becoming evening. It was a dreary scene that seemed to fit the mood a little too nicely. 

Cassandra turned to Hawkins, her curiosity piqued. "Do you get many ocean-based deaths around here?" she asked, studying his profile.

Hawkins kept his eyes on the winding road. "Not really. A drowning here and there, usually tourists who underestimate the currents." He paused, his grip tightening on the wheel. "There was one case, couple years back. Body washed up right behind some millionaire's beach house. Nasty business, but as far as we know it wasn’t a missing person and the ID didn’t draw up any family members."

Cassandra exchanged a glance with Mick. "But nothing like this?"

"Nothing even close," Hawkins said with a nervous chuckle.

As they rounded a bend, a quaint cottage came into view. There were several others justice it, a little neighborhood of them situated in front of a rising series of dunes much further behind them. Hawkins came to the third one in this row and pulled in behind a white Tesla. The weathered shingles and wrap-around porch of the cottage gave it a storybook quality, at odds with the grim nature of their visit.

"This is it," Hawkins announced, pulling up to the curb.

Cassandra's trained eye took in every detail. Cheerful window boxes bursting with wildflowers. A well-worn path leading up to the porch. A bike leaning against the railing.

Hawkins cleared his throat. "You two take point on this one. She might open up more to the feds. She seemed a little guarded on the phone."

Cassandra nodded, already heading for the front door. She and Mick ascended the creaking steps, the salt-weathered wood groaning beneath their feet. Before Mick could knock, the door swung open.

A woman in her forties stood there, her Asian features drawn with grief. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

"Ms. Chen?" Cassandra asked gently. "I'm Special Agent Fierce, and this is my partner, Agent Donovan. We're here about Dr. Thornton." 

Behind them, Hawkins gave a small wave and said, “And I’m Detective Hawkins…we spoke on the phone a few times.”

Emma Chen's shoulders sagged. "Yes, of course. Please," she whispered, her voice raw. "Come in."

As they crossed the threshold, Cassandra's instincts sharpened and she studied everything. The living room was a study in coastal simplicity - whitewashed walls, driftwood accents, and a panoramic view of the churning ocean beyond. Cassandra's gaze swept the space, cataloging details. A laptop sat open on the coffee table, its screen dark. Beside it, a crumpled tissue peeked from an overflowing box.

“Thank you for your time,” Mick said. “We understand you’ve been traveling, so we’ll do our best to keep it brief.”

Emma sank into an overstuffed armchair, her hands twisting in her lap. "Thank you. I…I still can't believe she's gone," she murmured.

Cassandra perched on the edge of the small sofa, leaning forward. "Ms. Chen, we understand this is difficult, but we need to ask you some questions about Dr. Thornton's last few days. Would you be able to answer such questions?”

“Yes, I was with her quite a bit over the past week or so…up until I had to leave for Michigan two days ago.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?” Cassandra asked. “Any changes in her behavior?"

Emma's opened her mouth, then closed it, as if weighing her words carefully.

Mick's voice was gentle. "Anything you can tell us, no matter how small, could help."

Emma took a shuddering breath. "Lydia... she'd been on edge lately. Paranoid, almost. She kept saying someone was following her. I thought it was odd at first but now…well…not so much.”

Cassandra's pulse quickened a bit. "Did she give any details? Did she describe who might be following her?"

Emma shook her head, frustration evident. "No, nothing specific. Just... vague mentions. I thought maybe the stress of her latest project was getting to her."

Cassandra exchanged a glance with Mick. His slight nod confirmed he'd caught the same thread.

"Ms. Chen," Cassandra pressed, "was anyone threatening Dr. Thornton? Any conflicts at work, or in her personal life?"

Emma's eyes widened. "God, no! At least... not that she ever told me about."

Cassandra thought it over. A brilliant scientist, convinced she was being followed, now dead under suspicious circumstances. The discolored water at the crime scene. What was Lydia Thornton working on that could have made her a target?

She leaned back, studying Emma's face. The woman's grief seemed genuine, but there was something else there too. Fear? Uncertainty? Cassandra couldn't quite place it, but her instincts told her Emma Chen knew more than she was letting on.

Emma's hands fidgeted in her lap, her gaze darting to the laptop on the coffee table. As if reading Cassandra’s mind, she added: "There's something else you should know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lydia's research... it was groundbreaking. She believed it could revolutionize our understanding of ocean currents and their impact on climate change."

Cassandra leaned forward, her interest piqued. "How so?"

"She'd discovered patterns, anomalies that no one else had seen before. Lydia was convinced it could change everything we thought we knew about climate science. But it was going to require an immense amount of research."

Mick's eyebrows shot up. "That's quite a claim."

“Is that what the expedition was centered around?” Cassandra asked.

Emma nodded, then hesitated. Cassandra could almost see the internal struggle playing out across her face. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

"There's more," Emma said, her voice trembling…as if she truly did not want to mention what came next. "I received an email from Lydia's account, just before... before she died. But it's encrypted. I can't open it."

Cassandra's heart raced. The term '“encrypted” usually meant there was something well worth hiding. "An encrypted email? Sent when, exactly?"

"It came through last night…so I suppose just before she was killed," Emma replied, her eyes welling with fresh tears. "I've tried everything to decrypt it, but...that’s all a bit over my head. And quire frankly, I can’t figure out why she’d send me an email that I couldn’t even open. Maybe…well, maybe it was hoping for a situation like this. A situation where I could hand it over to trusted people who can."

"Could you forward that email to me?" Cassandra asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite her excitement. "We have resources in DC that might be able to crack it."

Emma nodded, reaching for her laptop. “Where should I send it?”

Cassandra rattled off her bureau email address. As Emma went about forwarding the email, Cassandra's mind whirled with possibilities. What secrets could that email hold? Was it Lydia's final message, a clue to her killer? Or maybe it was simply research related, information she wanted to keep hidden but made available to those she trusted.

"Sent," Emma announced, closing the laptop.

Cassandra nodded her thanks, then asked, "What about papers and files of everything she’d recently been working on? Can you send that as well?”

“Some of it, maybe,” she said with a frown. “But she kept most of that on a portable drive and as far as I know, she took it with her. But I’ll see what I can find for you.”

“Did you know the other members of Lydia's research team?” Mick asked. “Emory Catskill and Loren Brite?"

Emma shook her head. "Just their names. Lydia mentioned them, but I never met them personally. Actually, I’m pretty sure she’d only ever met Loren on Zoom calls. She was very excited about this trip but she was also sort of…I don’t know…sort of secretive about it."

Hawkins spoke up softly, leaning in closer to Cassandra. “Local PD spoke with Loren’s husband and confirmed that.”

Cassandra wasn’t sure there was anything else that could get out of Emma. The waiting email would hopefully provide all the answers they needed. And Cassandra felt a huge sense of urgency to get it sent to the appropriate channels in DC.

“Well, as we said, we don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Cassandra said. She pulled a business card out of the small wallet she kept inside her inner jacket pocket and handed it over. “But if you do think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Emma took the offered card and nodded. As they stood to leave, Cassandra felt a mix of hope and apprehension. The encrypted email could be the key to unraveling this mystery, but it also represented an unknown…maybe even a possibly dangerous element.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. Cassandra gazed out at the darkening ocean beyond the dunes, her determination growing with the shadows. Right now, that encrypted email felt like it was the key…so she saw no point in delaying the efforts to crack it open.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cassandra scrolled through the contacts in her phone, looking for number she hadn’t had to use in quite some time. The rental car's engine hummed as Detective Hawkins navigated the winding coastal roads. Mick sat silently in the passenger seat, his profile stark against the gray sky outside.

Cassandra found the number and was filled with a quick rush of adrenaline. The contact she was reaching out to was a young woman named Zoe Reeves. She was an analyst and tech head with the FBI—a resource she had reached out to a few times during the course of her career as a Coast Guard investigator. They’d become good friends during a case three years ago involving a container ship that had been loaded down with more than eighteen million dollars in cocaine.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. “This is Reeves.”

"Zoe? It's Cassandra Fierce.”

“Oh, hot damn! It’s always a fun day when Officer Fierce comes a’calling.”

“Is it, really?” Cassandra said cheerfully.

“Of course it is. Now…what do you have today?”

“I need your expertise on an encrypted email." Cassandra said. “I’ve already forwarded it to you.”

“What are we looking at?” Zoe asked.

Cassandra quickly walked her through the details of the case so far, ending with her conversation with Emma Chen. “The email was sent from our victim to Ms. Chen sometimes soon before she died. But it’s encrypted…and we need to know what's in it."

A moment of silence, then a low whistle from Zoe. “One second...let me just see here.” There were a few clicking noises in the background as Zoe looked for the mail. "Yikes,” she said only seconds later. “So…it's doable, but it might take some time."

“How much time?”

“Anywhere between an hour and three. Depends on a lot of things. But I can get it done for you.”

"That's perfect, Zoe. Call me when you have results, please."

She ended the call, her mind buzzing with the need to know what secrets Lydia Thornton had locked away in that email? And why?

Mick's voice cut through her thoughts as she came back to the here and now. He was in the midst of a conversation with Hawkins. 

"...around the buoy. What do you make of it, Hawkins?"

Cassandra tuned in, realizing she'd missed the start of their conversation. Hawkins shifted in his seat, turning to face them both briefly while he drove.

"We took a sample this morning. Preliminary results came back – nothing more than rust and oil. As I’m sure you know, the concentration of salt played hell in getting results on anything more than that."

"Rust and oil?" Cassandra leaned forward, her seatbelt digging into her shoulder. "From where?"

Hawkins shrugged. "Could be from the buoy itself, or any number of boats passing through. Nothing conclusive."

Cassandra frowned, her instincts prickling. Something about this didn't add up. Lydia Thornton had been passionate about ocean conservation. To have that sort of coloring in the water around the place where her body was found seemed almost ominous.

As they drove on, Cassandra closed her eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car soothe her racing thoughts. One piece at a time, she reminded herself. Solve the puzzle, find the killer. It's what she did best. And though the pieces didn’t make much sense now, she knew they just needed to keep looking.

The continued riding along, mostly in silence. After a while, just as true dark had settled in, she saw that the local police precinct sat just ahead. 

“Home sweet home,” Hawkins said. “I’ll get you guys set up with a proper workspace and access to the database. Though, with the scant information we have on this thing, I don’t know what good that will do.”

He parked around back and led them to the front of the building. The precinct's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Hawkins led them down a dingy hallway. Cassandra's eyes darted, taking in every detail - the scuffed linoleum, the faded wanted posters, the weary faces of officers shuffling past.

After taking a left midway down the hall, Hawkins came to a stop. He pushed open a door, revealing a cramped office with a single desk. "It's not much, but you can set up shop here."

Mick's gaze immediately locked onto a coffee maker in the corner. "Great. I'll grab us some fuel. Fierce, you want—"

"Database access," Cassandra cut in, already moving toward the computer. An idea had suddenly blossomed in the back of her head and she didn’t want to let it flounder and go forgotten. "And Wi-Fi. I need to check something."

Hawkins raised an eyebrow. "Burning the midnight oil already?"

“That’s Fierce for you,” Mick said. “She can’t stand to waste a second.”

“Let me get you logged into everything then,” Hawkins said.

As Hawkins came over and typed in passwords and got them access to everything, Mick worked at the coffee maker. Within seconds, the smell of a strong brew was filling the space.

“There you go,” Hawkins said, stepping away from the laptop. “Now, if you need anything, I’ll be down the hall, the to the right, in my office. But I’ll be back soon to check in.

"Got it," she said, barely glancing up as Hawkins finished. "Thanks."

The door clicked shut as Hawkins made his exit, Cassandra leaned in, eyes locked on the screen. If Thornton had stumbled onto something big enough to get her killed, there had to be breadcrumbs. Something that had set her on this path.

She pulled up local news archives, fingers dancing across keys. Ocean conservation. Environmental threats. Recent marine anomalies. Each search refined her focus, narrowing the possibilities. Had she said something that had pissed off the wrong people? Had her work attracted the wrong attention?

After several minutes—with Mick also sitting behind his own laptop, a cup of coffee beside him—Cassandra's eyes widened as a pattern emerged from the sea of information. Article after article, stretching back months, all pointing to the same disturbing trend. 

"Dead zones," she whispered, scrolling through reports from local fishermen. "All along the coast."

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up maps, cross-referencing locations. Central Maine. Northern Maine. Spots where fish had vanished, where the ocean seemed to have turned against itself. Here and there, Thornton would be mentioned or, at the very least, her research.

“You look deep in thought over there,” Mick said after a while. “You stumble across something yet?”

Cassandra spun in her chair, nodding her head. “I think so, actually,” she said, gesturing to the screen. "Dead zones. Everywhere. Fishermen reporting entire areas where nothing's biting, where the water just feels... wrong."

“That’s recent?” he asked. “And related to Thornton?”

“Her name pops up in regard to someone who had spoken about these dead zones, yes. Areas where it just seems the fish population has disappeared. And I think they may be related to Thornton’s research because the anomalies, they're too widespread, too recent to be coincidence. But that’s just a guess, seeing as how we don’t have her most recent files."

Mick set his mug down, leaning in to study the map. "You think her research trip was about this?"

Cassandra nodded, then paused. A memory tugged at her. "Wait," she said slowly. "Emma said she was pretty sure the research trip had something to do with ocean currents."

Mick's looked to be deep in thought for a second. "Okay, but how does that fit with dead zones?"

Cassandra turned back to the computer, pulling up new searches. "I'm not sure yet," she muttered. "But whatever's causing this, it's big. And Lydia knew something about it. Maybe something that got her killed."

The room fell silent, save for the soft hum of the computer and the ticking of a distant clock. Outside, the Maine night pressed against the windows, as dark and inscrutable as the mystery unfolding before them.

Cassandra went back to the laptop and pulled up a bit of oceanographic data she’d come across. "Look…unusual current patterns can absolutely create dead zones. When warm surface currents are disrupted, it can prevent the natural mixing of oxygen-rich water with deeper layers."

She zoomed in on a map of the Gulf of Maine. "See these eddies? They're like underwater whirlpools. If they're stronger or more frequent than usual, they could trap nutrients in some areas while depleting others."

Mick leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers. "Creating aquatic deserts," he murmured.

"Yes…sort of," Cassandra nodded, a grim satisfaction in her voice. "And if Lydia was tracking these anomalies—"

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with Zoe Reeves' name. Cassandra's heart skipped a beat. “Hold on…”

Seeing who was on the other line, Mick leaned in closely as Cassandra answered the call. She placed it on speaker mode and sat the phone of the desk.

"Zoe? You cracked it already?"

A chuckle came through the line. "Well, I am among the best at what I do. Plus, this encryption was pretty simple. Not child’s play by any means, but it didn’t put up much of a fight."

Cassandra's grip tightened on the phone. "So, what is it?"

"Turns out," Zoe said, her voice tinged with excitement, "it's a set of coordinates.”

“Leading where?”

“Absolutely nowhere, it seems,” Zoe answered. “Looks like they lead to a seemingly random location at sea."

Cassandra scrambled for a pen. “What are the coordinates?”

She jotted down the numbers Zoe rattled off. Thinking of a random spot at sea sent a chill through her as she connected the dots in her head. A location at sea. Unusual currents. Dead zones.

"Thanks, Zoe," she said quickly. "You're a lifesaver."

Ending the call, Cassandra turned back to her laptop and pulled up her interactive map. She input the coordinates and waited as the program loaded. Mick leaned in even closer, his presence steady at her side.

The map zoomed in, centering on a patch of open ocean. Cassandra's eyes narrowed, searching for any hint of what might have drawn Lydia's attention.

"What do you see?" Mick asked, his voice low.

Cassandra shook her head, frustration building. "Nothing. Just water. But Lydia wouldn't have encrypted these coordinates if they weren't important."

She sat back, running a hand through her hair. The pieces were there, she knew it. Lydia's research, the dead zones, this mysterious location. They just needed to figure out how it all fit together.

And why it had cost Lydia her life.

Cassandra leaned in closer to the screen, her eyes scanning the featureless expanse of blue. "Six and a half miles off the coast," she murmured, more to herself than to Mick. "There's got to be something there."

"Could be something underwater," Mick suggested. "Some kind of anomaly Lydia was tracking?"

Cassandra nodded slowly, her mind churning through possibilities. She glanced at her watch. 9:45 PM. Late, but not impossibly so.

"We need to check it out," she said, turning to face Mick. "Tonight."

His eyebrows shot up. "In the dark? Fierce, that could be very difficult."

"Risky? Yeah. But every hour we wait is another hour the killer has to cover their tracks." She stood, determination fueling her movements. "We can't afford to lose ten hours waiting for sunrise."

Mick held her gaze for a long moment. Cassandra was frustrated with him in that moment, but kept it to herself. She knew what he was thinking. He was wondering if Richards would approve the venture. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, you’re right. Let's do it."

Cassandra strode to the door and made her way down the hall, following the directions Hawkins had given them. She came to his office door, which was open, and saw him typing up something. 

"Detective Hawkins?" she called out.

He looked up, giving a hopeful smile. “Need something?”

"Yes. A boat," Cassandra said without preamble. "How quickly can you get us one?"

Hawkins blinked, caught off guard. "A boat? At this hour?"

"It's urgent," Mick chimed in, coming to stand beside Cassandra. "That encrypted email provided some coordinates…six and a half miles out at sea.”

Hawkins ran a hand over his face, clearly weighing the request. "I might be able to arrange something with the harbor master," he said slowly. "But it'll take some time. And going out at night…"

"We understand the risks," Cassandra cut in, her voice firm. "But this could be our best lead. How long?"

Hawkins sighed. "Give me thirty minutes. I'll see what I can do."

As he reached for his phone, Cassandra felt a mix of anticipation and unease settle in her stomach. They’d literally be navigating dark waters and weren’t even exactly sure what they were looking for. They would be, quite literally, be walking around blind in the dark.

CHAPTER FIVE

The patrol boat's engine vibrated beneath Cassandra's feet as they pulled away from the pier. The boat was of a simple design, a basic little patrol vessel with a single level and the helm covered by a small cabin with three walls. Hawkins had managed to secure it for them within just two minutes of making his call.

Now, darkness enveloped them, broken only by the dim running lights along the vessel's hull. Mick stood at the helm, his silhouette barely visible against the inky sky. His hands moved with practiced ease over the controls, guiding them into the open water.

Cassandra leaned against the railing, peering into the gloom. The sea stretched out before them, a vast expanse of black glass occasionally broken by gentle swells. Clouds hung low and heavy, obscuring what little moonlight might have filtered through. The air was thick with salt and the promise of rain.

"You two do a lot of night driving in your line of work?" Detective Hawkins' voice cut through the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull.

Cassandra turned, studying his face in the dim light. "It depends on the case," she replied, her voice raised slightly to be heard over the engine. "But I can't say we've had many midnight excursions out to open water recently. This is a bit of a rarity for us."

Mick chuckled from his position at the wheel. "Remember that drug bust off the coast of Florida? Talk about treacherous."

Cassandra nodded, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "How could I forget? We were chasing that speedboat through a maze of sandbars. One wrong turn and we'd have been stranded."

"Sounds intense," Hawkins remarked, his eyebrows raised. “I like my job…don’t get me wrong. But I could go for some excitement like that every now and then.”

"Really?" Cassandra asked, turning the conversation away from her own memories. "In your line of work this close to the coast, you don’t get any hair-raising experiences on the water?"

Hawkins shook his head. "Nothing like that. Mostly just drunk college kids on spring break causing trouble. Although..." He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "There was this one time we got a call about a ghost ship."

Cassandra leaned in, intrigued despite herself. "A ghost ship?"

"Yeah, some fishermen swore they saw a derelict vessel drifting near the harbor entrance. No lights, no crew visible. By the time we got out there, it had vanished without a trace."

The three of them fell silent, contemplating the mysteries of the sea. Thoughts of a ghost ship were chilling, given that they were venturing into dark waters after midnight. She knew that some people found the ocean at night calming—that you could look out and not see a horizon and imagine that the ocean just went on forever and ever.

Several minutes later, a massive shape loomed out of the darkness, startling Cassandra. As they drew closer, she realized it was a shipping container, its rusted metal sides gleaming dully in the boat's lights. The engine hummed loud enough to be heard over their own boat’s engine.

"That's a big one," Mick remarked, slowing their approach.

Detective Hawkins nodded. "This strip of water's a regular highway for these behemoths. Day and night, they're always passing through."

Cassandra frowned, her mind racing. "Must be rough on the local ecosystem."

"You have no idea," Hawkins replied, his voice grim. "Between the noise pollution, oil leaks, and occasional spills, it's a wonder anything survives out here."

As they passed the container ship, Cassandra's thoughts drifted to the discoloration she'd noticed around the buoy where Lydia's body was found. Could there be a connection? She was aware that there were many locations like that all around the sea, so it would be hard to find a direct link…but it might be something they’d need to look into.

"Mick," she said, leaning closer to her partner. "Remember that odd sheen on the water near Lydia?"

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the darkness ahead. "Yeah, what about it?"

"I'm wondering if it might be related to all this shipping traffic. Maybe some kind of chemical runoff or..."

"Doubtful,” Hawkins said. “I thought about that, too. But the place her body was found was at least a dozen miles away from any direct shipping routes. Now, it could have obviously been something from just a standard boat…a fisherman or someone just out for a joy ride.”

The coordinates led them further out as they talked about the ins and outs of the case, the air growing noticeably colder. Time passed in an eerie and fragmented sort of way out in the darkness, venturing further out into the ocean.

Then, roughly half an hour after they’d seen the container ship, they reached the location the coordinates had pointed to Mick cut the engine and dropped anchor. The sudden silence was eerie. Cassandra could almost still hear the engine in her head, as if her brain wasn’t quite comfortable with just the sounds of the ocean this far away from shore.

Cassandra scanned the area, expecting... something. Anything. But there was nothing. Just an empty expanse of water, calm and unremarkable.

"Well, this is anticlimactic," Hawkins muttered, voicing what they were all thinking.

Cassandra refused to give up. "There has to be something here. Lydia wouldn't have sent those coordinates for no reason."

She leaned over the side, peering into the inky blackness below. The water was like glass, reflecting the cloudy sky above. No sign of disturbance, no hint of what might lie beneath.

"It's so peaceful," she murmured, almost to herself. "Hard to believe we're investigating a murder out here."

Mick joined her at the railing. "You know as well as I do that sometimes the most dangerous places are the ones that seem the calmest."

Cassandra nodded, a familiar determination settling over her. Something about the impenetrable darkness around her made her feel as if the questions they had would actually be easier to find—that the darkness was theirs, if only for a moment, to guide and manipulate in any way they saw fit.

Behind them, Hawkins emerged from the cabin, lugging a heavy-duty spotlight. "Let's shed some light on this mystery, shall we?"

The beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating a circular patch of water. The glare was so bright and sudden that Cassandra found herself wincing from it at first. Once their eyes adjusted, she and Mick methodically scanned the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

After several fruitless minutes, Cassandra turned to Mick, frustration evident in her voice. "Nothing. Not even a buoy or a piece of debris."

Mick's lips drew tight as he considered it, still staring out into the water. "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. What if the coordinates aren't about what's on the surface?"

Cassandra's eyes widened as she caught his meaning. "You think Lydia was pointing us to something underwater?"

"It's possible. We know she was researching marine ecosystems. Maybe she found something down there."

Cassandra bit her lip, considering the possibilities. "But what? And how would we even begin to search?"

Mick shrugged, his expression grim. "Without proper diving equipment, we're limited. But it's a lead worth considering. We could maybe even request some sonar."

As they debated their next move, something caught Cassandra's eye. A slight sheen on the water's surface, barely visible in the spotlight's glare.

"Wait," she said, leaning closer to the water and pointing to the left. "Mick, shine the light here."

The beam shifted, revealing a faint, iridescent film spreading across the water. It was subtle, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. It was an oily sheen, barely visible at all. There was a subtle blue hue scattered throughout that made it stand out.

"What is that?" Hawkins asked, peering over their shoulders.

Cassandra's heart raced. "I'm not sure, but it's definitely not natural. Not all the way out here…and not so isolated. We need to get a sample."

They scrambled to find something to collect a water sample. Mick disappeared into the cabin, returning moments later with an emergency life raft kit. The entire thing was encompassed in a large plastic bag.

“Looks like this bag is pretty durable and airtight,” he said, taking the deflated emergency raft out of it. It's not ideal, but it'll have to do.”

Cassandra watched anxiously as Mick approached the side of the boat and leaned over. He scooped up some of the water, barely able to reach it, making sure to capture the oily film. As he stood up straight again and sealed the bag, she allowed herself a small hope that there might be a few answers hidden this water sample.

“Let’s go ahead and get that to a lab,” Hawkins said. “And if you two think divers are going to be necessary, I can put a request in with the State. Might take them a few hours to respond.”

“Let’s see what the sample tells us first,” Mick said. Cassandra nodded in agreement.

Hawkins seemed perfectly fine with this as he walked over to the anchor chain and began to haul it up. Cassandra clutched the sample bag, her knuckles white against the plastic. Mick slid behind the wheel, his posture tense.

"Ready to head back?" he asked, glancing at Cassandra.

She nodded, her throat tight as she looked back out to that strange area of water.. "Yes, we may as well. I don’t think there’s anything else out here for us." She did believe this but she was also starting to understand just how significant it was that Lydia Thornton’s coordinates had led them to a very small patch of ocean where there just happened to be some sort of discoloration and disturbance to the natural state of the water.

When the anchor was back up, Mick made his way back into the helm. The engine roared to life, and they pulled away from their odd destination. As they picked up speed, the wind whipped Cassandra's hair across her face. She tucked it behind her ear, her gaze fixed on the darkness ahead.

"Wind's picking up," Hawkins observed, gripping the railing.

Cassandra felt the boat lift and fall beneath her feet. The once-calm sea had transformed into a choppy expanse of black water. She swallowed hard, memories of her father flooding her mind. She knew he hadn’t been out in conditions quite this dark when his boat had gone down and he’d lost his life but still—in situations like these, his disappearance was never too far from her mind.

His death, you mean, she corrected herself. It’s been nearly twenty years now. He’s dead. It’s okay to refer to his disappearance as his death.

"You okay?" Mick's voice cut through her thoughts as he called out loudly from the helm.

"Yeah," she lied, forcing a smile as her grip on the sample tightened. "Just zoning out a bit.”

He looked at her sternly for a moment, as if he clearly didn’t think she was being honest with him.

As they pressed on through the darkness, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, everything was connected. The oily substance, Lydia's death, the weird coordinates…

The boat crested another wave, and Cassandra steadied herself. Her father’s face flashed through her mind and she held the sample of water tighter. She turned slightly, in the direction of land, her eyes suddenly very eager for the solid, reliable lines of the coast.

CHAPTER SIX

The pier creaked under Cassandra's feet as she stepped back onto solid ground, her legs wobbly after hours on the choppy water. The sky was an inky black, stars obscured by a haze of clouds. She clutched the plastic bag containing the water sample, its contents sloshing gently.

"What time is it?" Hawkins asked, his voice hoarse from fatigue.

Mick checked his watch. "3:56 in the morning. Christ, I'm beat."

Cassandra yawned, stretching her arms overhead. "Me too. But we need to get that sample analyzed as soon as possible."

Hawkins shook his head. "County Water Control doesn't open for another four hours. We'll have to use the precinct's forensics lab if you want results soon."

Cassandra's shoulders slumped. More delays. But she nodded, determination overriding exhaustion. "Fine. Whatever it takes. What’s the lab like at your precinct?”

“Maybe a little out of date, but adequate.”

They piled into Hawkins' sedan, Cassandra riding shotgun with the sample nestled securely in her lap. As they pulled away from the pier, she found herself mesmerized by the rhythmic sloshing of the murky liquid. In the glow of dashboard lights, it looked dirtier than it actually was, the discoloration and oily hues looking like living things.

Her eyelids grew heavy as they drive along through the early morning hours. Images flashed through her mind - roiling waves, her father's face, that oily sheen on the water's surface. She jerked upright, blinking rapidly.

"You okay?" Hawkins asked, glancing over.

"Yeah," Cassandra muttered. "Just tired."

She forced herself to focus, a bit embarrassed that she’d dozed off. She watched the streetlights blur past as they drove. The gentle hum of the engine threatened to lull her to sleep yet again. She subtly pinched her arm, willing herself to stay alert.

After what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, they pulled into the precinct parking lot. Cassandra checked the time as Hawkins brought the car to as top and killed the engine: 4:15 AM. As she climbed out of the car, a renewed sense of purpose flooded through her and washed away the fatigue that had been bullying her in the car.

"Let's get this to the lab," she said, hefting the sample bag. 

Mick yawned as he unfolded himself from the backseat and joined her. She strode towards the precinct entrance, energy surging through her tired limbs. Mick and Hawkins followed closely behind.

Detective Hawkins held the precinct door open, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Look, you two need rest. I'll get the water to the lab. Find somewhere to crash and I'll have someone wake you when we get results."

Cassandra hesitated, the sample bag suddenly feeling heavier in her hand. "I should really—"

"Hand it over, Fierce," Hawkins said, not unkindly. "You look dead on your feet. No offense."

Reluctantly, Cassandra passed him the bag. "Thanks.”

"Add it to my tab," he quipped, disappearing down the corridor.

Mick placed a hand on Cassandra's shoulder. "Come on, partner. Let's see what the sleeping accommodations are like around here.”

They trudged to an empty waiting area, the harsh fluorescent lights making Cassandra's eyes ache. She sank into a hard plastic chair, her body protesting every movement.

"Some investigator I am," she muttered. "Can't even stay awake."

Mick settled beside her. "You're human, Cass. Even the great Cassandra Fierce needs sleep sometimes."

She managed a weak smile. "Don't let that get around. I've got a reputation to maintain."

As Mick's breathing steadied beside her, Cassandra's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. She fought it, but exhaustion won out. Her last conscious thought was of the water sample, praying it would yield the answers they desperately needed.

Suddenly, she was on a boat, choppy waves slapping against the hull. The sky above was an angry gray, and a chill wind whipped her hair. She instantly knew where she was and that she was a child again. She was on her father’s boat and a storm was closing in.

She looked out to the water and saw a person flailing about, desperate to stay afloat.

"Dad?" she called out, spotting a figure in the water. 

Her father's panicked face broke the surface. "Cassie! Help me!"

Cassandra dove in without hesitation, the icy water shocking her system. She swam hard, fighting the current, her arms burning with effort. Just as she reached him, his body slipped beneath the waves.

"No!" she screamed, diving under. 

Her fingers brushed fabric, and she grabbed hold, kicking furiously to drag them both to the surface. But every time she thought she had him, he slipped away, pulled down by an unseen force.

"Dad!" she cried out, desperation clawing at her throat. "I've got you! Just hold on!"

But it was useless. In a final, terrible moment, her father was yanked into the inky depths, leaving nothing but darkness and the echo of her anguished scream.

A sharp jab to her ribs. Cassandra was yanked from the nightmare's grasp. Her eyes flew open, heart hammering against her chest as the precinct's fluorescent lights assaulted her vision. Mick's concerned face swam into focus.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly with sleep.

Cassandra blinked rapidly, forcing the lingering tendrils of the dream away. She glanced at her watch: 6:52 AM. "Yeah, I'm fine," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. "Sorry, didn't mean to fall asleep."

Mick shrugged, the motion causing his rumpled shirt to shift. "Join the club. I was out cold too until Hawkins came by."

Her brain snapped to attention. "Hawkins? Did he get the lab results from the water?”

"Yeah, he did," Mick confirmed, holding up several sheets of paper. "Just handed them over."

Cassandra took the papers, eyes scanning rapidly. Her breath caught as the data sank in. "High levels of benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene... Mick, this is bad. Really bad."

He leaned in, brow furrowed. "How bad are we talking?"

"These chemicals shouldn't be anywhere near these concentrations in open water," Cassandra explained, her mind racing through the implications. "This is the sort of stuff that would be seen at illegal dumping sites. But that makes no sense because it was so confined…all sort of clustered in that one space…at Lydia Thornton’s coordinates."

“That is strange,” Mick agreed.

“Any idea where Hawkins went? Maybe he can point us in the direction of a pollutions or waste management expert in the area.”

“Not sure.” He pointed to the left, to a thin hallway that led deeper into the building. “I just know that he went that way.”

They made their way down the hallway and approached the break room. Given the fact that she’d only had a very rough hour and a half of sleep, the smell of freshly brewed coffee was simply too difficult to pass up. As she made a beeline for the pot, she spotted Hawkins sitting at one of the breakroom tables, looking at a thin folder of case files. He looked marginally more awake than they felt. When he saw them enter, he gestured to a box on the counter. "Someone brought in muffins and pastries if you're hungry."

Cassandra grabbed a muffin, not realizing how famished she was until that moment. She took a big bite, savoring the momentary distraction before diving back into the case. She then poured a cup of coffee and walked over to Hawkins while Mick got his own cup.

"So," she said between sips of scalding coffee, "we've got proof of contamination. Now we need to trace it back to the source."

Mick nodded, his cup cradled in his hands as he joined them. "It's not just about catching whoever's dumping. We need to assess the environmental damage, potential health risks to the community."

Cassandra felt a familiar fire igniting in her chest. This was more than just a murder case. There were now some very serious environmental factors to keep in mind.

"We'll need to bring in environmental experts," she mused, her mind already mapping out their next steps. "And we'll have to move fast. Whoever's behind this isn't going to stop just because we found one contaminated site. Hawkins…do you know who we could talk to? Anyone local who might be an expert on toxins in the water? Someone with waste management, maybe?"

Hawkins scratched his chin, eyes narrowing in thought. "Actually, there might be someone…a guy named Joseph Blackwood. He's the CEO of OceanPure."

Cassandra's eyebrows shot up. "OceanPure? Sounds a bit on the nose, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well, they claim to specialize in eco-friendly waste management solutions for marine industries," Hawkins explained, using air quotes on eco-friendly to suggest skepticism. "Blackwood's assisted a bit on local pollution issues in the past and he does have a decent reputation within the community. It might be worth talking to him."

"Can you get us his information?" Cassandra asked, already feeling the little surge of excitement. Blackwood may not be a lead, per se, but he could certainly point them to one. It was certainly better than riding out onto dark seas again, that was for sure.

Hawkins nodded. "I'll pull it up for you right now."

As he left the break room, Cassandra turned to Mick. "What do you think? Could be helpful, or..."

"Yeah, I think it’s definitely a trip worth making…if it’s local.” Mick set his coffee down, his expression grim. "In the meantime, we should call Commander Richards. This case just got a lot more complicated with the environmental angle. We're going to need additional resources."

Cassandra nodded, her fingers drumming against her mug. The caffeine was kicking in, sharpening her focus.  “Good point.”

She knew they did need to inform Richards, even it was nothing more than a formality. But it was hard to focus on such regulations when there were still so many unanswered questions facing them. She was already trying to peer ahead, planning their next moves. The case was expanding, becoming more complex by the hour.

She grabbed another blueberry muffin while Mick pulled out his phone, likely to go ahead and make the call to Richards.

"We need to tread carefully here," she said before Mick was able to place the call. "Environmental issues could bog us down for months."

Mick nodded in agreement as he finished off his own muffin. "Yeah, that’s true. But we can't ignore it either. That water sample's damning."

"I know. It's just..." She trailed off, the image of her father flashing in her mind.

"You're worried about losing momentum," Mick finished, his eyes understanding.

“I know, I know…it sounds irresponsible. But if we bring in the EPA or other agencies, we could get tangled in red tape. You know how that goes. But if we don't..."

"We risk missing crucial evidence," Mick said. He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "It's a balancing act."

Cassandra set down her muffin, appetite fading. "Richards isn't going to like this complication."

Mick's lips quirked. "When does he ever like complications?"

Despite herself, Cassandra felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Fair point. But how do we present this without derailing the entire investigation?"

Mick's eyes lit up, that familiar spark of an idea forming. "What if we propose a two-pronged approach? We continue our primary investigation, but we also set up a small team to focus solely on the environmental angle. Hell, Richards may be able to even get mostly local resources to handle it…which means we’d not even be involved unless it was somehow directly related to Lydia Thornton’s murder."

"That could work,” Cassandra said. “We'd need to be selective about who we bring in, though...if they’re coming from DC."

"Agreed. Maybe Captain Mercer could advise? She's got the experience to know who'd be best suited."

Cassandra nodded. She knew Captain Mercer would get it all ordered and taken care of. As the captain of their entire division as well as one of Cassandra’s mentors, the woman was a force to be reckoned with. But Cassandra felt that contacting her should be a last resort.

“But you know what would make the whole ordeal easiest of all?” Cassandra asked with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“If we could wrap the damned case before that team even gets assembled.”

Mick chuckled softly as they finished their makeshift breakfast. Cassandra felt her determination solidifying a bit. They had a plan, and an entire day ahead of them to attack this case. Suddenly, she didn’t feel tired at all. More than that, she felt renewed…as if this case was hers for the taking.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The OceanPure building was located just forty minutes away from the precinct, tucked away in a professional park just off a four-lane highway. It was the sort of place that would get overlooked and ignored if someone wasn’t specifically looking for it. When Mick guided the car to the end of the business park lane, the building loomed before them in a simple yet eye-catching manner. It was a sleek monolith of glass and steel rising against the morning sky. The architecture was both minimalist and somehow striking all at once.

Cassandra studied the clean lines and minimalist design. Despite its grandeur, the building had an understated elegance. No garish logos or flashy adornments - just quiet confidence.

"Hidden away and unassuming," Mick muttered.

Cassandra shrugged. “I guess there’s not a lot of grandeur in ocean waste management.”

Mick pulled into a visitor parking slot in front of the building. They stepped out into a morning that was bright and beautiful, the void-like darkness of the night sea now little more than a memory.

They pushed through the building’s revolving door into a bright, airy lobby. A young woman with a warm smile greeted them from behind a curved reception desk that sat just twenty feet ahead.

"Good morning. Welcome to OceanPure. How may I assist you today?"

Cassandra stepped forward. The place was so quiet this early in the morning that her footfalls seemed impossibly loud—like someone dropping a heavy book.  "We'd like to speak with Dr. Joseph Blackwood, please."

The receptionist's smile didn't waver, but her eyes flickered with uncertainty. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Blackwood's schedule is quite full today. And tomorrow, of that matter. Do you have an appointment?"

Before Cassandra could respond, Mick produced his Coast Guard ID. "This is an urgent matter,” he said without coming off as too rude. We need Dr. Blackwood's expertise on an ongoing investigation."

The receptionist's eyes widened slightly as she examined the badge. She reached for her phone nodding obediently. "One moment, please."

As she murmured into the receiver, turning her head slightly for as much privacy as she could afford herself, Cassandra scanned the lobby. Everything gleamed - polished floors, spotless windows, even the potted plants looked impeccable. It all felt a bit too perfect—but then again, she supposed a company that built their reputation on waste management solutions for the ocean needed to have such a tidy face.

The receptionist hung up about thirty seconds later and turned back to them. "Dr. Blackwood can see you right now. Please take the elevator to the second floor. His office is at the end of the hall on your right."

"Thank you," Cassandra said, already moving toward the bank of elevators.

Cassandra felt that she and Mick had been in the situation several times before…taking an elevator to a higher floor to meet someone who was in charge of the place. It was never really a daunting feeling, but it did always keep her on edge. She knew all too well that people in positions of power could be very defensive and protective when it came down to the things they had helped build.

The elevator dinged, depositing them on the second floor. As they strode down the hall, Cassandra just hoped Blackwood would be one of the higher-ups who genuinely wanted to. Help rather than the shady sort who kept data and secrets close to the vest.

They came to his door and found it partially open. As it was, at 8:20 in the morning, it appeared as if he was the only one currently at work on the second floor. When she knocked on the halfway opened door and looked inside, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. The space was unexpectedly modest, almost cramped. A far cry from the opulent CEO suite she'd anticipated.

Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with scientific journals and well-worn texts. A small window offered a sliver of a view of a small meadow and a grove of trees behind the building. At the center sat a simple desk, its surface dominated by dual computer monitors.

Dr. Joseph Blackwood rose to greet them, his smile warm but his eyes sharp. "Officers! I have to say…I had no idea the Coast Guard had a special investigations unit.”

Mick shook the man’s hand as he said, “Yes, we get that a lot. It’s a small unit. And the fact that very few people even know we exist often works in our favor.”

Blackwood chuckled as he turned to also shake Cassandra’s hand. “Oh, I bet,” he said. Now…how can I assist you today?"

As they shook hands, Cassandra studied him. Tall, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair and laugh lines around his eyes. He exuded an air of calm competence.

“We're here about an urgent matter that requires your expertise," Cassandra said. “A detective pointed us in your direction about following up on toxic water found a good deal off of the coast.”

Blackwood gestured to two chairs. "Please, sit. What seems to be the problem?"

Cassandra leaned forward, her voice low and intense. "We're investigating a murder. The victim, a marine biologist, sent out coordinates just before her death on a research ship. The coordinates led us six and a half miles offshore where we found water samples with alarmingly high toxicity levels."

She watched Blackwood's face carefully as she spoke, looking for any flicker of recognition or guilt. A small frown spread across his face but what was all.

"That's... deeply troubling," he said slowly. "What kind of toxins are we talking about?"

"Benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene…random oils that the lab wasn’t able to properly identify.

“And that’s partly why we're here," Mick chimed in. "We were hoping you might have some insight. Any idea what could cause such contamination so far from shore?"

Blackwood's fingers drummed thoughtfully on his desk. "Without more specifics, it's hard to say. Industrial waste, chemical runoff, even natural phenomena can cause elevated toxicity. But at that distance..." He shook his head. "It's unusual, to say the least. Have you considered some sort of shipping vessel?”

“We have. But the detective we’re working with seems to know enough about those waters to indicate that it would be unlikely.”

Cassandra felt a prickle of frustration. Blackwood seemed genuinely puzzled, but something about his careful responses set her on edge. It almost sounded as if he were reading from a script. Perhaps, she thought, he got these sorts of questions all the time and had a stock answer pasted to the forefront of his brain so that it could be pulled out and used at any time.

"Dr. Blackwood," she pressed, "in your experience with OceanPure, have you ever encountered anything similar? Any red flags in that area?"

His eyes met hers, steady and unreadable. "We monitor coastal waters extensively, but our focus is typically closer to shore. I can certainly look into our records, see if anything stands out." As Blackwood turned to his computer, he asked: “Is it okay for you to give me those coordinates?”

Cassandra actually wasn’t too sure about this. But a single glance to Mick told her, nonverbally, that it may not be that big of a deal. After all…they’d come to Blackwood for answers, so it made no sense to hinder him.

“Sure thing,” Mick said, reading the coordinates from where he had saved them into his phone.

Blackwood went to work at his keyboard, pulling up a detailed map on his sleek monitor. As he studied the results, he waved them both over to join him behind his desk. They did so, and Cassandra looked to the blue expanse of the ocean that filled the screen, dotted with markers and notations.

A single red pin was shown by the coordinate’s location. Blackwood leaned back, his expression a mix of confusion and concern.

"That's... odd," he murmured, more to himself than to his visitors.

Cassandra's instincts prickled. "What's odd about it, Dr. Blackwood?"

He shook his head slightly. "It's just... well, it's quite far out. Like I said, I don't typically see much activity there, let alone toxic contamination." He then opened up what looked like a very fancy spreadsheet with countless coordinates and links to other documents embedded into it. “And I don’t see…let’s see…no…there’s no activity reported out there any time in the past several months. I could go back further but for the sort of contamination you’re talking about, anything older wouldn’t even be related to whatever it is you found out there.”

Mick cleared his throat. "Have any of your studies or efforts ever ventured out that far?"

Blackwood's demeanor shifted subtly. Cassandra noticed his shoulders tense, his eyes darting furtively to the left for just a second.

"Yes, indeed," he replied, his words coming faster now. "We've gone as far as eighteen miles out, actually. Mainly due to reports of illegal fishing vessels operating in the area. Mostly out of Nova Scotia, if you can believe it."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. Something about his sudden verbosity felt off. If his earlier comment felt somewhat staged, this one sounded like he was literally reading from a teleprompter.

Blackwood continued, his speech picking up speed. "Of course, it could have been some weird cruise ship situation, but that's a strange stretch of water for them to be using..."

As he rambled, Cassandra's suspicion deepened. The change in his tone, the slight fidgeting – it all screamed evasion. What wasn't he telling them?

She glanced at Mick, catching the slight tightening around his eyes. He'd noticed it too. Years of working together had honed their silent communication. They both had what she’d often heard referred to as “bullshit detectors” and theirs were in sync most of the time.

Cassandra leaned forward, her voice calm but firm. "Dr. Blackwood, is there anything else you can tell us about activity in that area? Anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem?"

Blackwood's gaze flickered between them, his earlier warmth replaced by a guarded expression. "I've told you everything I know," he said, his words clipped. "If you need any further information, I'd be happy to prepare a more detailed report. I could have it sent to you by the end of the day."

Cassandra straightened her spine, fixing Blackwood with a penetrating gaze. "That may actually be helpful. First, I wonder…has OceanPure encountered any significant violators of illegal dumping or other ocean-related crimes in the past year?"

Blackwood's fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on his desk. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he replied, his tone carefully measured. "The usual suspects - shipping and fishing vessels pushing boundaries. But toxins like you’re talking about? Not beyond the typical litter-related issues."

This answer also felt rehearsed, too smooth. Cassandra's instincts, honed by years of investigations, prickled with unease. She glanced at Mick, catching the slight tilt of his head - a further silent acknowledgment of their shared suspicion.

"And your colleagues in the field?" Mick pressed. "Any unusual reports from them?"

Blackwood's cheer and good nature were fading. He seemed to understand that they were no longer asking for his expertise…but now seemed to be questioning him. "I can reach out to a few peers, see if anything's pinged their radar." He leaned back, his chair creaking softly. "I'll be in touch if anything comes up. For now…I do apologize, but I have to get back to work.”

His dismissal spoke volumes…though Cassandra had no idea as to what it was saying, exactly. But she also knew that they had absolutely no reason to press him harder—and doing so could come back to bite them if they needed to return to him. So she let it go, as did Mick, as they got to their feet.

Mick stepped forward, sliding his business card across the polished desk. "We'd appreciate that, Dr. Blackwood. The sooner, the better."

As they thanked him and turned to leave, Cassandra thought about Blackwood’s carefully constructed responses. They felt like a wall, designed to keep them at arm's length. But walls, she knew, often hid secrets.

They made their way back to the elevators and remained silent until the doors slide closed in front of them. “So…did you catch that?" she asked in a low voice.

“You mean Blackwood's very rehearsed responses as we got deeper into the conversation? Yeah, subtle as a freight train."

The elevator opened and they made their way back across the lobby. The receptionist who had assisted them waved politely as they passed through. They exited through the front door and descended the steps, gravel crunching under their feet.

"The question is," Mick said, "what's he trying to hide? Could be nothing related to the case, of course, Maybe just some shady business practices. But still…”

“No, I agree,” Cassandra said. “It was off-putting.”

They reached their car, but Cassandra made no move to open the door. She leaned against the sun-warmed metal, arms crossed.

"I don’t think we should head back to the precinct," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Not just yet, anyway.”

Mick raised an eyebrow. "Deep dive on OceanPure while were in the vicinity?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Cassandra's mouth. This was why they worked so well together - always on the same wavelength. "Exactly. Blackwood's hiding something, and I want to know what. And if it has nothing to do with our case, we move on."

The got into the car and Mick said, “You mind looking for somewhere for a decent breakfast? Maybe we can get a bit to eat and dig into OceanPure's history, financials, any past violations."

“I’m on it.”

She opened up a search for local restaurants or diners while Mick started the engine. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Cassandra's gaze lingered on the gleaming OceanPure building. Its sleek facade suddenly seemed less like modern architecture and more like a mask, concealing darker truths beneath. But whatever secrets lurked beneath OceanPure's pristine surface, if any, she was going to drag them into the light.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The bell over the diner door jangled as Cassandra and Mick stepped inside. The aroma of coffee and bacon enveloped them, along with the cozy warmth that radiated from the packed tables and bustling kitchen. Cassandra's eyes swept over the worn vinyl booths and gleaming chrome accents, taking in the timeless charm of the place. It was the first diner on the map she’d found, just three miles away from the business park where OceanPure’s offices were located.

They squeezed into a tiny corner booth, their knees nearly touching under the table. Cassandra set her iPad down on the tabletop by the sugar and salt and pepper shakers. She was already itching to start digging into OceanPure's background.

A motherly waitress with graying hair piled high on her head approached with a carafe. "What'll it be, hon?"

"Southwest omelet for me," Cassandra said. "And keep the coffee coming."

Mick grinned. "I'll have the pancakes with hash browns. And sausage gravy on the side."

The waitress winked. "You got it, sugar. Be right up."

As she bustled away, Cassandra leaned in. "So…Blackwood. I do think he’s definitely hiding something, but there’s no way to know what, exactly. Not yet, anyway.”

"Agreed. But is it about Lydia's murder, or something else entirely? I mean, from just one glance, the guy doesn’t really strike me as a murderer."

"That's what we need to find out." Cassandra powered up her iPad and opened up her web browser. "I'm going to see what dirt I can dig up on OceanPure and Blackwood himself."

Their food arrived moments later, steaming plates overflowing with comfort and calories. Cassandra's omelet was a messy work of art, stuffed with peppers, onions, and gooey cheese. She took a bite, savoring the flavors as she scrolled through search results.

"Anything yet?" Mick asked around a mouthful of syrupy pancake.

Cassandra shook her head, frowning at the screen. "Nothing concrete. A few vague complaints from ex-employees, but nothing that screams 'murderer.' Pretty much everything I see on a base level paints them in a mostly positive light." 

She set down her fork, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table. What was she missing? There had to be something linking OceanPure to Lydia's death. The knot of frustration in her stomach tightened.

She turned back to her iPad, filtering the search results for news items only. And that seemed to do the trick. The second hit was from an article written six months ago. The headline alone spoke volumes: OceanPure Might Not Be So Pure After All. But it was the sub header that really got her attention.

Cassandra's eyes widened as she scanned the text. "Mick, look at this," she said, turning the iPad towards him. "OceanPure Loses Multi-Million Dollar Government Contract Amid Allegations of Misconduct."

Mick let out a mock groan. "Damn. That's gotta hurt."

She skimmed the article, her pulse quickening. "It says here they were accused of falsifying environmental impact reports, bribing inspectors, and dumping toxic waste into protected marine habitats. There’s no hard proof but a lot of suspicions."

"And wouldn’t you know it, these were all things that out friend Blackwood just conveniently forgot to tell us," Mick muttered.

"This fits with what Emma told us Lydia had been looking into for sure,” Cassandra said with an edge of excitement to her voice. “But there's more." She scrolled further, her stomach tightening. "They were also implicated in assisting with illegal fishing practices…though I’m not even sure how they would get wrapped up in that.”

“Maybe harvesting endangered species and exceeding quotas,” Mick suggested.

“Maybe.”

"Either way, that's a hell of a rap sheet," Mick said, pushing his empty plate aside. "No wonder they lost the contract."

Cassandra nodded as she opened another tab. "There's a follow-up article from a few weeks later. Let me just..."

She trailed off, her breath catching as she read. The diner's chatter faded away, the words on the screen searing themselves into her brain.

"Cass?" Mick's voice seemed to come from far away. "What is it?"

She looked up, meeting his concerned gaze. "It was Lydia," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lydia Thornton was the whistleblower. She's the one who exposed OceanPure to the government."

Mick's eyes widened. "Holy shit."

Cassandra felt a chill run down her spine. "Looks like we just found our motive. Though, I don’t see how her whistleblowing did much of anything, seeing as how they’re still in operation."

"Blackwood," Mick said, his voice low and intense. "This puts him square in the crosshairs. If not him directly, then certainly someone within the company. But being the CEO…he has to at least know about it."

Cassandra stared at the article in front of her as the pieces began to come together. "A multi-million-dollar contract down the drain, company reputation in tatters,” she said. “That's one hell of a reason to want someone silenced."

“We need to see the inside…the inner workings,” Mick said. “We’ll need a warrant.”

Cassandra picked up her phone at once. “Let’s see if Hawkins can help on that front. "We need to move fast."

She placed the call and the line rang twice before Detective Hawkins answered. Cassandra wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Hawkins, it's Fierce. We need a warrant to search OceanPure's facilities and we need it quick. What can you do?"

“Oh, you know how this works. It depends on what you found.”

She quickly outlined their discovery, her words clipped and urgent. She nervously poked at the scant remnants of her breakfast with her fork as she did so. Hawkins listened, then said, "Oh, hell yes. I can rush that. I'll text you when it’s taken care of and can meet you there as soon as I have it in hand."

"Thanks, Hawkins. We'll be waiting."

Cassandra ended the call, her mind already several steps ahead. She glanced at Mick, who was signaling the waitress for their check. “He’s working on it” she said. “He’ll bring it to us when we’re good to go.”

"That’s good. But…well, for now, what's our play here, Fierce?"

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing thoughts. "We wait. As much as I want to storm in there right now, we need that warrant. We can't risk Blackwood lawyering up and stonewalling us."

Mick nodded, his jaw set. "Agreed. But it's not going to be easy sitting on our hands."

"Tell me about it," Cassandra muttered, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table's worn surface. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the hardest part of this job.

As they settled their bill, Cassandra could feel the time slipping away…every wasted minute another minute for their killer to slip deeper into the shadows.

* * *

The OceanPure headquarters seemed a lot less impressive when they pulled up to the premises for a second time. Cassandra's eyes flicked to her watch as Mick parked once again: 11:40 AM—just slightly over two hours after calling Detective Hawkins for the assist on the warrant. And as they parked, she looked to the car beside them. Hawkins stood there, having called them just five minutes ago upon his arrival. He was holding a manila envelope clutched in his hand.

“Sorry that took so long,” Hawkins said with a smile as the gathered around his car. The smile, Cassandra assumed, came in knowing that it had not taken long at all; two hours for a warrant to search a place like OceanPure was essentially unheard of.

"Yeah, that took forever," Cassandra quipped. "Let's move."

They strode through the automatic doors in a single file line, with Mick holding the door open. The receptionist's eyes widened in recognition as they entered the lobby, but then they grew wider with alarm when it became clear that her visitors were heading directly for the elevators.

"Excuse me, you can't just—"

Mick cut her off, his voice brooking no argument. "Yeah, we know. Second floor."

As they entered the elevator, Cassandra could feel a stirring tension growing between them. No one said a word, though she thought Hawkins did appear as if he wanted to say something—to perhaps strategize over how they should go about this. By the time she realized he wasn’t able to jump on the same nearly telepathic wavelength she and Mick had come to appreciate and utilize, it was too late. The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.

As they marched toward Blackwood’s office, she saw that his door was slightly ajar. Cassandra could hear him murmuring something quickly and quietly; she wondered if the receptionist had called up with a warning. She didn’t wait for the conversation to come to an end. She knocked once, then entered without waiting for a response. Joseph Blackwood quickly put the receiver to the landline phone back on its cradle before looking up. Cassandra saw worry there, imprinted deep, but he masterfully managed to bring his face back to something of a neutral state.

"Officers Fierce and Donovan, right? What can I do for you?" His tone was cool, controlled. But he also sat pressed against his seat as if he were afraid he might fall out of it.

Cassandra didn't bother with pleasantries. "Mr. Blackwood, how well did you know Lydia Thornton?"

His eyes went wide again for a moment and when he tried to regain his composure, his face seemed to grow very right, the lines in his brow deep. "Dr. Thornton? We had some... professional interactions. Why do you ask?"

She watched him carefully, noting the slight tension in his shoulders. "And the nature of these interactions?"

Blackwood's frown deepened. "Wait. You're asking if I knew her... as in past tense." His eyes darted between the three of them. "Has... has something happened to her?"

The genuine confusion in his voice gave Cassandra pause. She'd expected defensiveness, perhaps even anger. This reaction didn't fit the profile of a guilty man. But then again, sociopaths were often skilled actors.

"Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice steady, "Lydia Thornton was murdered and tied to a buoy out in open water.”

Blackwood's face drained of color. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. "Dead? Lydia's... dead?"

Cassandra pressed on, her voice firm. "Her body was found tied to a buoy. Given recent events—Dr. Thornton exposing OceanPure's practices to the government, costing you a major contract—surely you can see why your company, and those who run it, would be suspects."

Blackwood's eyes widened, a mix of horror and indignation flashing across his face. "You think I... that we... would kill someone?" He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "That's preposterous! Absolutely outrageous!"

Cassandra's instincts prickled. Ah, there’s the defensiveness. Bring his money-making company into it and look what happens. Yet, at the same time, his reaction seemed genuine. But she'd been fooled before. She kept her expression neutral, watching every micro-expression that crossed Blackwood's face.

Mick stepped forward, his stance relaxed but eyes sharp. "Perhaps you could explain some of these questionable practices OceanPure is said to have committed…you know, the ones Dr. Thornton reported? Clear the air, so to speak."

As Blackwood opened his mouth to respond, Hawkins' phone buzzed. He looked almost embarrassed as he quickly looked to the caller display and then to Cassandra and Mick. “Sorry…I have to take this.” He frowned and excused himself, stepping out into the hallway.

Blackwood ran a hand through his hair, visibly agitated. "Look, Lydia's information was false. Planted, most likely, by larger fishing companies we've been calling out for years. They're the ones with questionable practices, not us. And truth be told, I ever really even faulted her for coming to those conclusions."

“You said most likely,” Cassandra said. “Do you have poof?”

“No. But I assure you…we work too hard to preserve our oceans to turn around and destroy it with lazy, unethical practices.”

“Okay, so let’s start with these big fishing outfits you’re saying may have planted information that fooled Thornton,” Cassandra said.

Before Blackwood could delve into details, Hawkins reappeared, his expression tense. "Fierce, Donovan. A word?"

Cassandra could not read the expression on his face, so she didn’t know if the conversation was being interrupted for good or bad news. Instantly, she thought there had been another body. The killer had struck again while they were in an office, interrogating Blackwood. That’s where her thoughts led her as they stepped out into the hallway.

When they were several steps away from Blackwood’s office, Hawkins stopped and the three of them created a small huddle. Hawkins' face was drawn, his eyes darting between Cassandra and Mick. "The precinct just got a call from Emma Chen," he said, voice low. "Another woman contacted her about an email from Lydia. Looks like it was sent right before her death…just like the one Chen got with the coordinates we followed."

Cassandra's pulse quickened. "And?"

"This one is clear and direct, according to Chen. Not encrypted."

“Did she say what it’s about?” Mick asked.

“No. I think she’s starting to freak out…getting paranoid. She just said it involves a piece of equipment Lydia was using. I feel like it’s pretty urgent.”

“I think a longer conversation with Blackwood is pretty urgent, too, though,” Cassandra said.

The three of them weighed their options in a heavy silence for a moment. It was Mick who broke it, his voice clam and authoritative.

"Then we’ll just split up," he said. "We’ve got two vehicles here, after all. I’ll stay here and keep Blackwood talking. There might be more to his story than we thought, and I don’t want to rush it. You two head out and talk to Chen. Just call me to let me know if anything develops out of it."

“You’re sure?” Cassandra asked. She felt bad…almost as if she was leaving Mick with clean-up detail while she got to go off with a local detective to explore more potential leads.

“Yeah, positive. Now…get going. Time’s wasting.”

Cassandra's gaze flicked to Blackwood's office door. Time was ticking. Every second could mean the difference between cracking this case wide open or hitting another dead end.

“See you soon, then,” she said. “Good luck.”

Mick gave a small nod of acknowledgment before turning back to Blackwood’s door. As she and Hawkins made their way back to the elevator, she did her best not to let the what-ifs get to her. She instead focused on what other secrets Lydia’s emails would reveal. She also wondered why she’d sent different messages to different people rather than all in one email.

The elevator descended, hopefully carrying them towards the start of finding more answers – or more questions. The day had unwound quickly but now, finally, it seemed as if they we restarting to get somewhere. Closer to answers, sure…and maybe just a few breaks away from finding Lydia Thornton’s killer.

CHAPTER NINE

He smiled while looking at the laptop screen, leaning slightly toward it as his eyes were glued on the intricate web of ocean currents splayed across the map. His fingers danced over the trackpad, zooming in and out with practiced ease. The basement office, a sanctuary of warmth and order, enveloped him. Rich mahogany bookshelves lined the wall behind him, their contents meticulously arranged—everything from Clive Cussler novels to non-fiction pieces on the falloff ancient civilizations. A plush leather chair cradled his frame, the material creaking softly as he shifted his weight.

He took a sip from a steaming mug of coffee, savoring the rich aroma that mingled with the faint scent of lemon-scented cleaner. The room was impeccable, each item in its designated place.

The satellite imagery was captivating, a mesmerizing dance of blues and greens. He zoomed in on a particular area, studying the swirling patterns with intense focus. His mind raced with possibilities, each current opening up new avenues of exploration. He’d just come across an area he thought might be perfect for his next…well, his next job. His next opportunity.

He opened a new tab and cross-referenced all of the necessary data. Ship routes, weather patterns, ocean depths - all pieces of an intricate puzzle he was determined to solve. A notification popped up on his screen, reminding him of an upcoming conference call. He dismissed it with a flick of his wrist, too engrossed in his research to be bothered. So what if he missed the call? What were they going to do…fire him?

He smirked at the mere idea of it.

Minutes upon minutes ticked by, the world outside fading away as he immersed himself in the data. He paused only to refill his coffee, the house above him silent and still. As dawn began to break, casting a pale light through the small basement window, he leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Just a few more calculations, and it would all be ready. Just a few calls to make.

He stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of his joints after sitting for so long. The clock on the wall showed 1:10 PM. In a few minutes, that stupid conference call would start and mundane, boring things would be discussed. But here, in this meticulously ordered basement, plans were being set in motion that would send ripples through the very currents he'd been studying.

He closed the laptop with a soft click, his mind already racing ahead to the next steps. As he ascended the stairs, leaving the basement behind, a fleeting thought of Dr. Lydia Thornton crossed his mind. Just a necessary sacrifice. Nothing could stand in the way of what needed to be done.

The house above was quiet, expensive but not ostentatious. He moved through the kitchen, brewing a fresh pot of coffee. As the rich aroma filled the air, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. The thrill of finding just the right place in the enormous canvass if the sea, the satisfaction of a well-executed plan - it was intoxicating. And he was far from finished. It was why he hadn’t slept much over the past few months. There was his job, which required most of his time and now this…well, this new job. Coffee and energy drinks had helped but every now and then, he simply had to crash.

But not now. Not today. There was just too much going on.

The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled his nostrils as he poured himself a cup, his mind drifting back to the ocean currents displayed on his laptop screen. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he drank it down.

"Efficiency," he mused, his eyes narrowing. "It's all about efficiency."

The image of waste barrels sinking into the inky depths flashed before his eyes—almost in a cartoonish way, like something of out a bad, political New York Times one-panel comic. He'd spent years perfecting this system, finding the sweet spots where currents would disperse evidence far and wide. It wasn't just about saving money - though the two and a half million dollars he'd saved the company was nothing to scoff at. No, this was about outsmarting the system, proving his superiority over those environmental do-gooders who'd never understand the necessity of progress.

He returned to his basement office, settling back into his chair with practiced ease. The ocean map beckoned, a world of possibility. His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting variables, tracking patterns.

"There," he whispered, a surge of triumph coursing through him. A new dumping site, perfect for the upcoming operation. The currents would scatter any trace within hours, leaving nothing but pristine waters behind while the toxins were blasted all over the place by the ocean’s natural abilities—the tides and waves. He leaned back, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction.

The shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence. He glanced at the caller ID, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face when he feared it might be an idiot asking why he’d missed the conference call. But it wasn’t anyone from that realm of his life.

Instead, it was his contact at OceanPure. With a sigh, he reached for his phone and answered the call. “You know not to rush me,” he said. “Besides, I have a new loca—

The voice on the other end trembled as they interrupted. "We've got a situation. The Coast Guard's here, asking questions."

His grip tightened on the phone. "The Coast Guard?”

“Yeah, some sort of special investigative unit from what I can gather.”

“What kind of questions?" he asked in almost a hiss.

"About our waste disposal practices, outside contacts, our records. They're going through everything."

He closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm. "And how, exactly, did they come to be there?"

"I don't know," the contact whispered. "But they mentioned Thornton's research. Said they had new information. They’re looking into her murder."

His jaw clenched. Thornton. Even from beyond the grave, that meddling scientist was causing problems. He'd thought silencing her would be the end of it.

"Listen carefully," he said, each word precise. "You will cooperate fully. Show them whatever sanitized records we prepared. Act confused if they ask about discrepancies. Above all, you know nothing about any illegal dumping. Understood?"

“I don’t know how much sway I’ll have. They’re spending all of their time with Blackwood.”

"The. You figure out some way to keep tabs on everything that happens. And I swear…if my name somehow falls into their hands, I will end you. Am I understood?”

"Y-yes. Understood."

He leaned back in his chair, mind racing through contingencies. "How long have they been there?"

"About forty-five minutes. They're combing through everything."

He cursed under his breath. This was bad. Very bad. But he'd planned for such eventualities. "Stick to the script. I'll handle the rest."

The call ended, leaving him in suffocating silence. He stared at the ocean map, no longer seeing the carefully plotted dump sites, but a web of loose ends that needed tying. No to worry, though. By the time the Coast Guard or anyone else caught on to what was taking place, he’d be long gone, leaving not a single clue in his wake.

CHAPTER TEN

The sun-bleached sign for the town of Castle Bluff's lone office complex barely clung to the weathered brick facade. Cassandra Fierce squinted against the glare, her eyes darting to her watch. 1:35. Where the hell had the time gone? It already felt like eons ago that she’d been eating an omelet while digging into OceanPure on her iPad.

"We're burning daylight, Hawkins," she muttered, striding towards the entrance of the small office complex. The detective's longer legs easily kept pace with her. She couldn’t help but notice that he was giving her a lingering look—not quite “checking her out” but something close to it. She wasn’t sure if she was offended by this or if she appreciated it…and now was not the time to make that decision.

The lobby door creaked open, revealing a petite figure standing ramrod straight. Emma Chen. Her eyes, rimmed with exhaustion and sadness, met Cassandra's.

"Follow me," Emma said curtly, skipping niceties. And pivoting on her heel.

As they trailed behind Emma's brisk steps, Cassandra again began to wonder why Lydia had been so strategic with how she’d sent those last emails out.

Emma's office was located at the end of the first-floor hallway. The interior of the building was a bit more modern that the exterior had led her to believe. She didn’t bother asking but assumed that this was the sort of place that housed offices for several different businesses…the offices for Lydia Thornton’s research being among them. When Emma opened her office door, she revealed a claustrophobic's nightmare. Stacks of binders teetered precariously, threatening to avalanche at the slightest provocation. The small size of the office and the large oak desk in its center did not help at all. Cassandra's fingers itched to reorganize, to impose order on the chaos.

"Sorry for the mess," Emma mumbled, navigating the cramped space with practiced ease. She snatched up a laptop from her desk without bothering to sit down. “I’d say it’s not usually like this, but that would be a lie.”

Cassandra leaned in, pulse quickening. "What have you got for us, Emma?"

Emma's eyes never left the screen as they all stood tightly together in front of her desk. "An email from Lydia. It wasn’t sent to me, but to another assistant that then forwarded it to me about two hours ago. It's... strange."

"Strange how?" Hawkins prodded, shifting his weight.

"It's from Lydia, but..." Emma trailed off, frowning.

"But what?" Cassandra fought the urge to grab the laptop.

Emma turned the screen towards them. "See for yourself."

Cassandra's eyes devoured the text, her mind already dissecting each word. This had to be it. The breakthrough they'd been chasing since Lydia's body has been found.

"When did this come in?" she demanded, barely containing her impatience.

"This morning," Emma replied, her voice tight.

Cassandra's eyes darted across the screen, absorbing every pixel of information. Her pulse quickened as she processed the small amount of information contained in the email.

"Another email, sent just before she died," Cassandra muttered, her mind racing. "This can't be coincidence. And it looks like this one was sent…”

“Just one minute after she sent those encrypted coordinates,” Emma finished for her.

“She was clearly in a hurry,” Hawkins said. “In such a hurry she didn’t bother encrypting this one.”

Cassandra pointed to the screen and said, “This was sent to two different email addresses. Who are they?”

“Fran Thompson is the assistant who sent it to me. But that other email address is Ruth Brite…Lydia’s sister.”

A spark of intrigue ignited in Cassandra's chest. Family connections always complicated things. But in a case like this one, where the deceased seem to be sending puzzles just before her death, a family member may actually come in quite handy.

"Okay, so what are we looking at?" Hawkins pressed, squeezing his head in for a better look.

"It just says 'Camera 2 offline but useful,” Cassandra said. “And there’s another set of coordinates. Ms. Chen…what do you know about a camera?”

“Nothing at all. Sorry. There were some aspects of her research that Lydia was very private about. I have looked up those coordinates, though. They’re about five or six miles off the coast.”

“Christ…again?” Hawkins said.

“Show us,” Cassandra said. Still standing in their tight little group within the cramped office space, Emma pulled up another window on the laptop. There was an oceanographic map filling the window, and a red pin had already been places where the coordinates led.

“I’ll be damned,” Hawkins said.

“What? What is it?” Emma asked.

“This is pretty close to the other coordinates she sent you,” Cassandra said. “Probably no more than…I don’t know...I’d guess three or four miles.”

“And what did you find there?”

Cassandra considered not sharing the information but, under the circumstances, didn’t see the harm in it. “Just a small patch of contaminated water…very contained.”

“So I’m going to make the safe assumption,” Emma said, “that maybe she had some sort of hidden camera at these coordinates?”

“Could be,” Hawkins said. “But…I don’t know how she’d manage it if it’s out in the middle of the ocean.”

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "But why mention it's offline?"

Cassandra's lips tightened. "No clue. Maybe it isn’t the sort that runs on a battery? Maybe she knew it was dead…but still thought it needed to be found anyway.”

“So maybe there’s valuable footage on it,” Cassandra said. “And Ms. Chen, you know nothing about this camera. Is there a live feed we can access?”

“Sorry…I really had no idea she had cameras out in the ocean. And that…well, it stings a bit because she tended to tell me everything.”

Cassandra's mind whirred ahead, understanding what this meant. With no live or remote feeds—and with the camera apparently being offline or dead anyway—they were going to have to head back out to the ocean. She turned to Hawkins, her voice tight with urgency. "The coordinates. Lydia wouldn't have included them if we could access it remotely. We need to go back out there."

Hawkins grimaced. "Another sea expedition? That'll take up a nice chunk of time And I’m starting to feel like time might not be something we have much of."

"I know," Cassandra snapped, then took a deep breath. She paced the small office, dodging stacks of files. "But if that camera captured something important enough for Lydia to risk sending a message about it, we have to go. And besides…if anything new pops up on land while we’re gone, Officer Donovan is still available."

She trailed off, her gaze falling on a framed photo of Lydia on Emma's cluttered desk. The marine biologist's eyes seemed to bore into her, challenging her to uncover the truth.

"Two urgent emails," she murmured, more to herself than the others. "Both sent moments before she died. Both with crucial information. Maybe this camera has something on it that will answer it all. And besides that…I’m curious to see what sort of camera she had hidden out on open water."

Hawkins leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. "Before we head off for another trip on the water, I wonder…is there any way to know for sure if there are more emails? We can't afford to miss anything."

An idea came to her right away and she started nodding her head. “Yes. I can contact the woman who helped with the encrypted email yesterday. She snapped her fingers. "Zoe Reeves...my bureau contact who cracked the first encryption. She might be able to help us dig deeper." She turned to Emma, who was nervously twisting a pen between her fingers. "Emma, would you be willing to work with Zoe? She'd need access to Lydia's accounts to search for any hidden messages."

Emma's eyes widened, a mix of fear and determination crossing her face. "Hack into Lydia's email? I... I don't know how I feel about that..." She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "If it helps find out what happened to her, I'll do it. Of course."

Cassandra felt a surge of respect for the young assistant. "Thanks. I’ll make the initial call and have her reach out to you."

She pulled out her phone, already scrolling for Zoe's number as she headed for the door. Hawkins fell into step beside her, his presence unfamiliar but somehow reassuring. As they stepped back outside, she made the call to Zoe, her heart pounding with anticipation. She felt like they were on to something here, and with two avenues being explored, it felt like they were on the cusp on wrapping this case.

Zoe answered after the first ring. “Ooh, what have you got this time?”

" We need your help again. There might be more to those emails than we thought. Feel like doing some hacking?"

Zoe chuckled and said, “Music to my ears. How can I help?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the ocean's surface as Cassandra and Detective Hawkins pulled away from the marina—the very same marina they’d used to head out into the dark ocean to investigate Lydia Thornton’s first set of mysterious coordinates. The patrol boat cut smoothly through the calm waters, barely disturbing the mirror-like surface. It was hard to believe this was the same churning expanse they'd navigated in darkness just hours ago. The air carried the sharp scent of salt and seaweed, mingled with the familiar diesel fumes from the boat's engine.

"Perfect conditions," Hawkins remarked, adjusting their heading. His hands moved with practiced ease over the controls, suggesting a familiarity with boats that Cassandra hadn't expected from a land-based detective. "Makes a nice change from last night. Weather like this, you can almost forget we're investigating a murder."

He was right; it was pretty much a picturesque day. She watched a pair of seabirds glide overhead, their wings catching the sunlight. The peaceful scene stirred memories of childhood boat trips with her father – the way he'd point out different cloud formations, teaching her to read the weather in their shapes.

"Days like this remind me why I fell in love with the sea in the first place," she commented. She was a bit surprised at herself, as these were usually the sort of thoughts she kept to herself.

"Oh yeah?" Hawkins glanced over, curiosity evident in his expression. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and for a moment, he looked younger, more relaxed than she'd seen him since the investigation began. "Was your love of the sea the reason you ended up in the Coast Guard?"

Cassandra smiled, her eyes fixed on the horizon where sky met sea in a seamless blue line. "Yeah. That…and my father. He was a commercial fisherman, took me out on his boat whenever he could. Some of my earliest memories are of standing at the helm with him, learning to navigate by the stars." She paused, memories washing over her like waves. "I knew by thirteen that I wanted to work on the water." Her smile faltered slightly. "After he was lost at sea, that desire only grew stronger. The Coast Guard felt like a way to honor him, you know? When the Special Investigations Unit formed two years ago, it felt like destiny – a chance to combine my love of the sea with real detective work."

Hawkins was quiet for a moment, processing her words. The only sound was the steady thrum of the engine and the gentle splash of waves against the hull. "I'm sorry about your father," he said finally. "That couldn't have been easy."

"Thanks." She turned to him, pushing the melancholy aside. "What about you? How does someone end up as a detective in a small coastal town like Castle Bluff?"

He chuckled, adjusting their course slightly. "Pure chance, actually. I was a beat cop in Boston, working the worst neighborhoods in Dorchester. Ten years of that will wear anyone down – domestic disputes, drug deals gone bad, gang violence. I was burning out fast." He shook his head, as if trying to dispel old ghosts. "One weekend, I came up here to help my uncle repair his roof. Ended up staying at the local inn, got talking to the owner about a break-in they'd had. Next thing I know, I'm helping the local PD crack the case." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "They offered me a job the next day. That was eight years ago."

"Must have been quite a change of pace."

"Best decision I ever made. Sure, we get our share of trouble – drug runners, smugglers, the occasional murder." He gestured at the vast expanse around them. "But there's something about working cases out here. The ocean has its own rules, its own justice. I know that sounds painfully cheesy, but it’s true.”

“I agree. It is cheesy,” she said with a chuckle. “But yeah…also very true. I also strongly believe that most of the time, the best career moves find us rather than the other way around.”

"Sure do. Though I bet you never imagined you'd be hunting for an underwater camera when you joined the Coast Guard."

"Life's full of surprises. Speaking of which..." She checked the GPS coordinates on her phone. "How close are we?"

"We're getting close," he said, eyes on the navigation display. The screen showed their position in relation to the marked coordinates, a small blip moving steadily toward its target. "About quarter mile out."

They fell into comfortable silence as the boat pressed on. The coordinates led them further out, though not quite as far as their nighttime expedition. The water darkened beneath them, shifting from turquoise to a deeper blue that hinted at the depths below. After about twenty more minutes, Hawkins began to slow the engine. Cassandra knew they had veered slightly away from where they’d found the contaminated water the night before; that location was roughly three and a half miles to the east.

As the boat came to rest, Cassandra studied the water's surface, searching for any sign of disturbance. The sun created a glare that made it difficult to see beneath the surface. "If Lydia did hide a camera out here, it would need to be deep enough to avoid boat traffic,” she commented. “Something that could capture whatever she was monitoring without being obvious."

“That would be a feat,” Hawkins said as he killed the engine. “The depth reading shows almost three hundred and fifty feet here." The sudden silence felt heavy, meaningful. "That's a hell of a place to hide something. The pressure alone at that depth would crush most standard equipment."

"She might have used a weighted cord," Cassandra suggested, moving toward the dive gear stowed in the stern. She began pulling out the equipment, laying it out methodically on the deck. "Something buoyant enough to keep the camera suspended at a specific depth, but strong enough to withstand the ocean's forces."

“Is that a thing people do?” Hawkins asked.

“It’s not used often but there are similar approaches used to track the speeds of passing vessels in certain bodies of water. It’s extremely rare that it’s done this far out, though. And usually, those devices are attached to buoys. But…I get the impression that Lydia really wanted this thing hidden.

Hawkins frowned, leaving the helm to join her. "At three hundred feet? That's some serious engineering. The currents alone would make it nearly impossible to maintain a stable position."

"Only one way to find out." Cassandra began checking the dive equipment with practiced efficiency.

“So…you’re just going to hop in?” he asked.

She looked up at him and smiled…it almost felt like a bit of flirting. “Well, I am sort of trained for this kind of thing.”

The suit was a standard emergency response model – not ideal for deep exploration, but adequate for a quick search. She methodically inspected the oxygen tanks, checking the pressure gauges and regulators. Each piece of equipment could mean the difference between life and death at these depths.

"You sure about this?" Hawkins asked, watching her preparations with evident concern. "That's deep water, and we're a long way from help if something goes wrong."

"I'm certified for these depths," she assured him, zipping up the thick neoprene suit. The material clung to her like a second skin, familiar and restrictive at the same time. "And if Lydia really did hide something down there, we need to know what it is. It might be our best lead yet."

The weight of the tanks settled familiarly on her shoulders as she secured the straps, checking each buckle twice. She pulled on her fins and adjusted her mask, making sure the seal was tight. The routine was comforting – each step a careful preparation for entering an alien environment.

"I'll maintain position," Hawkins said, moving back to the helm.

She sat on the edge of the boat, tank hanging over the water. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, secrets waiting in its depths. With a deep breath, she pushed off, slipping beneath the surface with barely a splash. It had been at least five months since she’d been in the water in this capacity and there was always a stirring of excitement the moment the water passed over her head.

The water was surprisingly clear, visibility extending at least thirty feet in every direction. Cassandra oriented herself, adjusting to the pressure as she began her descent. The afternoon sun filtered through the water, creating shifting patterns in the blue-green expanse. Schools of small fish darted past, silver scales flashing in the filtered light.

Then she saw it. It happened so quickly and so soon after coming down into the water that it felt a bit anti-climactic.

Less than fifteen feet below the surface, a dark rectangular shape hung suspended in the water. Cassandra's heart leaped – it was exactly where it should be, a camera unit no larger than a brick. As she drew closer, she could make out the sophisticated housing that protected it from the elements, and the tether trailing down into the depths, disappearing into the darkness below.

Swimming closer, she examined the setup. The camera was secured to the line with a simple but effective clip system, the kind used in professional diving equipment. She reached out, fingers working to release the mechanism. It was tight, and the gloved fingers of the suit made it hard to get a good grip.

She worked at it for what seemed like several minutes before she was able to free the clip and then unscrew the housing. When those steps were done, the camera came free easily, its weight surprisingly light in the water.

Triumph surged through her as she began her ascent, prize clutched firmly in her hands. The surface shimmered above her, promising answers to at least some of their questions. She swam leisurely back up to the surface, just ten feet overhead. When her head broke through, she looked to the boat and saw that Hawkins was moving around quickly.

She nearly called out to him, but it was then that she heard a noise…a familiar one but somehow oddly out of place out here in the ocean.

Gunshots.

The sharp cracks carried clearly through the water, followed by the distinct sound of impacts against the boat's hull. Cassandra froze, mind racing. Someone was shooting at their boat – out here in the middle of the ocean where no other vessels should be. And wherever the vessel was, it was currently hidden from sight—presumably on the other side of their own boat.

The peaceful afternoon had just turned deadly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Another gunshot shattered the peaceful ocean setting, the sound echoing across the water like a thunderclap. Cassandra's instincts kicked in instantly, her body responding before her mind could fully process the threat. She cut through the water with powerful strokes, moving as silently as possible toward the boat. The camera felt impossibly heavy in her left hand as she fought to maintain her speed while keeping her movements quiet. The weight of her dive suit and the drag of the water seemed to be conspiring against her, making each stroke feel like she was swimming through molasses.

She had no idea if the shooters knew there had been another person on their boat…if they knew she had gone into the water. She thought they had known, though. For a boat to come up on them in such a small amount of time, they’d almost certainly been following her and Hawkins. Maybe they’d seen her go into the water and decided to strike then, when there was one less person on the boat. It made her look frantically up to the boat, trying to nail down Hawkins’ location…and if he was still alive.

Whatever the case, she didn’t have time to worry about it.

Another shot rang out, the bullet striking the side of the boat with a sound that resembled a fist punching into cardboard. It was followed almost immediately by the distinctive crack of return fire from her boat, closer and more distinct. Good…that meant Hawkins was indeed still alive. And he was fighting back.

The realization gave her a small measure of comfort as she propelled herself through the water. Surely he knew she’d be resurfacing soon and would try to provide cover as she made her way back onto the boat.

She could taste the salt on her lips, feel the burn in her muscles as she pushed herself harder toward the back of the boat. The boat seemed simultaneously too far away and dangerously exposed at the same time. Every splash she made felt deafening in her ears, though she knew the sound of gunfire would mask her approach.

As she came to the back corner of the boat, she caught sight of their attackers. A pristine cabin cruiser, its white hull gleaming in the sun, sat roughly forty yards away. The vessel looked new, expensive – definitely not the sort of boat typically used by common criminals. Two men stood on its deck, both wielding what looked like standard handguns—Glocks, or Sig Sauers from what she could tell. Their stance and handling of the weapons spoke of no real training, but dangerous familiarity.

Cassandra's heart hammered in her chest as she reached out to the rail of the small boarding ladder. She felt exposed right away; she'd be completely vulnerable for the precious seconds it would take to climb aboard. With the camera still clutched in her left hand, she grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder with her right. The metal felt cold against her palm, slick with water and sea spray.

Now or never…

She took one deep breath, mentally preparing herself for what would likely be the most dangerous moments of the entire operation. She heaved the camera up first, hearing it thud onto the deck. The sound seemed to draw a fresh volley of fire, bullets piercing the side of the boat. In one fluid motion, she gripped the rail with both hands and launched herself upward, using every ounce of strength her adrenaline-fueled muscles could muster.

Pain exploded through her knee as it slammed against the back of the boat, the impact sending shockwaves up her entire leg. Three shots cracked in rapid succession, the bullets whizzing past her with that distinctive sound she'd heard too many times in her career – the angry buzz of lead moving faster than the speed of sound. She tumbled onto the deck, the rough surface scraping against her wet dive suit.

Cassandra rolled quickly, years of training taking over as she assessed herself for injuries. By some miracle, none of the shots had found their mark. She spotted Hawkins crouched behind the gunwale, his right shoulder darkened with blood. His face was pale, but his jaw was set with determination as he maintained his defensive position.

“Hit?” she asked.

“Yeah. My bad.” He was trying to be funny but the pain etched in his face was impossible to ignore.

"Where the hell did they come from?" she called out, scrambling across the deck toward where she'd left her holstered Glock juts outside the entrance to the helm. The dive suit clung to her like a second skin, making every movement more difficult than it should have been. Water pooled beneath her as she moved, creating treacherous conditions on the already unstable deck.

Hawkins grimaced, pressing his left hand against his wound. "Too focused on your dive," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Didn't hear them until they were practically on top of us. Came in from the east." He ducked as another bullet pinged off the metal railing above his head, sending sparks flying.

Questions burned in Cassandra's mind. Who were these men? How did they know where to find them? But there was no time for answers – not with an injured detective and hostile forces bearing down on them. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and she needed to act fast.

Her fingers closed around the familiar grip of her Glock, the texture of the handle providing a small measure of comfort. Her coast Guard training kicked in, muscle memory taking over as she formulated her plan. Most attackers would expect return fire from the sides of the boat, where Hawkins had been shooting. The stern offered both cover and the element of surprise. It was risky, but it was their best chance at turning the tables.

Cassandra moved quickly to the back of the boat, staying low and using every bit of cover available. Water dripped from her dive suit as she positioned herself, waiting for the right moment. She could hear the cabin cruiser's engine idling, could almost feel the attention of the gunmen focused on the boat's sides where they'd last seen movement. The morning air was thick with tension, broken only by the occasional crack of gunfire and the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.

In one smooth motion, she rose and squeezed off two rapid shots. Her first round found its mark – the gunman on the left crumpled, his gun clattering to the deck with a metallic clang that carried clearly across the water. She wasn’t sure where she’d shot him, but had been aiming for the chest. Her second shot went wide, but it forced the second attacker to dive for cover, buying them precious seconds. She heard Hawkins trying to provide supporting fire, but his injured arm limited his effectiveness. His grunt of pain told her he was pushing himself too hard, risking further injury.

“Stay down, Hawkins,” she said. “There’s no point in making it harder on yourself.”

But it didn't matter. The remaining gunman had apparently decided the odds were no longer in his favor now that his companion was down and he was outnumbered. The cabin cruiser's engine roared to life, its deep rumble echoing across the water as the boat began pulling away, leaving their wounded companion behind. The white hull cut through the waves with purpose, quickly putting distance between them.

For a moment, Cassandra's training screamed at her to give chase. These men had attempted to kill federal officers – letting them escape felt wrong on every level. Her finger tightened on the trigger as she watched them flee, but one look at Hawkins' blood-soaked shoulder and the crimson pool gathering on the floor made the decision for her. Getting him medical attention had to take priority. The amount of red staining his shirt was alarming, and his face had grown even paler.

"I'm fine," Hawkins insisted as she rushed to his side, his voice weaker than before. "Just a scratch."

"Like hell it is," Cassandra muttered, already rushing into the helm in search of a first aid kit. She found one stowed away under a small seat and worked quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wound as best she could. The bullet appeared to have passed clean through, but he'd lost a concerning amount of blood. Her hands were steady as she applied pressure bandages, but her mind was racing with implications.

One Hawkins was bandaged up, Cassandra walked back into the helm and grabbed the microphone of the boat's radio. Hawkins’s blood was on her hands, though she’d managed to clean most of it off.  She checked the radio’s digital dial and then spoke into the mic, her voice clipped and professional as she reported the attack to the marina.

"This is Officer Fierce with the Coast Guard’s Special Investigations Unit. We've been attacked approximately six miles offshore. I have an injured detective on board, and we have a pair of armed suspect fleeing northeast in a white cabin cruiser. Suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous. One hostile is down, condition unknown. Notify Castle Bluff PD immediately and dispatch medical assistance to the marina."

The response was immediate, professional. Help would be dispatched, the fleeing boat would be pursued. But it felt hollow as Cassandra started the engine, turning them toward shore as she considered the implications. Someone had known they'd be out here. Someone had known exactly where to find them, and they had the resources to mount a professional-grade attack on short notice.

Had someone else gotten Lydia’s coordinates? Or had someone simply been keeping an eye on her and Hawkins, wanting to keep tabs on the investigation? She wasn’t sure…but neither possibility was particularly pleasant.

As she pushed the throttle forward, sending them speeding back toward the coast, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling that they'd stumbled onto something much bigger than they'd initially suspected…something more than a simple murder investigation. The camera she'd retrieved suddenly felt like it carried the weight of answers – answers that someone had been willing to kill to keep hidden. She glanced at Hawkins, noting how he tried to maintain his composure despite the obvious pain and the slightly ashen look his face had taken. They needed to get back to shore, and fast. But even as she focused on that immediate goal, her mind was already working on the bigger picture. This attack wasn't random. Someone was desperate to keep them from discovering whatever was on that camera – and they'd just proved they were willing to kill to maintain their secrets.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As soon as the marina came into view, so did the ambulance's red and white lights. They flickered in the distance, further out beyond the pier. Cassandra's hand trembled slightly as she gripped the recovered camera, still dripping with seawater. Her other hand remained on the boat's wheel, guiding them into the dock with practiced precision. The events of the past hour and a half played through her mind in vivid flashes – the sudden crack of gunfire, Hawkins's bleeding all over the boat, the desperate scramble for cover.

Hawkins looked quite pale now, but he was still coherent. He looked more embarrassed than anything when he was unable to help tie the boat down. That particular detail was handled by a waiting police officer.

Two paramedics rushed down the pier as she cut the engine, their boots thundering against the wooden planks. They moved with practiced efficiency, carefully transferring Detective Hawkins onto a gurney. His face was pale – too pale, she thought with growing concern. Though his eyes were alert, his breathing seemed shallow and labored. The bullet wound in his shoulder had soaked through the makeshift bandage she'd applied, leaving a dark crimson stain that seemed to grow larger by the minute.

"Nice field dressing," one of the medics commented, examining Cassandra's handiwork. "Probably saved him from losing too much blood. Where'd you learn to bandage like this?"

"Coast Guard training," she replied, walking alongside them as they wheeled Hawkins toward the waiting ambulance. Her eyes never left the spreading bloodstain. "How bad is it? Really?"

"Through and through," the medic replied, checking Hawkins's vital signs. "Looks like he’s lost a lot of blood and we won’t know the total damage until we get him to the hospital…but this looks manageable.”

But Cassandra had seen enough gunshot wounds to know that it was hard to know for sure—and that a “manageable” wound could change in an instant. The human body was resilient, yet fragile. One nicked artery, one unexpected complication, and everything could go sideways.

Hawkins managed a weak smile, wincing as they navigated a bump in the pier. "Just my luck. Finally get some real action and end up with a bullet hole. Guess I should've stayed behind the desk, huh?"

"Hey," Cassandra said, matching his stride as they reached the parking lot. The recovered camera felt heavy in her hands, its waterproof casing still gleaming with seawater. Her gut twisted with guilt – they'd gone out for this device, and Hawkins had paid the price. "You did good out there. Don’t beat yourself up over it."

"Did we at least get what we needed?" Hawkins asked, nodding toward the camera in her hand. His voice was strained but determined. She noticed a slight tremor in his words that hadn't been there before.

"We're about to find out. Whatever's on here better be worth taking a bullet for." As she said it, her hands tightened around the camera. What secrets lay encoded in its memory? What had Lydia Thornton seen? Whatever it was, was it the reason she’d been killed?

The paramedics loaded Hawkins into the ambulance with smooth efficiency, hooking up monitors and IV lines. The steady beep of medical equipment filled the confined space. As they prepared to close the doors, Hawkins caught Cassandra's eye.

"Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“Glad to do it,” she replied as the doors closed. The ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing to life, the sound echoing off the nearby buildings and across the water. She watched until it disappeared around a corner, saying a silent prayer that Hawkins would pull through.

As soon as the ambulance was out of sight, Cassandra pulled out her phone, her fingers still damp from the sea spray as she dialed Mick's number. The taste of salt lingered on her lips, and her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin. The camera seemed to pulse with possibility in her other hand and she was practically buzzing with anticipation to see what might be on it.

Mick answered on the first ring, sounding just as anxious as she felt. "Fierce? Everything okay?"

"Define okay," she said, starting toward her car. Her legs felt heavy after the adrenaline rush of the firefight. "Hawkins took a bullet. It's bad, Mick. They say he'll recover, but..."

"What? How—"

"Someone was there, Mick. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I think they must have been following us." She described the firefight on the water, the precision of their attacker's shots, the way they'd seemed have anticipated where they would be.

“Pros?” Mick asked.

“I don’t think so.”

"Jesus." Mick's voice was tight with concern. "But you got the camera?"

"Yeah. Waterproof casing, looks professional grade. Some kind of custom setup." She reached her car, carefully placing the camera on the passenger seat. Water droplets darkened the upholstery. Her hands lingered on the device, imagining what it might have recorded. Had it captured evidence of illegal dumping? Proof of corporate corruption? Or something even darker? "What did you get from Blackwood?"

"If they're doing anything illegal, they've covered their tracks well. No smoking gun in their environmental records." He paused, and she could hear papers rustling in the background. "But I did find some interesting financial documents. Multiple offshore accounts, suspicious wire transfers. Something's definitely off with their books."

Cassandra started the engine, the familiar rumble providing a small measure of comfort. "How far out are you?"

"About ten minutes from the precinct. Traffic's light.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. And more thing. Commander Richards called to notify us that he is sending a team to assist.”

“I’m not a fan of the potential interference but…yeah, it makes sense. Especially now that we have active shooters out on the water.”

“Looks like this goes deeper than we thought,” Mick said.

“Seems that way.”

She ended the call and pulled out of the marina parking lot, her mind hung up on Mick’s closing comment. Look like this goes deeper than we thought. The shooting proved they were onto something big. Someone was willing to kill to keep whatever was on that camera hidden. Her eyes kept darting to the device on the passenger seat, wondering what secrets its memory card might hold. Each red light felt like an eternity, each delay another opportunity for their enemies to get ahead of them.

The weight of it felt heavy with possibility. What had Lydia Thornton captured with her hidden camera? What was worth dying for? And who had known exactly where to find them when they went to retrieve it…or had they simply been followed? The questions tumbled through her mind, mixing with worry about Hawkins and anticipation about what they might discover.

Cassandra pressed harder on the accelerator, watching the speedometer climb. The sooner they discovered what was on that camera, the closer they'd be to catching a killer. And maybe, just maybe, uncovering whatever environmental disaster Lydia had given her life to expose.

The late afternoon sun caught the camera's lens as she took a turn, sending a brief flash across her vision. She thought of Hawkins, now on his way to surgery, and Lydia Thornton's body tied to that buoy. The stakes were clear – and they were only getting higher. Someone was willing to kill to keep their secrets, and they weren't done trying.

As she navigated through town toward the precinct, her wet clothes slowly drying in the car's air conditioning, Cassandra felt another worrying thought bubbling up to the surface. Did the shooter know why they’d appeared in that spot? Had they even been aware of the camera at all?

There was no way to know just yet. But she was now more certain than ever that this was much more than a simple murder case. That being the case, the only question that really mattered at all was: how much deeper did it go?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Walking through the precinct doors felt like coming home. Not because of the building itself, but because of who waited inside. As Cassandra made her way down the hallway, her footsteps echoing against the worn linoleum, she felt some of the tension from the past few hours begin to ease from her shoulders. Mick had that effect on her. In their years as partners, he'd become more than just a colleague – he was her anchor, her touchstone.

Not in any romantic way; the thought had never even crossed her mind. Their relationship was something deeper, more fundamental. Mick was the older brother she'd never had, the steady presence that made even the darkest cases bearable. He knew when to push her and when to let her work things out on her own. More than that, he possessed an almost telepathic ability to sense when she needed coffee, silence, or just someone to bounce ideas off of.

"There she is!" his familiar voice boomed as she approached their temporary office. "The hero of the hour!"

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress her smile. "Stop it."

Before she could reach him, several officers intercepted her. Words of praise and gratitude flooded over her – "quick thinking," "saved Hawkins," "impressive work." She accepted their thanks with uncomfortable nods, eager to get back to work. Her mind was already racing ahead to the camera they'd recovered, to what secrets it might hold.

Just as she thought she'd cleared the gauntlet of well-wishers, Officer Hunt – a tall woman with stern features and graying hair pulled back in a tight bun – stepped into her path. Her crisp uniform and ramrod-straight posture screamed career officer.

"I heard you're going to be looking at some camera footage," Hunt said, holding out what looked like a tangled mass of cords. "This might help. It's pretty much every adapter known to mankind. My kid's a tech junkie – taught me to always be prepared. You never know what kind of ancient or modern technology you might run into."

Cassandra took the bundle, recognizing various USB configurations and power adapters. The cables ranged from standard USB to mini and micro versions, even some older proprietary connections. "This is perfect, actually. Thank you."

Finally reaching their makeshift office, she shut the door behind her with a relieved sigh. The small room had already taken on the familiar chaos of their investigations – papers spread across the desk, coffee cups creating rings on every available surface. Mick sat perched on the edge of the desk, the recovered underwater camera in his hands, turning it over with careful precision.

The familiar rhythm of their partnership settled over her like a comfortable blanket. This was where she did her best work – in these quiet moments with Mick, piecing together the puzzle of a case.

"Ready to see what secrets this little gadget holds?" Mick asked, already working at what appeared to be a protective case on the back of the device. His large hands moved with surprising delicacy over the equipment.

Cassandra spread Officer Hunt's collection of adapters across the desk, creating a rainbow of cables and connectors. "Let's find out what was so important that Lydia had to tell us about it in her final moments."

The case Mick removed was impressively engineered – clearly designed for deep-water use, with rubber seals and reinforced corners. It reminded Cassandra of high-end phone cases, but far more robust. The corners were reinforced with what looked like titanium, and the seals were thick enough to withstand significant pressure. Once removed, they could see the camera's ports, surprisingly well-preserved despite their time underwater.

"Looks like a standard micro-USB," Mick said, rifling through the adapter collection. His fingers sorted through the tangle with practiced ease. "Ah, here we go."

They connected the camera to Cassandra's laptop, watching as the device slowly came to life, drawing power from the computer. The waiting was excruciating – each second feeling like an eternity as the camera's battery icon slowly filled. Cassandra found herself holding her breath, willing the device to work.

Finally, a folder popped up on screen. Cassandra's heart sank as she saw the size of the video file. "Fifty-five hours? Are you kidding me?" The thought of combing through that much footage made her head spin.

"Wait," Mick leaned in, pointing at the progress bar beneath the video player. His finger traced several small vertical lines spaced throughout the timeline. "Look at these markers. They're evenly spaced."

Cassandra squinted at the screen, nose almost touching the display. "Some kind of index points maybe?"

"Only one way to find out." Mick clicked on the first marker.

The footage sprang to life, showing murky water illuminated by what must have been the camera's built-in light. A school of fish darted past, their scales catching the artificial glow like diamonds in the depths. The second marker revealed a similar scene – more marine life passing through the camera's field of view, their movements graceful and ethereal in the underwater lighting.

"Motion detection," Cassandra realized, sitting back in her chair. "The camera only marked segments where it detected movement. Lydia must have set it up to conserve memory space."

The third marker showed a small fishing vessel passing overhead, its outline distorted by the water between it and the camera lens. The boat's wake created swirling patterns in the water, like abstract art painted in shades of blue and green.

But it was the fourth marker that made them both lean forward, breath caught in their throats. A massive shape moved across the frame, the water churning in its wake. Despite the darkness and the distortion of the water, the vessel's size was unmistakable – a tanker of some kind, its hull blocking out what little ambient light penetrated the depths. The camera's light reflected off the metal surface, creating an almost otherworldly glow.

"There," Cassandra pointed as a strange cloud began billowing from the ship's side. "They're dumping something."

The murky discharge spread through the water like ink in a glass, creating an ever-expanding plume that almost completely obscured the camera's view. When the cloud finally began to dissipate, Cassandra could see particles suspended in the water – evidence of whatever toxic cargo the ship had released into the ocean. The particles caught the light, creating an eerie constellation of contamination.

"Can't make out any identifying marks," Mick muttered, frustration evident in his voice as he leaned closer to the screen. "The water distortion and darkness make it impossible to read any numbers or names. But look – there."

A smaller vessel appeared at the edge of the frame, keeping pace with the tanker as it moved out of view. The boat was closer to the camera's level, making its wake clearly visible in the disturbed water. Its movements were too precise to be coincidental – it was definitely accompanying the larger ship.

"Following them," Cassandra said, her mind already constructing scenarios. "Maybe monitoring the dump site? Making sure no one else is around to witness this?"

"Or providing security." Mick sat back, running a hand through his hair. "So now we know what Lydia discovered. But where does this leave us? We can't identify the ships, and this footage alone isn't enough to build a case."

Cassandra tapped her fingers on the desk, mind racing. The rhythmic sound helped her think, helped her connect the dots that were scattered in front of them. "Ruth," she said suddenly, sitting up straight. "Lydia's sister. These coordinates were sent to her too, remember? She must know something about why Lydia set up this camera in the first place. Maybe there's more to this than just what we're seeing."

"On it." Mick turned to his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he accessed the precinct database. The soft blue glow of the screen illuminated his face as he searched. "Let's see if she's local."

As Mick worked, Cassandra watched the footage again, studying the smaller boat's wake pattern. Something about it seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. The way it moved through the water, the particular pattern of its wake – she'd seen something similar before. She knew that what they were watching was exactly what had gotten Lydia killed. The question now was: would it lead them to her killer, or would it put them in the same danger that had claimed her life?

The soft clicking of Mick's keyboard filled the silence as they dug deeper into the mystery, both knowing they were getting closer to the truth – and possibly closer to whoever had silenced Lydia Thornton. Outside their office, the precinct buzzed with activity, but in here, time seemed to stand still as they peered into the depths of Lydia's final discovery.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sun hung low in the sky as Mick guided their rental car through an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Castle Bluff. The streets were lined with mature oak trees, their branches creating tunnels of filtered golden light. Cassandra studied the passing homes - each one more impressive than the last, with manicured lawns and luxury vehicles in circular driveways. Stone walls and wrought-iron gates marked property lines, speaking of old money and established families.

It wasn’t the sort of place that made you think mourning, but Cassandra knew that Ruth Thornton had done her share over the past forty-eight hours. Ruth’s house sat to her left as Mick pulled their car to the curb. It was a two-story Colonial with dark green shutters…elegant but not ostentatious, with a wraparound porch and well-tended flower beds. A stone path wound through the front yard, bordered by perfectly trimmed boxwoods. Several cars crowded the driveway - a Mercedes, two BMWs, and a late-model Lexus. The gathering of vehicles painted a clear picture: family and friends coming to pay their respects. Through the large bay windows, Cassandra could see figures moving about inside, their shadows elongated by the setting sun.

As they stepped out of the car, the air was thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming hydrangeas that lined the front of the house. The neighborhood was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to amplify every sound - the crunch of their shoes on the walkway, the distant bark of a dog, the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. A child's bicycle lay abandoned on a nearby lawn, its wheels still spinning lazily, as if its rider had been suddenly called inside.

As they approached the front door, Cassandra caught the sweet scent of jasmine from nearby flowering vines that climbed decorative trellises. Wind chimes hanging from the porch eaves played a soft, discordant melody.

Mick pressed the doorbell, its chime echoing inside the house. Through the decorative glass panels flanking the door, they could see movement. After a moment, the door opened to reveal a tall man in his early fifties, wearing khakis and a navy pullover. His expression was guarded, shoulders tense. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and a pair of dark-framed glasses sat high on the bridge of his nose.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but clipped. His hand remained on the door frame, body positioned to block any attempt at entry.

Cassandra stepped forward, keeping her voice gentle but professional. "Mr. Thornton? I'm Officer Cassandra Fierce, and this is my partner, Officer Donovan. We're with the Coast Guard Special Investigations Unit. We need to speak with Ruth regarding her sister's death."

The man’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he shifted his weight, making himself seem larger in the doorway. "I'm sorry, but this isn't a good time. Ruth is... she's not up for visitors right now. We have family here, and she's already spoken with several officers."

“I assume you’re her husband?” Mick asked.

“I am. And I can tell you that she’s very tired and worn down. She’s sad beyond belief, and now is not the best time for visitors of any kind…even if you are trying to help.”

Behind him, soft murmurs of conversation drifted from what appeared to be a formal living room. A glass clinked against another, and someone laughed softly - the subdued sounds of a gathering of mourners.

"James? Who is it?" A woman's voice called from inside, followed by footsteps on hardwood floors coming closer.

Ruth appeared behind her husband, her face bearing the haunted look of someone who hadn't slept in days. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her eyes were red rimmed from crying. Despite her obvious grief, she carried herself with quiet dignity. She wore a simple black dress and clutched a tissue in one hand. She looked eerily like her sister, the pointed nose and thin lips were surefire family traits.

"It's fine, James,” she said, placing a hand on her husband's arm. "I could use some fresh air anyway." Her voice was soft but firm, as was her tired stare.

James didn't budge immediately, his protective instincts evident in the set of his shoulders. His eyes darted between the agents and his wife, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Finally, he stepped aside, but made it clear he wasn't going far. He settled onto a porch swing, its chains creaking softly as he sat. The swing had clearly seen better days. Its cushions were faded from years in the sun, speaking to countless evening conversations and quiet moments now past.

Ruth stepped out onto the porch, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself despite the mild evening air. She gestured to a cluster of chairs near the railing, away from her husband but still within his line of sight. The chairs were arranged around a small table bearing a potted fern, creating an intimate conversation area.

As they sat, Cassandra noticed how the fading sunlight cast long shadows across the porch, creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere. A wind chime tinkled softly in the distance, its gentle notes a stark contrast to the gravity of their conversation. From inside, the muffled sounds of the gathering continued - hushed voices and occasional footsteps, the backdrop to their grim discussion.

"Ruth," Cassandra began, leaning forward slightly, "I know this is difficult, but we need to be direct. The past twenty-four hours have revealed that your sister's case is more complex - and more dangerous - than we initially thought."

Ruth's hands twisted in her lap, the tissue shredding between her fingers. "What do you mean, dangerous?" Her voice quavered slightly, and from his position on the swing, James shifted forward, watchful.

"We're following several leads," Mick explained, his voice low and steady. "But what we need right now is to know if Lydia had any recent conflicts…with friends, colleagues, anyone who might wish her harm."

The question hung in the air as Ruth stared out at the darkening street. A car passed slowly by, its headlights sweeping across the house's facade. The neighborhood's silence seemed to deepen, broken only by the distant thrum of cicadas and the persistent creaking of the porch swing as James rocked slowly back and forth.

When Ruth finally spoke, her voice trembled. "A week ago... Lydia came over for dinner. We shared a bottle of wine - maybe two." Ruth's eyes grew distant with the memory, focusing on something far away. "She seemed... troubled. More than usual. When I pressed her about it, she admitted she thought she'd made an enemy through her work. She actually said ‘a powerful enemy’…whatever that means.

Behind them, James cleared his throat meaningfully, but Ruth continued, seemingly drawing strength from having gotten some of it out. "She was different that night. Usually, she'd talk for hours about her research - she'd get so excited about it, even though she knew I couldn't follow half of what she was saying. But that night... she was quiet. Distracted. She kept checking her phone."

"Did she say who this enemy might be?" Cassandra asked.

Ruth shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. "No. She wouldn't tell me. I think... I think she was trying to protect me somehow. But she did say something about 'people who put profit above everything else.' That's all I could get out of her."

"We know Lydia sent you some emails shortly before her death,” Mick interjected gently. “Besides the one about the camera, were there others?"

Ruth's hand went to her pocket, pulling out her phone. "Yes... I didn't think much of them at first. I assumed I was copied by mistake since some of them went to her work colleagues too." Her fingers trembled as she navigated to her email app.

As she pulled up her email, Cassandra and Mick moved closer, studying the screen as Ruth scrolled through the messages. The porch swing's creaking grew louder as James stood, moving to stand behind his wife's chair, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder.

The first two emails were familiar - the coordinates that had led them to the contaminated water, and the cryptic message about the camera. But the third email made Cassandra's pulse quicken. It contained nothing but a string of numbers, seemingly random but arranged in distinct patterns.

42897 65321 98754 23456 87654 32198.

“Do you have any idea what these numbers are?” Mick asked.

“No clue.”

“Would you mind if I snapped a picture of them?” Cassandra asked.

“Not at all,” Lydia said, holding her phone out so that both of them could get a photo odd the odd string of numbers. Looking at them as she snapped the photo, she didn’t think these were coordinates; she had no idea what the hell they were.

"Have you ever helped Lydia with her research?" Cassandra asked, studying Ruth's face carefully. "Anything that might explain why she'd send you these particular emails?"

Ruth let out a bitter laugh that was almost a sob. "God, no. I'm just a middle school science teacher. I teach kids about photosynthesis and basic chemistry. I don't know the first thing about Lydia’s level of work." She wiped at her eyes with the shredded tissue. "Sometimes she'd try to explain what she was working on, but it was like listening to someone speak another language."

Her composure cracked then, tears flowing freely. "What was she involved in? What got my sister killed?” She looked back and forth between them with painful desperation in her eyes. Why would she send these strange messages?"

James's grip on his wife’s shoulder tightened. "I think that's enough for tonight," he said firmly, his voice carrying an edge of authority that hadn't been there before. "Ruth needs rest. You can come back in a few days when she's better prepared to discuss this."

Cassandra wanted to protest, but the sight of Ruth's shaking shoulders stopped her. They'd pushed enough for one evening. She and Mick stood, thanking Ruth for her time. As they turned to leave, Ruth caught Cassandra's sleeve.

"Find who did this," she whispered, her eyes intense despite her tears. "Find who killed my sister, please…"

"We will," Cassandra said, though she was usually reluctant to say such a thing during a time of heavy emotion. Two words with completely empty meanings, usually cliché and with the ring of an empty promise.

As they walked back to their car, the neighborhood had grown darker, porch lights clicking on up and down the street like fireflies coming to life. The sound of a screen door slamming somewhere down the block echoed through the quiet street. Dusk was approaching, casting everything in a gorgeous, orange glow.

"So what now?" Mick asked as they reached the car.

Cassandra pulled out her phone. "First, I'm sending this number sequence to Zoe. If anyone can crack it, she can. Then I want to check with someone at the precinct to see if we can get a ballistics report on those rounds fired at Hawkins and me today. And speaking of Hawkins, I need to call the hospital for an update."

Before she could dial, Mick's phone rang, its sharp tone cutting through the evening quiet. He glanced at the screen, frowning at the unfamiliar local number.

"This is Donovan," he answered, listening intently. Cassandra watched his expression shift from curiosity to concern while she listened to his one side of the conversation. "Yeah, we'll look into it. Do you have an address? Okay…yeah, I understand. Thanks.”

He ended the call, turning to Cassandra with a troubled look. "That was Joseph Blackwood. One of his employees has gone missing…a guy named Jake Reynolds. He handles the scheduling for waste disposal runs."

Cassandra's blood ran cold. “That seems…very relevant.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. Waste disposal on a case like this…might be that our killer is trying tie up some loose ends. Blackwood texted an address…”

“Then let’s get going,” Cassandra said.

They jumped into the car, tires squealing as Mick pulled away from the curb. As they raced through the darkening streets, Cassandra considered what it could mean if this man—this Jake Reynolds—had somehow been involved with the same work as Lydia Thornton…if they had perhaps even worked together in some capacity. She hated the idea of someone else’s life ending, naturally, but she also understood that with two victims, they stood a better chance of finding leads through whatever links the two victims might share.

The peaceful neighborhood receded behind them, its quiet streets and warm porch lights giving way to the urgency of their mission. As they sped toward the address Blackwood had provided, Cassandra's mind raced through the puzzle pieces - the mysterious emails, Ruth's revelation about a "powerful enemy," and now a missing employee who might hold the key to it all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Blackwood said no one is home at Reynolds's home address," Mick explained from behind the wheel as they headed west out of Castle Bluff. "He thinks Reynolds might be at a coastal cabin—sort of a retreat. It's forty-five minutes away, but maybe still worth checking out."

She looked to Mick’s phone on the center console, the map having already loaded up the address Blackwood had texted them.

The weak light of the gathering dusk cast long, ghostly shadows across the dashboard as they sped out of Castle Bluff, leaving the coastal town behind. The two-lane highway stretched before them like a gray ribbon, cutting through the rugged Maine landscape. Fields of wild grass swayed in the ocean breeze on either side of the road, dotted with clusters of wind-bent pines that had adapted to the harsh coastal environment over decades.

Cassandra studied the details of the case in her head, trying to examine each and every piece. The timing of Reynolds's disappearance felt too convenient to be coincidence. "What I don't understand," she said, watching the scenery blur past her window, "is why Lydia included her sister in those emails. Ruth has nothing to do with her work."

“Good question,” was all Mick had to say.

"And why send different information to different people?" she continued, thinking aloud. "The coordinates to one person, the camera information to two... It's like she was creating a puzzle that could only be solved if everyone shared their pieces."

Mick nodded thoughtfully, navigating a sharp curve. "Maybe that was the point. Think about it—if you discovered something dangerous, would you trust it with people in the same industry? People who might have conflicting interests?" He paused, checking his mirrors. "Sometimes an outsider is the safest bet. And spreading the information around makes it harder for anyone to suppress all of it."

The highway gradually narrowed as they followed Blackwood's directions, the shoulders becoming rougher and less defined. Signs grew scarcer, and the forest pressed in closer to the road. The transition was subtle at first—patches of dense woods creeping closer to the pavement, then suddenly they were engulfed. The unmarked road seemed to have been devoured by the wilderness, massive pines and ancient oaks forming a natural tunnel overhead.

Dappled and dying sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating shifting patterns on the road that made Cassandra think of camouflage. The air grew noticeably cooler as they drove deeper into the forest's embrace, the temperature dropping several degrees in the perpetual shade. The asphalt beneath their tires showed signs of age—small cracks where determined weeds pushed through, wearing away at the edges where nature sought to reclaim its territory.

The dense canopy cast the road only darkened the twilight even more, forcing Mick to switch on the headlights. Their beams cut through the gloom, illuminating swirling clouds of insects and occasional glimpses of wildlife darting into the underbrush. A deer bounded across the road ahead of them, its white tail flashing like a warning signal before it disappeared into the shadows.

"Turn here," Cassandra said, pointing to a nearly hidden turnoff that they almost missed despite the digital map still directing them on the console.

The car's suspension creaked with protest as they navigated onto what appeared to be little more than a dusty track. The driveway—if it could be called such a thing—twisted through the dense forest, climbing steadily upward. Through gaps in the trees, glimpses of the ocean appeared, growing more dramatic with each turn. The forest suddenly gave way to a breathtaking vista to the left—jagged cliffs dropping away to where massive waves crashed against weather-worn rocks hundreds of feet below.

The view was both magnificent and menacing. White-capped waves stretched to the horizon, their constant assault on the rocky coast creating a background rumble. Seabirds rode the updrafts along the cliff face, their cries carried away by the steady ocean wind that bent the coastal pines into permanent sculptures.

The cabin materialized in front of them like an apparition. It was larger than Cassandra had expected, its weathered cedar siding and peaked roof nestled perfectly between the edge of the forest and the precipitous drop of the cliffs. A wraparound porch clung to the structure, its railings weathered but in a way that added beauty. The windows reflected the dying light like tired eyes, giving the building an eerily watchful appearance.

They parked by an old Jeep, gravel crunching beneath their tires. The wind whipped up from the ocean, carrying the tang of salt and the mournful cry of seabirds. Dead leaves skittered across the driveway like nervous creatures. Cassandra followed Mick up to the front porch, their footsteps hollow against the wooden planks. The boards creaked beneath their weight, the sound nearly lost in the constant whisper of wind through pine needles.

Mick's knock echoed in the growing darkness. No response. He tried again, more forcefully this time, the sound sharp and demanding against the wooden door.

"Who is it?" a voice called from inside, tight with anxiety and something else—fear, Cassandra thought. Raw, unmistakable fear.

Cassandra noticed the video doorbell, its small red light blinking steadily like a tiny, watchful eye. She held up her badge to its lens, feeling certain that they were being watched. "Coast Guard, Special Investigations. I'm Officer Fierce, and this is Officer Donovan."

The door opened slowly, revealing a man who seemed to have been eaten alive by fear. Jake Reynolds was rail-thin, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. His hand trembled slightly on the doorknob, and his gaze darted past them to the darkening forest beyond.

“What do you want?” Jake asked. “Why are you here?”

"Joseph Blackwood called us," Cassandra explained, keeping her voice steady and professional despite the man's obvious distress. "He was concerned when he couldn't reach you. Given our current investigation and your position at OceanPure, we wanted to make sure you were alright."

“And what is your investigation? It’s...it’s Lydia, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Cassandra said, the mention of the victim’s name causing her to become much more alert. “How did you know her?”

Jake let out a deep sigh and stepped to the side to allow them inside. “Come in, come in…”

The cabin's interior was surprisingly spacious, with vaulted ceilings and walls of windows that would have offered spectacular ocean views in daylight. Now, in the blue-gray dusk, everything seemed soft and uncertain, the boundaries between objects becoming fluid and dreamlike. Modern furniture sat like darker shadows among shadows, their clean lines blurred in the failing light. A half-empty coffee cup on the kitchen counter and an open laptop on the dining table were the only signs of human presence.

The space smelled of coffee and fear-sweat, with undertones of pine and sea air drifting in through small gaps in the weather stripping. A clock ticked somewhere in the shadows, its rhythm slightly off-kilter, as if even time worked differently in this isolated place.

“Yes. I knew Lydia Thornton. We worked together…not with the same people, but as representatives from different organizations.”

“How did you know she’d died?” Mick asked.

“Word got around pretty quickly.”

Cassandra noticed he didn’t seem all that squirrely when speaking about Lydia. It redirected her to a more pressing question…one that she thought would come to the real meat of the matter in a more subtle way. A way Jake might not even see coming.

"Why would Joseph Blackwood think you've disappeared?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing. She noticed how Reynolds's eyes kept darting to the windows, as if expecting to see something—or someone—materializing from the darkness beyond.

Reynolds sank into an armchair, running trembling fingers through his unkempt hair. "I left home two days ago. Came out here to... think. We used to come here every summer, back when things were good. Before the divorce." He laughed bitterly, the sound catching in his throat. "It's not the same anymore. Nothing is."

The final rays of sunlight painted stark shadows across his face, highlighting the deep lines of worry etched around his mouth and eyes.

"Why here? Why now?" Mick pressed, his steady voice a counterpoint to Reynolds's nervous energy.

"Because I know things," Reynolds whispered, his eyes darting to the windows where night pressed against the glass like a living thing. "About the illegal dumping. When they killed Lydia, I knew I might be next. I've known about it for a year now, but they had leverage. Made me keep quiet."

A branch scraped against one of the windows, making Reynolds jump. The sound was like fingernails on glass, a horrible scratching that seemed to echo in the growing darkness.

"What kind of leverage?" Cassandra asked, tracking the man's increasing agitation with growing concern.

Reynolds's face crumpled, years of guilt and fear etching themselves deeper into his features. "Blackmail. I had an affair two years ago...it went on for about a year and there was…well, a child came out of it. There was a child. My wife—ex-wife now—she left when she found out. But that wasn't enough for them. They kept the evidence, used it to keep me in line."

The confession hung in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid. Cassandra leaned forward, every instinct screaming that they were on to something. "Who, Mr. Reynolds? Who's behind the dumping? And who do you believe killed Lydia Thornton?"

Fear flickered across his face like lightning. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. “No. I can’t tell you. Shit…they may even have my house tapped. I just don’t know. I don’t even know how they found out Lydia was on to them.”

"We can protect you," Mick assured him, his voice steady and confident. "You'll be safe. Just tell us—"

Without any warning, the window behind Reynolds exploded inward with a deafening crack. Glass rained down in a deadly shower as more shots peppered the cabin's exterior. The sound of gunfire sent Cassandra’s thoughts rocketing back to her encounter on the water earlier in the day. She dove for cover behind a heavy oak sideboard, drawing her weapon in one fluid motion. At the same time, Mick rolled behind the kitchen island, glass crunching beneath him like breaking ice. The cabin's interior had become a maze of shadows and deadly angles, each window a potential kill zone.

She looked over to where Jake had fallen to the floor for safety with his hands over his head. He was biting his lips, as if containing scream. And he was also quickly getting to his feet. He stood, remaining in a crouched position as he hurried for the front door—in what appeared to be the opposite direction the bullets were coming from.

"Reynolds!" Cassandra shouted, but he was already moving. With surprising speed born of terror, he bolted for the door, disappearing into the gloom beyond. The door banged against the frame but did not close, allowing her to watch as he hurried down the stairs.

Damn, she thought.

More shots crackled through the air. More glass shattered, and a few holes appeared in the wall behind them. She gauged that Jake’s estimation had been right: the shots were coming from behind the house. She was pretty sure she’d only heard one gun so far—likely from a semi-automatic gun.

They opened fire once Mick and I were here, she thought. This might be more about trying to stop me and Mick rather than trying to silence Jake Reynolds.

But even if that was the case, she knew they had to save Jake. And right now, the idiot had chosen to leave the shelter of the house and try to escape. She thought of the Jeep they’d seen in the driveway and assumed he was making a run for that.

What she knew for certain was that they needed to protect him. Not just to save his life, but because he had answers they needed.

Cassandra met Mick's eyes across the room, seeing in them the same grim determination she felt. They had to find Reynolds before the killer did—if it wasn't already too late.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The gunshots died away, leaving behind an oppressive silence that seemed to swallow the evening whole. Cassandra's heart thundered in her chest as she crouched behind the living room wall, exchanging a quick glance with Mick. His face was grim, jaw set with determination. They'd been partners long enough that words weren't necessary – they both knew what needed to be done.

Cassandra took point, her service weapon drawn and steady in a two-handed grip. She moved toward the front door with practiced precision, each step deft and with purpose. In the silence she moved through, she waited for the next shot but it never came. Mick followed two steps behind, covering their rear as they approached the entrance. The house felt different now – transformed from a simple cottage into a potential kill box, with every window a possible firing point.

The porch boards groaned beneath their feet as they emerged into the gathering darkness. The sun had properly set, painting the sky in deep purples and an oncoming curtain of black. The roaring ocean could be heard complaining from the right as it tossed waves upon the shore only to be destroyed.

Cassandra's trained eye immediately caught the glint of something wrong in the fading light. She looked to the Jeep first, wondering if Jake had rushed to it in the hope of escaping. But all she saw was both vehicles – Jake's weather-beaten Jeep and their rental car – sitting stranded in the darkness. Every single tire had been slashed, sitting deflated. The sight sent a chill racing down her spine. This wasn't a random attack; someone had deliberately trapped them here, planning every detail with tactical precision.

"Shit," she whispered, more to herself than to Mick. Someone had gotten close enough to slash their tires without being noticed – while they were inside, focused on questioning Jake. The thought made her skin crawl.

A sudden rustle of movement from the forest to their right snapped her attention away from the vehicles. She swiveled, weapon raised, but even as she tracked the motion, her instincts told her it was Jake fleeing into the woods.

"Do you see the shooter at all?" she whispered to Mick, her voice barely audible above the voice of the nearby ocean.

"No. Nothing. Everything looks perfectly still." His response was equally hushed, tense with concentration. "But that doesn't mean they're not out there."

Cassandra drew in a deep breath, knowing what she had to do next. Jake was their only lead, their only connection to whatever was happening with OceanPure and the toxic dumping sites. He was getting away, and with him might go their only chance to solve Lydia's murder. The open yard between the house and the tree line might as well have been a killing field. Anyone with a scope could be watching, waiting for movement. Her life could end in the squeeze of a trigger.

The deepening darkness was her only advantage. The ambient light had faded to that peculiar level where human eyes struggled to adjust, where shadows played tricks and depth perception became unreliable. It was now or never.

"Cover me," she breathed to Mick, then burst from the porch.

She zigzagged across the yard in a controlled sprint, using every bit of her training to make herself a difficult target. Her shoes crushed fallen leaves as she ran, each step feeling like an eternity. The tree line seemed impossibly far away. Her skin crawled with the sensation of being watched, of crosshairs finding their mark. The back of her neck tingled, anticipating the searing pain of a bullet at any moment.

But no shots came.

As she entered into the relative safety of the forest's edge, Mick followed after her. They stood beneath ancient pines, their branches creating a cathedral-like canopy that made the early darkness of night seem even darker. The forest floor was a maze of shadows and obstacles – fallen logs, thorny undergrowth, and treacherous roots that threatened to trip unwary feet. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees under the trees, and the sound of the ocean was different among the trees; it now sounded almost like a pained human moan. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, Jake was moving fast, using his knowledge of the terrain to his advantage. She could just barely hear him over the sounds of her own footsteps.

"We need to split up," Cassandra whispered to Mick, gesturing ahead. "You take the left, toward the driveway. I'll go right, toward the cliffs. One of us is bound to cut him off. We can't let him slip away."

Mick nodded, his features barely visible in the gloom. "Be careful, Fierce. We don't know how many shooters are out here."

She nodded as she ventured further into the trees. They separated, each disappearing into their designated sections of the forest. Cassandra moved as quickly as she dared through the darkness, trying to keep Jake's fleeing form in sight while maintaining her own tactical awareness. She resisted calling out to him and demanding him to stop. If the shooters weren’t hearing their footfalls through the forest, they would sure as hell hear her calling out for Jake Reynolds.

And speaking of hearing things, the forest was alive with sounds that set her nerves on edge – the crack of branches underfoot, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional cry of a night bird taking wing.

Her breath came in controlled bursts as she navigated the treacherous terrain. The smell of pine sap and damp earth filled her nostrils, grounding her in the moment. But the darkness played tricks on her mind. A sudden movement to her right caused her to spin, weapon raised, heart in her throat. Nothing – just night shadows dancing in the wind, or perhaps a rabbit startled by her presence.

Seconds later, another rustle to her left caused her to freeze mid-stride. She pressed herself against a broad tree trunk, trying to control her breathing as she scanned the darkness. Was it the shooter, paralleling her course? Or just another forest phantom? Precious seconds ticked by as she waited, listening. Nothing but the endless whisper of the ocean.

She pushed on, her progress slowed by the need for stealth and the increasingly difficult terrain. The ground began to slope upward, becoming steeper and more treacherous. Jake's path was taking them toward the cliffs she and Mick had spotted on their way in – a fact that sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through her system. He was either desperate or had a plan, and neither option boded well.

A third time, movement caught her eye – this time more substantial, more deliberate. She dropped into a crouch behind a fallen log, her finger tightening on the trigger. A shadow moved between the trees, too large to be anything but human. But was it Jake? Mick? Or one of the shooters? The figure disappeared before she could be sure, melting into the darkness like a ghost.

The chase continued upward, the forest thinning as they neared the cliff's edge. The sound of the ocean grew louder, a rhythmic booming that seemed to shake the very ground. Cassandra's legs burned from the climb, but adrenaline kept her moving, kept her focused.

Suddenly, the forest ended. It was literally as if God had reached down and erased the forest to make room for the open air beyond the cliff. Cassandra emerged onto a rocky promontory, and the full force of the ocean's voice crashed up from below.

Jake stood at the edge, his silhouette stark against the last remnants of twilight sky. The cliff face dropped away beneath his feet, a sheer hundred-foot plunge to where massive waves exploded against jagged rocks. The spray obviously could not reach them, but the smell and taste of salt on the air was ever present.

"Jake," she called out, keeping her weapon trained on him but her voice steady and calm. "Step away from the edge. Whatever's going on, we can protect you. Just come with us. I swear to you…you can help us find these people and we can keep you safe."

He turned toward her, and even in the dim light, she could see the conflict on his face. Fear warred with exhaustion, with something that might have been relief. "You don't understand," he said, his voice nearly lost in the crash of waves below. "They're everywhere. They've infiltrated everything. OceanPure, the shipping companies, even some of the environmental agencies."

"Then help us expose them," Cassandra urged, taking a careful step forward. "We can protect you, put you in witness protection if necessary. But we need to know what's really going on."

Jake's shoulders sagged, the fight seeming to drain out of him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe..." He took a half-step forward, away from the edge. "There's so much I need to tell you. About the dumping sites, about Lydia, about—"

The crack of a gunshot split the night. Jake's words cut off in a choked gasp as a dark stain blossomed across his chest. Time seemed to slow as he staggered backward, his eyes wide with surprise and something else – recognition, perhaps? Then he was gone, toppling over the edge into the churning darkness below.

Cassandra's training took over. She dropped and rolled in one fluid motion, taking cover behind a boulder as she searched for the shooter. A small outcropping of rock poked into her side, but she was barely aware of it. There – a flash of movement between the trees. A dark figure shifting position, the metallic glint of a rifle barrel swinging in her direction.

She squeezed off two rapid shots, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the forest like lightning. The echo of it in the darkness was louder than she expected, and she had no way of knowing if her shot had landed. If nothing else, she supposed she had at least startled them. The forest fell silent again, save for the eternal rhythm of the waves below.

Cassandra pressed herself against the cold stone, her breath coming in short bursts, ears straining for any sound of movement. The shooter was still out there, maybe wounded or maybe retreating now that someone was firing back. And if it was the man who’d not been shot on the boat earlier in the day, maybe he’d had enough close calls. She simply had no way of knowing; the darkness that had been her ally during the chase now worked against her, providing too many shadows where a killer could hide.

She was alone near the cliff's edge, cut off from Mick, with an unknown number of armed assailants in the area. And worst of all, Jake Reynolds had been shot and fallen over the cliff…dead. They had very few options here, nothing good working in their favor. The vehicles were disabled. The house was exposed. The forest was a death trap in the dark. And somewhere out there, a shooter waited, probably repositioning for another attempt on her life.

The waves crashed endlessly below, a reminder of the fate that had claimed Jake – and the secrets he'd taken with him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cassandra held her breath, pressing herself against the rough backside of the stone outcropping roughly ten feet from the edge of the cliff.. The darkness felt alive around her, pulsing with unseen threats. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she fought to remain perfectly still, straining her ears for any sign of the shooter's location. The ocean's rhythmic pounding against the cliffs below provided an ominous backdrop, nearly drowning out the distant chorus of crickets that seemed oblivious to the violence that had just erupted in their peaceful domain.

The night air carried the tang of salt spray from the waves and the earthy scent of the forest floor. Each breath she expelled seemed unnaturally loud in the darkness, and Cassandra found herself trying to control even that basic function, fearful that the slightest sound might give away her position to whoever was still out there in the shadows.

Stay calm. Stay focused.

She began counting slowly in her head, trying to impose order on the chaos of the moment. One... two... three...

Each second stretched into eternity as she waited, hyper-aware of every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind through the branches above. She had decided to count to thirty before attempting to make her way back to the cabin, hoping to encounter Mick along the way.

The darkness pressed in around her, thick and oppressive. Even the moon seemed to have retreated, offering only the faintest illumination through the canopy of trees. The shadows seemed to shift and dance with each gentle breeze, making it impossible to distinguish potential threats from the natural movement of the forest at night. Her training told her to stay put, to wait it out, but every instinct screamed at her to move, to run, to find better cover. She listened intently for even the slightest movement within the forest, expecting the shooter (or shooter) to try taking her out as well.

Nineteen... twenty... twenty-one...

A whisper cut through the night, so faint she almost dismissed it as another trick of the wind and waves. But then it came again, clearer this time – her name, carried on the breeze from somewhere to her left. For one horrifying moment, her mind conjured an image of Jack Reynolds, broken and bloodied, somehow climbing back up the cliff face to call for help. She imagined his mangled form dragging itself through the underbrush, reaching out with broken fingers. The image sent ice through her veins, and she had to forcibly push it away, reminding herself that such things were impossible.

Slowly, recognition dawned on her – the whisper was from Mick’s voice. The relief that flooded through her was almost dizzying. "Here," she breathed back, barely audible even to herself. "I'm here."

The sound of careful footsteps through the underbrush preceded Mick's appearance. His familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows, moving with urgent purpose toward her position. Branches cracked softly beneath his feet, and leaves rustled as he pushed through the undergrowth. Before he could reach her, she hissed, "Get down! We don't know where the shooter is!"

Mick dropped into a crouch beside her, his breathing slightly elevated. In the darkness, she could just make out the tension in his features, the way his eyes darted continuously through the surrounding darkness. "I think they're gone," he whispered, his voice tight with concern. "I heard someone running through the woods to the west of me, over by the cliffs and toward the house…and then an engine starting behind Jake's cabin. I wanted to pursue, but..." His voice cracked slightly. "I heard the shots, Cass. I had no idea if you were..." He trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

The raw emotion in his voice touched something deep within her. In all their years working together, she'd rarely heard him so shaken. "I'm okay," she assured him softly, reaching out to squeeze his arm in the darkness. "But Jack Reynolds..." She gestured toward the cliff's edge. "He was shot. He went over."

Together, they crept to the precipice, keeping low and moving as silently as possible through the underbrush. Every step felt precarious, the ground beneath their feet uncertain in the darkness. Mick's voice was steady as he explained, "I called for backup. Local PD is en route. I told them we would stay put until we hear sirens – just to be safe." They peered over the edge, where the moon's weak light revealed Jake's crumpled form on a large, rocky outcropping below. The sight was grotesque, but as Cassandra noted grimly, at least the body wouldn't be lost to the sea.

The waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks below, sending spray high into the air. The sound seemed to mock them, as if nature itself was laughing at their failure to prevent another death. The salty mist reached them even at this height, coating their skin with a fine, cool layer of moisture.

As they waited for backup to arrive, the adrenaline slowly began to ebb, leaving Cassandra's mind free to race through possibilities. The night air grew cooler, and she pulled her jacket tighter around herself.

"The timing feels wrong," she murmured, her words nearly lost in the sound of the surf below. "What if we were the real targets? The shooter could have been waiting for us. If it’s the same people who shot at Hawkins and I out on the boat…maybe they were following us and not after Reynolds.”

Mick shifted beside her, considering. In the waning moonlight, his profile was sharp against the darkness. "Or they could have been watching Jake, waiting to see if anyone came sniffing around. Once we showed up, they might have decided to tie up loose ends."

A sudden gust of wind sent leaves skittering across the ground, the sound making them both tense momentarily. The forest seemed alive with movement and shadow, but the sound of approaching sirens cut through their speculation, the wail growing steadily louder as it bounced off the trees and cliffs.

At the sound of backup, they began picking their way back through the dark forest, moving with greater urgency now that help was on the way. With Mick beside her, the oppressive darkness seemed less threatening. The shadows that had earlier concealed potential threats now felt more like a protective cloak, shielding them as they made their way back to the cabin.

"One thing's certain," Cassandra said as they navigated the uneven ground, carefully stepping over fallen branches and exposed roots. "The killer's always ahead of us. Maybe they…I don’t know, maybe they somehow knew we’d be here. Maybe they thought they could kill two birds—or, I suppose, three—with one stone."

"You think we have a leak in the PD?" Mick's voice was grim, barely above a whisper despite their belief that the shooter was gone.

"I don’t know. But it goes back to the timing. It just feels a little too…off." They paused as a branch cracked somewhere in the darkness, then continued when nothing followed. The sirens were louder now, close enough that they could see the first flickers of red and blue light through the trees.

As they emerged from the tree line, the flashing lights of two patrol cars painted the scene in alternating red and blue, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Three officers were approaching the cabin, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like searchlights. The sudden illumination was almost jarring after so long in the darkness, and Cassandra had to resist the urge to shield her eyes.

Her brain seemed stuck on the idea of their potentially being a leak…of someone on their side potentially working with the killer. It did seem like a long shot but at the same time, there was something about the idea of a leak that seemed to stick in her brain. There was something there, something that began to slowly dawn on her.

“I have an idea," Cassandra said slowly as she continued to piece it together, her mind already formulating a plan. "But we'll need Emma Chen's help."

"Care to share with the class?" Mick asked as they reached the edge of the trees, where Reynolds’s yard began to take over.

"We feed false information through carefully chosen channels. See where it leads. We’ve got two victims who were doing what they could do manage waste solutions in regard to the ocean. And we know that though she wasn’t an OceanPure employee, Lydia had worked closely with them in the past. We were talking about leaks…but what if there’s a leak at OceanPure?"

“That’s a good point,” Mick said. “And it would be easy to find out…wouldn’t take up too many resources, either. Wouldn’t hurt to put it to the test.”

Cassandra pulled out her phone, already scrolling for Emma's number. The screen's glow seemed harsh in the darkness, casting strange shadows across her face. "You brief the officers. I'm going to make a call."

As Mick peeled off to speak with local law enforcement, having started to pile out of their cars in the driveway, Cassandra ducked back into Jake Reynolds's cabin. The interior was dark and still held the lingering warmth of the day. The air felt thick with tension, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the violence of recent events. She found herself wondering if Jake had known his time was running out, if he'd sensed the danger closing in.

She placed the call and the line rang once, twice, three times as Cassandra stared out the cabin's window at the strobing emergency lights. Her sudden idea really all hinged on Emma's cooperation – and on the hope that they could set a trap before the killer struck again. Outside, she could hear Mick's voice as he explained the situation to the officers, his words muffled by distance and glass. The flash of cameras punctuated the darkness as crime scene technicians began documenting the area.

Finally, the line connected. “Hello?”

"Emma? It's Cassandra Fierce." She took a deep breath, watching as more official vehicles began arriving at the scene. "I need your help with something." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. The weight of the moment pressed down on her – if her hunch about the leak was right, more lives could depend on what happened next. "How would you like to help us catch a killer?"

Through the window, she could see Mick directing officers toward the forest, in the direction of the cliff edge where Jake Reynolds had lost his life. She watched their flashlight beams cut through the darkness like searching fingers. But for now, Cassandra focused on Emma's response, knowing that their next move could potentially mean drawing a killer out of the shadows.

Or, on the other hand, she could be wrong…and, as such, providing the killer with more time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"So how, exactly, is this going to work again?" Mick asked, hands gripping the steering wheel of the borrowed police cruiser as they sped through the darkening evening. The police had been reluctant to just loan out a car, but given that the visiting Coast Guard officers would have been stranded without it, they’d really had no other choice.

Cassandra shifted in her seat, going over the plan she and Emma Chen had crafted just hours ago. It was risky, maybe even a bit reckless, but sometimes the best way to catch a killer was to set a trap.

"Emma sent a fabricated email to her own account, making it look like it came from Lydia.  Zoe had to help with that bit, but as I understand it, it only took a minute or two. Only she and I know it's fake." She paused, making sure Mick was following along. "The email contains fake coordinates—coordinates that supposedly came from another message Lydia sent right before she died."

The plan had come together quickly during her call with Emma. They'd spent nearly an hour crafting the perfect message – something that would seem authentic enough to draw out their target but not so obvious that it would raise suspicions. Emma had proven to be surprisingly adept at mimicking Lydia's writing style, even including some of the scientist's characteristic typing errors and peculiar punctuation habits.

“And where do they lead?”

"They lead to a storage unit in Castle Bluff." Cassandra's eyes scanned the empty road ahead, her mind racing through all the possible outcomes of their plan. "Emma made it seem like she thinks it's some kind of evidence drop-off point Lydia had set up."

The fabricated email had been carefully worded to suggest that Lydia had been gathering evidence of environmental violations, storing crucial documentation in a rented storage unit. Emma had even included a reference to specific dates and times when Lydia had supposedly visited the facility, adding an extra layer of authenticity to their ruse.

"And I guess the point," Mick said slowly, piecing it together, "is that if there is a mole who has hacked into OceanPure's email servers, they'll see this and head to the storage units? Or maybe it'll even be the killer..."

"Exactly," Cassandra confirmed, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "And that's why we need to haul ass and get there right away."

Mick's response was immediate, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator. The cruiser's engine roared as they hit eighty miles per hour, the two-lane road to Castle Bluff stretching endlessly before them. The sunset painted the sky in deep purples and oranges, casting long shadows across the pavement.

The shrill ring of Cassandra's phone cut through the tension. She checked the display: Zoe Reeves.

"Fierce here," she answered, putting the call on speaker mode.

"Hey, got something interesting about those numbers you sent earlier," Zoe's voice crackled through the speaker. "They looked weird and random because they were encrypted too...just like the other set of coordinates. Different method than before, though – took more work to crack."

Cassandra sat up straighter. "What did you find?"

"Another set of coordinates, just like you suspected. But here's the thing – this encryption was way more sophisticated than the last one. And since it was sent to a family member..." Zoe paused meaningfully. "I'm no trained Coast Guard Special Ops Officer like you wizards, but seeing as how this one was heavily encrypted and sent to a family member for what I assume was safety and secrecy, the place these coordinates lead to must be pretty important."

“Seems that way. Thanks so much, Zoe.”

“No problem. This has all been a rather uncharacteristic bit of excitement for me. Good luck out there.”

With the call over, Cassandra turned to Mick. "What are you thinking?"

"Major dumping site," he replied without hesitation. "Has to be. Why else go through all that trouble to encrypt coordinates sent to family?"

She didn’t answer, because she supposed it was a rhetorical question. The bigger question was how Lydia had found out…and if it had been the reason for her death. Hopefully, the little lie they’d planted would point them to that particular truth.

The Castle Bluff Storage Center materialized out of the growing darkness just before they entered the town limits. The facility sprawled across several acres, a maze-like arrangement of identical metal units arranged in short, parallel rows. The security lighting cast an artificial, almost supernatural glow over the facility, creating an eerie contrast between harshly lit areas and deep, impenetrable shadows.

A single car sat parked by the office – a weathered Ford Taurus that had seen better days, likely belonging to the night manager or security guard. The office itself was a small, prefabricated building with windows that glowed with fluorescent light, looking like a lonely outpost in a sea of metal doors.

As they stepped out of the cruiser, the silence was oppressive. Their footsteps echoed off the metal doors as they made their way down the narrow alleys between units, each sound seeming to carry for miles in the still night air.

The facility itself seemed to be a set stage, as if the area itself knew that it might soon be the location of a significant event. Each unit was identical – corrugated metal doors with padlocks, numbers stenciled in black paint, small gaps under each door where shadows played tricks with the light. The whole place had an abandoned feel to it, despite being fully operational. The emptiness made every small sound seem magnified – the distant hum of the security lights, the occasional metallic ping of cooling metal, the whisper of wind between the units.

They positioned themselves behind the unit adjacent to their target, backs pressed against the cold metal. Though the darkness and the unit itself provided more than enough cover, Cassandra still felt vulnerable; there were too many angles to cover, too many places for someone to hide. Each identical row seemed to create a disorienting pattern of light and shadow.

Minutes crawled by like hours. Cassandra's mind wandered to all the waiting they'd done on this case – the endless boat rides, the tense moments after Jake Reynolds was shot, the bureaucratic delays. Each second of waiting felt like another opportunity for their killer to slip away, to destroy evidence, to vanish into the night. It didn’t help that there was no surefire way to know that this little exercise would even pan out to anything. It could be nothing more than one massive waste of time.

A cool breeze whispered through the facility, bringing with it the distant sound of traffic and the smell of the ocean—a smell Cassandra knew could often travel as much as twenty miles inland—if not more, depending on the weather.

Then, after what felt like several hours but was in reality only thirty-two minutes, the distant sound of tires on gravel snapped her back to attention. A car was approaching, its headlights sweeping across the rows of storage units like searching fingers. The engine cut off, followed by the metallic thunk of a car door opening.

Cassandra and Mick moved as one, weapons drawn, muscles coiled with tension as the pivoted away from the corner of the unit and out into the open. They emerged from their hiding spot, ready to confront whoever had taken their bait.

The figure turned, caught in the harsh glare of the security lights, and Cassandra felt her breath catch.

It was Joseph Blackwood. He was hurrying out of his car and to the unit the coordinates had led to. He had a set of bolt cutters in his hand but he nearly dropped it when he noticed Cassandra and Mick moving through the shadows. His face a mask of surprise and…was that guilt?

“Hold it, Blackwood,” Mick said.

Blackwood nodded and raised his hands slowly, his eyes darting between their drawn weapons. "Officers," he said, his voice steady despite the situation. "I suppose I should have expected this. I…God, this is not what it l—”

"On your knees," Cassandra commanded, her weapon trained on his chest. "Hands behind your head."

As Blackwood complied, the night air felt suddenly electric with possibility, the quiet storage facility holding secrets that were finally ready to spill forth. Blackwood did not strike her as a killer at all. But they’d set the trap and he’d fallen right into it. What else were they supposed to think?

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting strange shadows across Blackwood's face as Mick moved to secure his hands. The empty rows of storage units loomed around them like silent witnesses, their metal doors keeping their own secrets in the darkness. Blackwood did not fight or argue. He was obedient and still looked scared.

Cassandra kept her weapon trained on Blackwood, studying his face for any sign of the murderous intent that had led to Lydia Thornton's death. But his expression remained shaky and scared yet, at the same time, almost neutral and resigned, as if he'd been expecting this moment all along.

The trap had worked, but somehow, Cassandra couldn't shake the feeling that they were still missing something crucial. It had been too easy, and Blackwood was being too complacent. As Mick began reciting Blackwood's rights, the encrypted coordinates Zoe had decoded nagged at her thoughts. Two sets of coordinates, two different locations, two pieces of a puzzle that still didn't quite fit together.

As her mind swirled with all of that, the storage facility seemed to press in around them, its endless rows of identical units holding who knew what other secrets behind their locked doors.

But for now, they had Blackwood. And since the case kept circling back to him, she wondered if he just might have more answers than they’d expected.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"So, there was no information to be had, right? This was a trap?"

Blackwood's voice wavered slightly as Cassandra and Mick led him toward their borrowed patrol car. The darkness of night pressed in around them, broken only by the dim parking lot lights that continued to drape shadows across the storage facility's asphalt.

"That's right," Cassandra confirmed, a tone of satisfaction in her voice. "And you fell right into it." She placed a firm hand on his shoulder as they approached the car. "Now, maybe you can explain how you have access to email addresses of people who don't even work for OceanPure?"

Blackwood seemed to freeze up at the question, unsure of how to answer. And as it turned out, he didn’t have long to think it over. The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the silence, and the night exploded into chaos.

The first shot pinged off the hood of the car, so close that Cassandra felt the displacement of air near her face. Without hesitation, she shoved Blackwood into the back seat of the patrol car.

"Down!" she shouted, diving across the hood for cover on the other side of the car as another volley of shots rang out. The cold metal pressed against her stomach as she slid, her heart thundering in her chest. She drew her weapon in one fluid motion as she took cover behind the front wheel, the grip familiar and reassuring in her hand. She hard Mick yell out in frustration as he dove between two of the storage units to the right.

The sound of bullets slamming into the patrol car's body made her flinch. The impacts were deafening – sharp, metallic pings that sent shivers down her spine. Through the cacophony, she tried to pinpoint the shooters' locations. The muzzle flashes gave them away – two distinct positions behind a row of storage units about thirty yards away—just a single row away from the bogus location she had given Emma Chen. The attackers were using the shadows between the units for cover, making them difficult targets.

"Mick?" she called out, her voice barely audible over the gunfire. She could hear him returning fire from his place between two of the units but couldn't see his position.

"Clear!" he responded from behind the trunk. "I count two! They're moving between units four and six!"

A bullet struck the asphalt near her feet, sending tiny chips of concrete flying. She returned fire by quickly leaning out from the side of the car, her face directly by the bumper. She fired into the darkness, aiming at the flashes she'd spotted. The exchange was intense, rounds ricocheting off metal storage doors with high-pitched whines that seemed to echo forever in the confined space. The air filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and hot metal, burning her nostrils.

Cassandra's hands remained steady as she squeezed off another shot, then another. The night lit up with each muzzle flash, creating a deadly light show that reflected off the metal storage doors. She could hear the bullets impacting everything around them – the car, the storage units, whizzing off of the pavement. Each impact had its own distinct sound: the sharp ping of metal on metal, the duller thud of rounds burying themselves in the car's frame, the crack of bullets striking concrete.

The sound of breaking glass made her stomach lurch – one of the patrol car's windows exploding inward. Blackwood's scream pierced the night, a sound of both pain and terror. She wanted to check on him but knew moving would make her vulnerable. Through the blown-out window, she could hear him whimpering, followed by the sound of him scrambling lower in the seat.

"This is Officer Donovan," Mick's voice carried over the chaos. For a moment, she thought he was trying to identify himself to the shooters. But his next comment made it clear that he had taken out his cell phone and was calling in for backup. He spoke loudly, so that the shooters out there in the darkness might hear. "Officers under fire at Castle Storage, multiple shooters. Shots fired, officers need assistance!" His voice was steady despite the situation – a testament to their training and experience.

Cassandra's muscles burned as she maintained her position, carefully timing her shots. The attackers were well-trained, using the darkness and the storage units for cover. But they were also getting bolder, moving closer. She could see their shadowy forms now, darting between units. Their movement patterns suggested military or law enforcement training – these weren't amateur hitmen. She fired at them again but the darkness made it hard to see the solid lines of where their shadows ratted them out.

A fresh burst of gunfire forced her to duck lower. Bullets peppered the car above her head, the impacts sending vibrations through the frame. The patrol car's paint job was being stripped away with each hit, tiny metal fragments and chips of paint raining down on her. Cassandra took a very quick comment to wonder if these men were the same from the boat…the same from the cliffs by Jake Reynolds’s house. And was one of them the killer, or had they been hired and sent by the killer? All good questions…but there was no time to ponder them now.

She heard Mick return fire – three quick shots in succession. Then came a cry of pain from the darkness, followed by the distinct sound of a body hitting the ground.

"Got one!" Mick shouted.

The gunfire suddenly lessened, becoming more sporadic. The second shooter was retreating, his footsteps echoing off the metal storage units as he fled into the night. A few more desperate shots rang out, wild and uncontrolled now, striking the storage units high above their heads. Then silence descended, broken only by the distant wail of approaching sirens and the ringing in Cassandra's ears from the prolonged firefight.

The sudden quiet was almost as jarring as the initial outbreak of gunfire had been. The acrid smell of cordite hung heavy in the air. Shell casings littered the ground, still smoking in the cool night air. The patrol car was riddled with bullet holes, its windows shattered, its body bearing the scars of the intense firefight.

"Cover me!" Cassandra called out, already moving toward the back door of the patrol car. Inside, Blackwood was huddled on the floor, blood visible on his left arm and face. Glass fragments sparkled in the dim light, scattered across the back seat like deadly diamonds. She could hear Mick moving forward, gun still aimed into the darkness as he provided cover.

"How bad?" she asked, quickly assessing Blackwood’s injuries. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking for major wounds.

"I... I don't think..." he stammered, clearly in shock. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear. The bullet had only grazed his arm, tearing through his shirt and barely tearing the skin of his shoulder; he’d been damned lucky. There were also several superficial cuts on his face—caused by the shattered glass rather than gunfire. Blood trickled from the small cuts, but none of the wounds appeared life-threatening.

“We’re good,” Mick said, then hurrying over to where the man he had shot had fallen. Cassandra glanced through the shattered window quickly, watching as her partner knelt by the body.

"He's dead." Mick's voice carried across the parking lot, a slight tremor betraying his usual steadiness. The words seemed to echo in the eerie post-firefight silence.

Cassandra helped Blackwood out of the car, supporting him as they made their way to where Mick stood over the fallen shooter. Their footsteps crunched on broken glass and spent shell casings. The man lay sprawled on his back, a dark stain spreading across his chest where Mick's bullet had found its mark. His features were frozen in a look of surprise, as if death had caught him unaware.

"Take a look," she ordered Blackwood, keeping a steadying hand on his arm. "Do you know him?"

Blackwood's face was pale in the harsh parking lot lights as he studied the dead man's features. His eyes were still wide with fear—and now, perhaps, the shock of taking in a dead body. Blood from his facial cuts had already begun to dry, creating dark streaks down his cheeks.

"No," he said after a moment, his voice hoarse. "But... I might know who sent him."

Cassandra turned on him with a sneer. "This was the third time today I've been involved in a gunfight," Cassandra said, her voice hard as steel. The adrenaline was still coursing through her system, making her hyperaware of every sound, every movement in the shadows. "So I highly recommend you cut the bullshit, Mr. Blackwood. Tell us everything you know right now, or you're going directly to jail."

Blackwood raised his hands, wincing at the movement. His left arm trembled from the bullet graze. "I swear I'm not a killer! I'm not behind any of this. I came out here to get whatever information was supposed to be here before they did – the real bad guys." His words tumbled out in a rush, punctuated by the growing wail of approaching sirens. "I've been trying to stop the dumping operation within my own company before it went public. I swear!"

His own company, Cassandra thought. There it is.

In the distance, the sirens grew louder, their wailing cutting through the night air. Red and blue lights began to paint the storage units in alternating colors, creating an almost strobing effect. Blackwood looked toward the sound and let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The night had grown colder, or perhaps it was just the adrenaline wearing off, but Cassandra could feel a chill settling into her bones.

Mick's voice was cold and steady as he kept his weapon trained on Blackwood. "Start talking, Blackwood."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Cassandra stood by the severely shot-up police cruiser that had essentially saved her life, watching the flickering blue and red light of approaching cop cars through the trees that bordered half of the Castle Storage lot. Her mind was racing, trying to process everything Blackwood had just told them…particularly about how he had known about the illegal dumping taking place within his own company. It occurred to her that this was the second time in just a few hours that they'd needed to call for backup. The thought made her uncomfortable—it highlighted just how dangerous and chaotic this case had become.

For the first time since Commander Richards had mentioned assembling a team to assist them, Cassandra found herself actually hoping they would arrive soon. The case had spiraled far beyond what any of them had initially imagined. What had started as a murder investigation had expanded into an intricate web of corporate espionage, illegal dumping, and far too many gunshots.

Her thoughts were cut short as Blackwood began explaining himself in more detail, his words tumbling out as if he'd been holding them back for far too long. His face was ashen, and she noticed his hands trembling slightly as he spoke, finally obeying Mick’s order for details.

"I've known for about five or six months," he said, his voice strained. "Dr. Victor Roth, our lead researcher... he's been secretly dumping toxic byproducts from his failed experiments. I should have reported it immediately, but…” He only shook his head, as if that was answer enough. She let it slide…for now. She didn’t want to allow him to get derailed. She wanted to get to the meat of the matter as quickly as possible.

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "What kind of experiments in the field of waste management for ocean conservation could be so secretive that the waste has to be dumped?"

Blackwood's face tightened, and he glanced nervously at the approaching police vehicles before continuing. "That's just it—he's not dumping evidence of the projects. He's dumping the projects themselves. And some of them..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Some of them aren't related to ocean conservation at all. We're talking about highly classified research that should never have been conducted here in the first place. And it’s not just in the ocean. He’s shredding documents, destroying computers…all to hide what he’s up to.”

"What do you mean?" Mick pressed, stepping closer.

"These projects…a great deal of them are being funded by other groups. Roth has been working on ways to better predict the migration patterns of fish schools. He's helping large illegal fishing operations avoid sanctions." Blackwood's shoulders slumped. "He's essentially turned our research capabilities into a tool for criminals. But it goes deeper than that. He's been developing new tracking systems, ways to manipulate ocean currents on a small scale. This would allow some companies to illegally dump waste and have the ocean disperse it in a way that would not be immediately traceable—things that were never part of OceanPure's mission."

Cassandra stepped closer, her voice sharp. "If you knew all of this, why didn't you turn him in? You're telling us about sophisticated research operations that clearly violate multiple federal laws."

The question seemed to break something in Blackwood. His carefully maintained composure crumbled, replaced by genuine remorse and guilt. "The illegal dumping... it saves us as much as thirty thousand dollars per research trip. With a dozen or so trips a year, that adds up to serious money." He ran a hand through his hair. "So yes, I knew about it and did nothing. But this new business Roth has gotten into—it's far worse. He's become a freelance associate, selling information about ocean patterns, weather systems, and regional behaviors to foreign companies for enormous profits."

"So why not fire him?" Mick asked, his tone incredulous. "You're the CEO. You have that power. Cut the cancer out.”

"I tried," Blackwood replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But Roth has powerful enemies, and even more powerful friends. He's sitting on a gold mine here at OceanPure—access to information most people couldn't dream of. And he's hired ex-military operatives as a form of security to protect his operation. These aren't just random thugs with guns. These are highly trained professionals who know how to handle themselves in any situation."

Blackwood continued, his words coming faster now. "Roth has connections to fishing operations and shipping companies in at least six different countries. He's been selling them classified data about ocean patterns, helping them avoid detection while they systematically destroy protected marine areas. The money involved..." He shook his head in disbelief. "It's staggering."

"How much are we talking about?" Cassandra asked, mentally noting every detail.

"From what we can tell, nearly three and a half million dollars in the past eighteen months alone. And that's just what we've been able to track. There could be more—probably is more—hidden in offshore accounts."

Cassandra's eyebrows shot up. "And how exactly do you know all this? That's quite a bit of detailed information about someone's illegal activities."

The wailing of police sirens was closer now, the blues and reds sharper and more defined. She could just make out the glow of headlights approaching, revealing the road in front of Castle Storage.

"I have access to all employee emails at OceanPure," Blackwood explained, straightening his tie nervously. "Plus, when it was clear that Roth was becoming dangerous and reckless, I hired a hacker to dig deeper. We found payments to a fake security firm—those are the hired guns who you’ve come across...including this latest little romp.”

“I had to kill a man,” Mick nearly roared. “It’s a hell of a lot more than a little romp, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Yes, I know…I’m just I’m not thinking clearly…shaken up. I…look, this security firm does not exist on paper, but the money trail is there if you know where to look. Roth has been careful, but not careful enough."

He paused, glancing around before lowering his voice. "The hacker also found evidence of regular communications with known members of illegal fishing operations in Southeast Asia and South America. We're talking about organizations that have been linked to human trafficking and worse. Roth isn't just selling them data—he's helping them optimize their entire operation."

By now, the first backup unit had arrived, its lights painting the building's facade in alternating red and blue. Blackwood watched the approaching vehicle, his face drawn. "What sort of trouble am I in here?"

Mick sneered, as if he would have no problem at all with punching Joseph Blackwood in the face "The police will need to take you in. You knew about Roth's illegal dumping, which makes OceanPure complicit in severe environmental crimes. Not to mention the potential charges for failing to report his other activities."

Cassandra stepped forward, fixing Blackwood with an intense stare. "One last question: do you think Victor Roth is capable of murder?"

Blackwood's face paled even further. "I don't know for certain, but... when I heard about Lydia's death, Roth and his hired muscle were the first people I thought of. She had been asking questions, you see. About our waste management procedures, about certain research vessels operating outside their designated areas. She was getting close to something—too close, apparently."

The patrol car pulled up beside them, and three figures emerged—two uniformed officers and a man in civilian clothes, wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. He approached them with purposeful strides, his bearing unmistakably military despite his casual attire. He simply had that look about him.

"Officers Fierce and Donovan?" he called out, his voice carrying the authority of someone used to being in command.

They introduced themselves, Mick showing his ID, and the man nodded. "I’m Chief Petty Officer Ragland. Commander Richards and Captain Mercer sent me and my team. We just arrived an hour or so ago and have a small base of operations in the Castle Bluff precinct. I've got three more men waiting at Castle Bluff station, ready to hit the water. Want to brief us?"

Cassandra felt a surge of relief mixed with tension. Finally, they had real backup—professionals who understood the gravity of what they were dealing with. But the arrival of Ragland and his team also drove home just how serious the situation had become. She also realized, though, that it was an answered wish from no more than five minutes ago.

"We've got coordinates for what we believe might be another dump site," she explained. "Possibly larger than the one we visited earlier. But we're dealing with more than just illegal dumping now. The supposed brainchild behind all of this, Victor Roth of OceanPure, has hired ex-military contractors for protection…and they're not afraid to use force. They've already demonstrated their willingness to engage in firefights with federal agents."

Ragland's expression hardened. "How many contractors are we talking about? Any idea of their capabilities or standard operating procedures?"

"Unknown," Mick replied. "But based on what Blackwood's told us, these aren't amateurs. We're dealing with experienced operators who know what they're doing. Mr. Blackwood…in the information you have, do you have any indication how many men we’re dealing with?”

He shook his head and said, “No. I’m sorry.”

“We know that we’ve taken two out,” Cassandra said. “I at least injured one earlier today and another is over there,” she said, gesturing to the man Mick had shot.

The two uniformed officers began leading Blackwood toward their cruiser. He went without resistance, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Cassandra watched him go, wondering how many other secrets he might still be holding onto, how many other pieces of this puzzle remained hidden.

"We'll need to move fast," Ragland said, pulling out his phone. "If Roth realizes Blackwood has talked, he might try to destroy evidence or worse. He's got too much at stake to go down quietly."

Cassandra nodded, her mind already racing ahead to their next move. The coordinates from Lydia's second email burned in her mind like a beacon. Whatever they would find out there, she had a feeling it would be far more significant than their previous discovery.

“Let’s regroup back at the precinct,” she said. “How soon can your team move out?”

“As soon as you give the word.”

Cassandra sighed and looked to Mick. “Looks like we’re going to need to borrow another patrol car.”

He eyed the one that had just been shot up and nodded. With a tired smile that had absolutely no humor in it, he said. “Fine. But you drive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The Castle Bluff Police Department buzzed with barely contained energy, even at this late hour. Cassandra and Mick had been led to a conference room where the rest of Ragland’s team had been waiting, Currently, as everyone did their best to get situated within the small space, Cassandra glanced through the open door and saw several officers hurrying past, their voices a constant murmur of activity. The wall clock read 10:52 PM, but exhaustion seemed a foreign concept to everyone involved.

Chief Petty Officer Ragland stood at the head of the conference table, his weathered face grave as he surveyed his assembled team. Beside him, Cassandra and Mick exchanged glances, both acutely aware of the weight of the moment. The three new team members sat across from them, their expressions a mix of anticipation and professional detachment.

First, there was Sarah Reeves, the sole woman of Ragland’s team. She sat with perfect posture, her muscular arms crossed over her chest. Her short-cropped black hair and stern expression gave her an intimidating presence that seemed at odds with the gentle way she'd introduced herself earlier. To her left sat Marcus Chen, a wiry Asian man in his early forties whose fingers hadn't stopped moving since they'd sat down, either drumming on the table or fiddling with his pen. His reputation as a tactical genius preceded him, though his nervous energy made Cassandra wonder how he maintained his legendary focus in the field.

Tom Bradford rounded out the trio, his salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes making him look more like a high school history teacher than a special operation veteran. But Cassandra knew better than to judge by appearances. She'd heard stories about Bradford's exploits in the field, and the small scar that ran along his jaw hinted at experiences that belied his gentle demeanor. In a way, it relieved her to know of at least two of these team members. It helped to stave off some of the awkwardness of working in a high-intensity operation together.

"Alright, people," Ragland began, his voice cutting through the background noise. "I've already briefed you on the situation at the shootout site, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. We have an unknown number of assailants out there and Officer Fierce has encountered three different shoot-outs today. All of that to say…Officers Fierce and Donovan - walk us through this case from the beginning."

Cassandra stepped forward, surveying the anxious eyes at the table. "It started with the discovery of Dr. Lydia Thornton's body, tied to a navigation buoy three miles off the coast,” she began. “But that was just the beginning of a trail that led us into something much bigger."

"What kind of 'bigger' are we talking about?" Sarah Reeves asked, her voice surprisingly soft for someone who looked like she could bench press a car.

"Environmental crimes, corporate cover-ups, foreign banking transactions…and at least two deaths that we can directly link to this case," Cassandra replied. "Starting with Dr. Lydia Thornton."

Marcus Chen's fingers finally stopped moving. "Two deaths?”

“Yes. While it’s not a certainty that the killer—or killers—intended to kill Jake Reynolds, the fact remains that they did.”

"Tell us about OceanPure and how they tie into all of this" Bradford prompted, leaning back in his chair. "Their name keeps coming up in the briefing documents."

Cassandra and Mick took turns explaining their investigation of the company, from their first meeting with Joseph Blackwood to the discovery of their lost government contracts and questionable environmental practices. The explained it all, from how Lydia Thornton seemed to have never worked for OceanPure in any capacity but had connections through them somehow, to how Jake Reynolds, an employee of the company, had run to a cabin in the woods to get away from whoever had killed Lydia.

"But here's where it gets interesting," Cassandra continued. She and Mick were doing their best to get the story across quickly so they could get to work, but she did not want to leave out any pressing details. "Just before she died, Dr. Thornton sent out several encrypted messages with coordinates. The first set led us to a patch of heavily contaminated water."

"Contaminated how?" Sarah asked, leaning forward.

"High levels of industrial chemicals, far beyond anything that should be present in open water," Mick explained. "And the contamination was oddly contained, like it had been deliberately placed there."

Marcus frowned. "Couldn't that just be from regular shipping traffic?"

"That's what we thought at first," Cassandra replied. "But the location was well away from normal shipping lanes. And then we found the second set of coordinates."

"Which led to what?" Bradford asked.

"Another contaminated site, but this time with evidence. Dr. Thornton was conducting her own investigation, gathering evidence against whoever was doing the dumping. She had an underwater camera mounted at the location and there is footage—actual evidence—of at least one large ship engaging in illegal dumping."

Sarah's eyes narrowed. "And now we have a third set of coordinates to check out? Is that right?"

"It is,” Mick said. “Eleven miles off the coast, to the north. Based on the pattern so far, we believe it could lead us to something significant."

"Or it could be a trap," Marcus pointed out, his fingers resuming their nervous dance. "You've already been shot at three times, Officer Fierce. Someone clearly doesn't want you finding whatever's out there."

Cassandra nodded. "That's exactly why Commander Richards assembled this team. We need the backup, and we need people with experience in maritime operations."

"Tell us more about these shootouts," Bradford requested. "Knowing the tactics they've used could help us prepare."

Cassandra detailed each encounter, from the first attack at sea with Detective Hawkins to the ambush that had claimed Jack Reynolds' life, and finally the chaotic scene from the storage units. As she spoke, she could see the team members processing the information, their expressions growing more focused.

"They're well-trained," Sarah observed. "Professional hits, not just random thugs."

"Exactly," Mick agreed. "And they seem to always be one step ahead of us, like they know our moves before we make them."

"Which suggests either surveillance or an inside source," Marcus added, his nervous energy now channeled into tactical analysis.

Ragland cleared his throat. "Which is why this operation needs to be handled with absolute secrecy. We move tonight, using a route that will throw off any potential tails."

"What's our timeline?" Bradford asked.

"We leave in thirty minutes," Ragland replied. "One boat, all together. We’ll make sure the boat is outfitter with a secondary escape boat. Fierce and Donovan will lead, since they know the case inside and out. But make no mistake - this isn't just about finding evidence anymore. Whoever we're up against has shown they're willing to kill to protect their secrets."

The room fell silent as the gravity of the situation settled over them. Through the open door, Cassandra could still hear the bustle of the precinct, but it seemed distant now, separated from their own tense bubble of anticipation.

"Any other questions?" Ragland asked, looking around the table.

Sarah straightened in her chair. "What exactly are we hoping to find out there?"

"We're not sure," Cassandra admitted. "But everything Dr. Thornton left behind has led us closer to the truth. She was trying to tell us something, piece by piece. And whatever's at those coordinates, it was important enough for her to risk sending that final message. We know there’s illegal dumping involved but everything else we’ve found indicates so much more. If we bust the people behind this—one of which we believe is an OceanPure employee by the name of Victor Roth—we may very well also get leads on small illegal fishing outfits, human trafficking plans, and more. "

Ragland nodded, his expression grim. "Gear up, people. We head out in twenty-five minutes. And remember - we're not just looking for evidence anymore. We're looking to put a stop to whoever these killers are."

As the team began to rise from their chairs, Cassandra felt a familiar mix of anticipation and dread settling in her stomach. Eleven miles out to sea, in the dead of night, chasing coordinates left by a dead woman. It sounded crazy when she thought about it that way. But then again, crazy seemed to be the new normal in this case.

She just hoped this midnight excursion would bring them the answers they needed before anyone else lost their life.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The marina sat just ahead of them, a collection of shadows and dim lights against the darkening sky. As they pulled into the lot, Cassandra's eyes were immediately drawn to the massive silhouette waiting at the dock. It was another boat—one that had not been here before. And one that made her feel infinitely more at ease.

The Coast Guard cutter's impressive bulk dwarfed the surrounding vessels, its white hull gleaming under the dock lights, a stark contrast to the smaller vessels they'd been using in their investigation so far. It sat imposingly at the pier, its dark hull gleaming under the marina's floodlights. At nearly ninety feet in length, it dwarfed the other vessels they'd used during the investigation, Captain Mercer had clearly pulled some significant strings to get this kind of firepower dispatched from Portland on such short notice.

And while Cassandra was glad to have it, it did represent something unsaid but understood: that this mission was moving into significantly more dangerous territory.

"Well, this is a step up," Mick muttered beside her as they approached the vessel.

Ragland's team of four were already heading down the pier toward the boat. Cassandra and Mick followed, all six of them walking in a tight, single-file line. As they all began to board, Cassandra found herself fascinated by the interactions among Ragland’s team. She watched as they moved about the deck with practiced ease, each member falling naturally into their designated roles. Bradford, the weapons specialist, carried himself with the coiled intensity of a predator, his movements precise and economical. His eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, even here in the relative safety of the marina.

Chen, by contrast, exhibited a more methodical approach to everything he did. He moved through her pre-launch checklist with unwavering focus, her attention to detail evident in every action. Martinez and Thompson seemed to operate as a single unit, anticipating each other's movements with an almost telepathic awareness. Their subtle nods and brief hand signals spoke of countless missions together, their communication refined to the bare minimum needed.

Meanwhile, Sarah Reeves ran what appeared to be a security check, making sure the vessel had not been compromised in any way. When she was done with his, she looked back toward the parking lot, her eyes always alert and scanning.

Cassandra noted how the team members checked and double-checked each other's gear without being asked. They moved in a practiced dance, ensuring weapons were secure, communication devices were functioning, and protective gear was properly fastened. It was the kind of seamless cooperation that only came from extensive field experience and absolute trust in one's teammates.

"She's all ready to go," Ragland announced, emerging from the cabin. He headed straight for the helm, and neither Cassandra nor Mick made any move to challenge his authority.

"Nice to share the load for once," Mick whispered to Cassandra with a slight grin. "Let someone else drive for a change."

The engine rumbled to life, its deep vibration traveling through the deck plates. As they pulled away from the pier, Cassandra felt an unusual sense of security. The cutter's substantial size and power made their previous excursions seem almost reckless in comparison. And having a top-notch team hand selected by Mercer and Richards only added on to the pile.

The night ocean stretched before them, a vast expanse of darkness that seemed to swallow everything in its path. The horizon had disappeared entirely, creating the unsettling illusion that they were sailing into an infinite void. Occasional starlight caught the peaks of waves, creating brief flashes of silver that disappeared as quickly as they formed. The moon, barely a sliver in the sky, offered little illumination, making the darkness feel almost alive—a living, breathing entity that surrounded them on all sides. Yet oddly enough, there was something almost inviting and peaceful about it all.

The steady thrum of the engines provided a constant backdrop to the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull. The sound of water parting before their bow created a hypnotic symphony, punctuated by the occasional creak of metal and the whisper of wind through the rigging. The air grew colder as they moved further from shore, carrying the sharp bite of salt and the mysterious scents of the deep ocean.

Across the deck, Ragland's team members continued their quiet conversations, their words carried away by the wind before reaching Cassandra's ears. She watched as Bradford emerged from the cabin, a rifle slung across his back, his Glock visible at his hip. Chen and Reeves were similarly armed, their weapons a reminder of the potential danger ahead. Currently, they were huddled over what appeared to be a tablet, likely reviewing mission parameters.

The gentle rocking of the boat and the endless expanse of darkness inevitably drew Cassandra's thoughts to her father. They came easily and without much effort, as if carried on the very water itself. The night ocean had been his element, the place where he'd felt most alive. How many times had he navigated waters under similar conditions? How many nights had he spent surrounded by this encompassing darkness, finding his way by instruments and instinct?

Would he be proud of her now, she wondered, or terrified for her safety? Would he understand her need to face these waters, to confront the fears that had haunted her since his disappearance…even as a young girl? She could almost hear his voice, the way it would soften when he spoke of the sea's mysteries, the respect and wonder it demanded. He'd always said the ocean was most honest after dark, when all pretenses fell away and its true nature emerged.

The memory of his last voyage surfaced unbidden—the storm that had claimed him, the endless days and weeks of searching that followed. She remembered standing on the shore, scanning the horizon until her eyes burned, refusing to believe he wouldn't return. Her mother had been there, too…but it had wrecked her in a completely different way. Now, as an adult, Cassandra understood that her mother had broken in some way. She’d been a different woman and had never recovered for the remainder of her life, passing on from breast cancer when Cassandra was twenty-three.

She supposed something had broken in her, too. And maybe choosing a life that repeatedly drew her back to these waters was her own way of fixing it.

"We're closing in…"

Mick's voice cut through her reverie. She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if coming out of a trance. She looked back out to the dark ocean, to the white caps of the waves, and centered herself again. She pushed the past away, focusing on the danger of the here and now.

She checked her watch: 12:27. She felt Ragland reduce speed as they approached the coordinates. The change in the engine's pitch seemed to alert everyone on board—the quiet conversations ceased, replaced by a tense anticipation.

"Holy shit. Jackpot."

This came from Sarah Reeves as she slowly moved to the bow, her voice carrying back to them on the wind.

Cassandra joined her, and her breath caught at the murky sight waiting roughly one hundred yards ahead. Through the darkness, approximately one hundred yards ahead, loomed the massive silhouette of what appeared to be a cargo vessel. As they drew closer, more details emerged from the darkness. The ship's hull rose like a steel cliff from the water, its deck lights casting an eerie glow over the scene. The vessel had to be at least eight hundred feet long, its enormous bulk creating its own ecosystem of shadows and reflections on the water's surface.

But it was what was happening at the vessel's stern that truly grabbed Cassandra’s attention. In the ship's wake, a sickly phosphorescent glow spread through the water—a telltale sign of chemical reaction. Dark streams of liquid poured from multiple points along the hull, creating oily rainbows that spread across the surface like cancer. Because it was dark, it all looked rather spooky, the oily sheen and the ocean water’s reaction to it. The toxic waste caught the ship's lights as it cascaded into the ocean, creating a grotesque display of colors that had no place in nature.

The stench barely reached them over the distance, but it was more than enough for Cassandra and the rest of the crew to pick it up—a noxious cocktail of chemicals that, has they been closer, would have potentially burned their nostrils and made their eyes water. She could see the waste breaking apart in the water, creating patches of foam that glowed with an unhealthy luminescence. The dumping occurred through what appeared to be modified drainage ports—professional-looking modifications that suggested this was no improvised operation but rather a well-planned and regularly executed procedure.

"This is what you call red handed," Mick growled, his hand moving to his weapon.

“Everybody, hold,” Ragland called from the helm. “We’re making an approach.”

Ragland gunned the engine, the cutter surging forward to intercept. As they quickly closed the distance, Cassandra started to see movement along the cargo ship's deck. Several people began moving to and fro, some rushing to other parts of the boat while others seemed to pace nervously as they peered out to their unwelcome visitors. Shadows darted back and forth, and Cassandra could hear shouting carried across the water.

"Weapons ready!" Bradford called out, his voice steady and authoritative.

Cassandra drew her Glock, feeling the familiar weight in her hand. Around her, Ragland's team moved with practiced efficiency, taking up tactical positions around the cutter's deck. The night air crackled with tension as they closed the distance.

The first shot came without warning—a sharp crack that split the darkness. A bullet pinged off the cutter's hull, the sound metallic and jarring. More shots followed, creating a deadly rhythm that echoed across the water.

Cassandra dropped to her knee and took cover along the side of the cutter. Mick id the same on the other side while Bradford, Reeves, and Chen filled in the space between them.

"Return fire!" Bradford shouted, his rifle already at his shoulder.

The night erupted into chaos. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like lightning, the sound of gunfire drowning out the engine's roar. Cassandra could see multiple shooters on the cargo ship's deck, their positions revealed by their weapons' fire.

As bullets whizzed past her head, Cassandra thought again of her father. But this time, instead of uncertainty about what he'd think, she felt a surge of certainty. He would understand. He would be proud. Because like him, she had chosen to face the ocean's dangers head-on, to protect it from those who would destroy it for profit.

The night seemed to be ripped apart by an increasing number of muzzle flashes. The cargo ship loomed larger with each passing second, its massive hull blocking out the stars as they drew closer to the unwinding violence.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Another shot rang out across the water, the sharp crack echoing from the container ship's massive hull. Cassandra ducked instinctively as a bullet pinged off the cutter's railing, sending sparks into the darkening evening air.

"Everyone down!" Mick shouted, already drawing his weapon. He fired back with his Glock, his shots precise but largely ineffective against the crew taking cover behind shipping containers stacked high above them.

The massive vessel loomed over their cutter like a floating fortress, its crew raining bullets down from their elevated position. Cassandra pressed her back against the wheelhouse, checking her ammunition. Beside her, Bradford returned fire while Chen and Reeves stayed low, taking what cover they could find behind equipment mounted to the deck.

"Hold on!" Ragland's voice boomed from the helm. The cutter lurched as he executed a sharp turn, trying to position them for better coverage. The sudden movement sent spray across the deck, making the footing treacherous.

Another volley of gunfire erupted from above as the close in. Cassandra estimated that they had closed the original one hundred yards or so down to seventy-five. Bullets peppered the deck around them, pinging off metal and thudding into the cutter's hull. Cassandra popped up from behind cover, squeezing off three rapid shots at a gunman who'd exposed himself near the ship's railing. He disappeared from view, though she couldn't tell if she'd hit him or he'd simply taken cover.

"We need to get closer!" Mick shouted over the chaos. "We're too exposed out here!"

Ragland's voice yelled out from the helm: "Working on it! These bastards aren't making it easy!"

The cutter surged forward, cutting through the waves as Ragland maneuvered them closer to the container ship's massive hull. The angle of fire from above became more difficult for the shooters, but they compensated by moving to different positions along the deck. It was, in many ways, like a game of chess. Out on the open water, the idea of sustainable cover was a mockery…but they could crate harsh angles to make it harder for those on the enemy ship to get any kind of good aim.

"Watch the starboard side!" Bradford called out, his warning punctuated by the sharp report of his rifle. A bullet struck uncomfortably close to where Cassandra crouched, spraying her with splinters from the deck.

Jesus, how many more close calls am I going to have before this nightmare is over, she wondered. But the thought rode across her mind on a flood of adrenaline and all she could think of was firing back, of ending this fight in any way she could.

She rolled to a new position, coming up on one knee to return fire. The glare of occasional lights from the deck of the ship in contrast with the night made target acquisition increasingly difficult, but the muzzle flashes above gave away their attackers' positions. She squeezed off several more rounds, satisfaction coursing through her as one of the shooters stumbled back with a cry.

Ragland appeared briefly from the helm, firing his service weapon with one hand while keeping the other on the wheel. "Trying to get us around their bow!" he shouted. "If we can cut them off—"

His words were cut short by a fresh barrage of gunfire. Everyone hugged whatever cover they could find as bullets sparked and ricocheted around them. The cutter's hull absorbed several hits, the impacts resonating through the deck beneath them.

Cassandra watched as Reeves scrambled toward the hull as well. Seconds later, she heard the woman calling the scene in, requesting backup and giving coordinates. But Cassandra only heard fragments of the call before more gunfire tore through the night. She heard Bradford curse to her right but he did not appear to be hit—just flustered.

The battle continued, intense and chaotic. Cassandra's world narrowed to the rhythm of combat: acquire target, squeeze trigger, duck, move, repeat. The familiar dance of violence, made more treacherous by the pitching deck beneath her feet and the increasingly poor visibility.

Suddenly, Chen's voice cut through the chaos: "Movement off the port side! Small boat breaking away!"

Cassandra snapped her head around, spotting the sleek vessel as it emerged from behind the container ship. It was moving fast, already putting distance between itself and the firefight. Arcs of white created up from the water as it zipped away.

“Shit!” Ragland bellowed from the helm. “Who wants it?”

"I got it!" Cassandra said, hardly even thinking about it.

Logic told her that if someone was escaping from that boat under the cover of gunfire, they must be important. She was already moving toward the weather deck, where the motorized lifeboat was stored on most of these styles of cutters. She knew the specs by heart—35 knots top speed, not quite matching their quarry but close enough to give chase.

"Fierce, wait!" Mick's concern was palpable as she sprinted toward the lifeboat station. "You'll be completely exposed!"

“Then cover me! We can't let them get away!" she shouted back, already working the release mechanism at the side. The sound of gunfire intensified as she positioned herself at the launch controls, ducking down as well as she could so that she wasn’t exposed. Bullets sparked off the metal around her, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

The lifeboat deployment system was designed for quick launches, but it had never felt slower than in that moment. Cassandra's fingers flew over the controls, disengaging the safety locks while bullets continued to ping off the surrounding equipment. Elsewhere on the boat, she heard the rest of the team communicating, cursing, muttering frustration.

"Cover her!" Bradford's voice boomed across the deck. A concentrated burst of return fire from her teammates gave her the seconds she needed.

The lifeboat dropped smoothly into the water, its engine already primed. Cassandra waited for the perfect moment between waves, then vaulted over the railing. She heard more gunfire as she was, just for a moment, completely exposed and sailing through the air. She landed hard in the boat, immediately scrambling for the controls. The engine roared to life as another burst of gunfire kicked up—but it was all on the other side of the boat. For now, she was protected.

But she wouldn’t be for long. As soon as she slipped away from the cutter’s cover, she’d be entirely exposed.

“Be careful, Cassandra!” Mick yelled. “We’ll cover you!”

Cassandra gave him a quick wave, then opened up the throttle, turning in a U-turn and headed into the direction of the escaping boat. The lifeboat surged forward, cutting through the waves as she set off in pursuit of the fleeing vessel. She heard her cover fire right away, an absolute curtain of it that she could just barely hear over her boat’s engine. She remained low, nearly bent in half as she guided the boat away from the sounds of gunfire.

Behind her, the sound of gunfire began to fade, replaced by the howl of wind and the crash of waves against the hull.

The chase was on, and darkness was falling fast. The escaping boat was little more than a dark shape ahead; the wake it left behind was really the only way she could tell where it was. Cassandra pushed the lifeboat to its limits, feeling the hull slam against the waves as she tried to close the distance. The waters weren’t overly choppy, but they were a bit rough for her tiny vessel.

A muzzle flash erupted from the boat ahead. Cassandra ducked instinctively, unharmed. She’d also not heard the boat take a hit, so she assumed the assailant’s sot had gone wide, out into the dark ocean. She yanked the wheel hard to port, throwing off their aim while maintaining her pursuit. The maneuver cost her precious distance, but staying alive took priority.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the chase continued. The larger vessels—the cutter and the container ship—had long since become little more than murky shapes behind them. Cassandra was alone now, pursuing a desperate fugitive through increasingly treacherous waters.

There was only her, the ocean, and the sky…and the man ahead of her, of course. Her quarry was heading straight ahead like a rocket, keeping a lead of about thirty or forty yards on her. She couldn’t make out his shape, but she could now see the boat quite clearly.

Another shot rang out from ahead. This time Cassandra was ready, already changing course as she drew her weapon. She fired back, three careful shots—but none of them seemed to strike. It was indeed much harder to fire a weapon from a jostling boat on choppy waters at a moving target than some might think.

The isolation began to weigh on her as the minutes dragged on. Out here, there was no backup, no support—just her and a desperate criminal playing a deadly game of cat and mouse in the gathering darkness. Her boat was good, but theirs was faster. Every minute that passed made her chances of success a little slimmer.

A wave caught her off guard, sending the lifeboat airborne for a heart-stopping moment. She wrestled with the controls, fighting to maintain her heading as the boat crashed back into the water. The impact jarred her entire body, but she kept her grip on the wheel.

More gunfire erupted from ahead, closer this time. The bastard had actually slowed down and allowed her to get closer in an attempt to get better aim. They were trying to disable her boat, she realized. A bullet struck the engine housing with a metallic ping that made her heart skip. If they hit something vital, this chase would be over in seconds.

Cassandra squeezed off another shot, then was forced to grab the wheel with both hands as a particularly large wave threatened to swamp the boat. The pursuing vessel was still maintaining its lead, but she noticed their course was becoming more erratic. Either they were getting desperate, or they were as concerned about the treacherous waters as she was.

The darkness was broken only by the navigation lights of their two vessels and the distant twinkle of shoreline lights. Her heart jackhammered a bit. They were already closing in on the coast? Christ, it felt like she’d only been out here for a few minutes, dodging and weaving in pursuit. Roughly ten miles covered already. Cassandra's world had contracted to this: the roar of the engine, the crash of waves, the occasional crack of gunfire, and the constant, maddening distance between her and her target. Perhaps that was why time had seemed to fly by.

She clicked on the small radio along the bottom of the control panel, hoping she was still in range. "This is Agent Fierce. Still in pursuit heading east-southeast toward shore. Target vessel is approximately thirty yards ahead, maintaining speed. Approaching the coast.”

Static was her only answer. She was truly alone out here, committed to a chase that was becoming more dangerous by the minute. Another burst of gunfire split the night. Cassandra returned fire, then yanked the wheel hard to starboard as a wave threatened to broach her boat.

The fleeing boat suddenly cut hard to port, throwing up a wave of spray visible even in the darkness. Cassandra matched the maneuver, gritting her teeth as her boat slammed through the wake. They were trying to shake her, but years of experience had taught her how to read the water, how to anticipate their moves.

Hope surged through her chest, but before she could respond, multiple shots rang out from the boat ahead. She ducked instinctively, feeling the wind of a passing bullet. Another close call. When she looked up, her heart sank—they were using the distraction to increase their lead, their boat now pushing even harder toward the shore.

The chase had taken on a desperate edge now. Her quarry knew backup was coming, which made them even more dangerous. Another shot cracked through the night, this one striking the water dangerously close to her hull. Cassandra returned fire, her own muzzle flash briefly illuminating the spray around her boat.

She thought back to the firefight at the container ship, which now felt like it had happened days ago rather than an hour or so. The intensity of that battle—bullets raining down from above, the crack of gunfire echoing off metal surfaces, the controlled chaos of her team working in concert—had been replaced by something more primal.

The distance to shore was rapidly decreasing, and with it, the depth of the water. They were entering dangerous territory now, where hidden hazards could end the chase in an instant. This sort of water all along the northern coasts were notorious for hidden shoals and sudden depth changes. Cassandra was forced to reduce speed slightly, knowing that one wrong move could send her boat crashing into a submerged obstacle.

Another burst of gunfire erupted from ahead, more desperate now. A bullet struck her boat's bow, the impact sending splinters flying. Cassandra ducked and swerved, her heart pounding. The shooter was getting reckless, taking wilder shots instead of carefully aimed ones. That meant they were getting desperate—but desperate people were often the most dangerous. And besides that, he had been heading in one direction for nearly the entire chase. It made her think he knew where he was going—that he had a particular destination in mind.

Suddenly, this felt like one big trap. But it was too late to turn around now.

The sound of a helicopter thundered toward her ears, competing with the hum of the boat’s engine and the constant thrum of the ocean. She looked up and saw it barreling forward, over her head and further out to sea. Probably a response to the call Reeves put in, she thought. It sent a flare of hope through her as she wondered how much longer it might be before she also got an assist.

She looked back ahead to the boat she’d been chasing and saw that it had nearly reached land. Currently, it was veering toward one of the rocky inlets. Cassandra knew she had seconds to make a decision. Following them into that maze would be incredibly dangerous, but letting them escape wasn't an option.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her boat's throttle forward. The engine roared in response, the bow lifting as she gave chase into the treacherous waters ahead. She looked back to the helicopter and saw that it had now switched on it spotlight, the beam stabbing down at the water as it drew closer to the cutter and the container ship.

Time seemed to compress, each second stretching into an eternity as she navigated the narrow channel. The boat ahead was taking incredible risks, skimming past rocks with mere inches to spare. Cassandra matched their course as best she could, her knuckles white on the wheel.

The channel opened up ahead into a small bay, bordered by steep cliffs on three sides. The speedboat was heading straight for the narrowest part of the opening, where a hidden sandbar lay just beneath the surface. Even before it came to a full stop, the driver was leaping off into the sandbar, leaving the boat to skid along the sand, arcing slightly before coming to a stop.

He raised his gun to fire, but Cassandra already saw it coming. For a sickening moment, she released the controls and fired back. The man turned immediately and started running. Cassandra sped along the final stretch of water, the boat jumping lightly on the cresting waves until she, too, was able to stop her boat and get out. And when her feet hit the sand, she didn’t waste a single moment; she took off running after the man she’d already been chasing for nearly an hour.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The sandbar stretched out before Cassandra like an alien landscape, illuminated by threads of moonlight that pierced the clouded sky. It didn’t help that she wasn’t quite sure where she was geographically. To her left, the coastline curved gently, marked by a handful of distant lights that twinkled like fallen stars – signs of civilization that seemed impossibly far away. The soft yellow glow of what might have been streetlamps or porch lights offered little comfort, serving only to emphasize the darkness that surrounded her.

To her right, nature had sculpted a more forbidding scene. Craggy rock outcroppings rose from the beach like the bones of ancient creatures, their jagged silhouettes creating a maze of shadows and hidden recesses. These natural formations resembled unnatural hills, defying the usual gentle slopes of a coastal landscape. The rocks cast long, dark shadows across the pale sand, creating patches of absolute darkness where anything – or anyone – could hide.

The tide was going out, leaving a wet sheen on the packed sand near the water's edge. The air hung heavy with salt and danger.

She was alone here, caught between the indifferent sea and those menacing stone formations.  Well… not alone. Somewhere in those shadows, her quarry waited.

Ahead and toward the rocky outcroppings, she could see a thin, sandy trail that wound into the darker shadows of the rock formations. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she also took note of the footprints in the sand—fresh. She wasted no time, starting after the footprints leading toward the sandy trail. The distant lights to her left beckoned with their promise of civilization, but the tracks told her exactly where she needed to go. Her Glock felt impossibly heavy in her hands as she moved forward, every step a potential invitation for death.

The sound of waves crashing against the beach provided an ominous soundtrack as she advanced. Her training screamed at her to find cover, but the barren stretch of sand offered nothing but exposure. Any of the rocky outcroppings ahead could conceal a shooter. Any slight movement could trigger a muzzle flash that would end her life before she even heard the report.

A beam of moonlight cutting through the clouds did little to illuminate the shadows between the rocks. Each dark patch could hide an assailant. Each step could be her last. The weight of her vulnerability pressed down on her like a physical thing, threatening to overwhelm her usually steely nerves.

Focus, she commanded herself. Watch the rocks. Watch for movement. Watch for—

A pebble clattered down one of the outcroppings to her right. She spun, weapon raised, heart nearly exploding from her chest. Nothing. Just shadows and stone and the distant sound of the sea. But the fear had lodged itself deep in her gut now, an icy knot that seemed to spread with each passing second. Her finger trembled against the trigger guard, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation of the shot that could come at any moment.

Each footprint she followed felt like another step closer to her own grave. The darkness between the rocks seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, as if the very night itself was conspiring against her. She'd faced danger before, but this was different. This was like walking willingly into the jaws of death.

The sandy trail wound between the rocks like a pale serpent. As she reached its beginning, a set of low, subtle dunes loomed ahead, rising against the night sky like the backs of sleeping giants. She wasn't in Castle Bluff anymore – this terrain was different, wilder. One of the smaller coastal towns, maybe, but she couldn't be sure.

A soft scrambling sound from above made her blood run cold. She looked up, catching only a glimpse of bared teeth and rage-filled eyes before a dark figure launched itself from the rocks. She was struck and was falling to the ground before she was even fully aware of what was happening. The impact drove her into the sand, knocking precious air from her lungs. Pain exploded across her face as something hard – the edge of a gun – struck her temple.

As she stumbled to the ground in a heap, her own gun tumbled from her grip, skittering uselessly somewhere nearby in the sand.

Through the pain of the attack, a single, promising thought cascaded through her mind. He's out of ammo. Has to be, or he'd have shot me…

Rough hands seized her throat, fingers digging into her skin. She responded instantly, bucking against the grip, bringing her knee up hard into her attacker's ribs. His grip loosened just enough for her to slam her palm into his solar plexus. As he wheezed, she rolled, fighting for leverage in the loose sand. It was rare in her line of work to be engaged in hand-to-hand combat, though it did happen from time to time. Not many people knew it, but she was quite good at it. She’d spent a lot of time during her late teens and early twenties—both in and out of the academy gyms—sparring and taking boxing classes.

The attacker—Victor Roth, she was now assuming—recovered quickly, surprisingly agile for his size. A fist like a hammer caught her in the side, sending fresh pain blazing through her ribs as she attempted to scramble to her feet. She retaliated with a sharp elbow to his jaw, feeling teeth click together from the impact. They grappled in the sand, each seeking dominance, each landing punishing blows. He landed one that she managed to block with her shoulder, but the impact still sent a shiver of pain through her arm. She responded with a simple jab to the face that sent him back, reeling.

As she stumbled back, trying to stay on his feet, she responded with a knee to his kidney that drew a pained grunt. Sand flew everywhere as they struggled, getting into Cassandra’s eyes and making every movement a battle against the terrain itself.

Roth was strong, but Cassandra's training gave her an edge. She twisted away from a wild punch, using his momentum to throw him off balance. But he recovered faster than she expected, sweeping her legs out from under her as she pivoted in for an attempted punch. She hit the sand hard, tasting blood.

He pounced on her, trying to pin her down, but she managed to get her feet between them and kicked hard, sending him stumbling backward. They both scrambled to their feet and he came running at her right away, fist drawn back. She faked a jab and, instead, responded with a vicious headbutt that sent him reeling. Blood streamed from his nose as he staggered back, cursing. She pressed her advantage, landing a solid combination to his torso.

As he dropped to his knees, gasping, the moonlight broke through a small gathering of clouds and revealed something in the sand just two feet away from her: her Glock.

They both saw it at the same time. For a heartbeat, everything froze. Then they both lunged. Cassandra's fingers brushed the grip just as his weight slammed into her. They rolled, fighting for control of the weapon. A jettison of sand hit her in the face, causing even more to get into her eyes. Still, she managed to catch him with an upward palm strike to the chin, snapping his head back. The momentary advantage was all she needed. Breaking free, she snatched up the Glock and rolled to her feet, bringing the weapon to bear on her opponent.

"Don't move," she commanded, her voice raw. Adrenaline hammered through her entire body and for a moment, she world seemed to swim. "It's over."

He lay in the sand, blood streaming from his nose, chest heaving. Despite his prone position, his eyes burned with defiance.

"Are you Victor Roth?" she demanded.

Surprise flickered across his features, quickly replaced by rage. "How do you—"

"Answer the question."

He spat blood into the sand. "Yeah. I'm Roth. So what?"

"So what?" Cassandra's finger tightened on the trigger. "I highly suspect you murdered Lydia Thornton. And you've been helping destroy the very oceans you claimed to protect."

Roth's laugh was bitter, empty. "Destroy? You don't know anything about destruction. OceanPure, all of them – they're the real criminals. Every single one of them should burn for what they've done."

She noticed that he did not take the time to deny Lydia’s murder.

"Maybe," Cassandra conceded. "But they aren't selling specific location information to other companies and making money off it. They aren't the ones assisting illegal fishing trades."

His eyes widened. "How did you—"

"We know everything, Roth. Every dirty deal, every betrayal."

He pushed himself up to his elbows, ignoring the gun trained on his chest. "You think you understand? You think any of this matters?" His voice rose, taking on a manic edge. "The oceans are already dead! Everything we do, all these precious 'conservation efforts' – it's just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic!"

"Save it," Cassandra snapped, but Roth was building to a crescendo.

"Humans are parasites! We consume, we destroy, we poison everything we touch! Every single effort to 'save the environment' is just a pathetic attempt to ease our collective guilt. You want to know the truth? We're already past the point of no return. The oceans are dying, and nothing – NOTHING – we do can stop it! But no one wants to come out and say it because then where will all the funding come from? Certainly people won’t pour money into an ocean that’s already dead.”

He laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "I just had the good sense to profit from our inevitable extinction. Every company out there is doing the same thing – I just cut out the middleman. The fishing companies, the shipping companies, they're all just different faces of the same corruption. And Thornton?" He sneered. "She was going to expose everything. All my carefully crafted deals, my network of buyers. She actually thought she could make a difference. And then when she discovered what I was up to and how good I was becoming at it…well, she had to go.”

“Mr. Roth, I need you to lift your hands over your head. I’m going to come over there and cuff you. If you so much as make a move, I will shoot you.”

He seemed to tremble for a bit, indecisive. "So what comes next?" he asked, spitting another glob of blood into the sand…but he’d still not listed his hands as she’d instructed. "You arrest me, make me your scapegoat while the real criminals keep destroying everything? Is that justice?"

“You’re one of them now. Surely you understand that.”

Before Roth could reply, the distinctive thump of helicopter blades cut through the night air—distant but very familiar. They both looked up as a helicopter came buzzing overhead, low enough so that Cassandra could see the outline of the pilot. A powerful searchlight swept the beach, finding them instantly. The helicopter banked, circling back as it descended.

Roth's shoulders slumped. "Backup?"

"It's over," Cassandra confirmed, keeping her weapon trained on him as the helicopter touched down on the beach. Sand kicked up in a cloud. Raising her voice to be heard over the quieting engine of the helicopter, she added: "The only question is how many lives you ruined for profit."

The rotor whipped sand around them as two armed figures emerged from the aircraft. Roth didn't resist as they approached, his face a mask of resigned contempt. As they cuffed him, Cassandra finally lowered her weapon, exhaustion settling into her bones. One of the men came to her after Roth was cuffed, looking her over with a concerned sort of smile.

“Officer Fierce?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Good work. Your team out on the cutter is safe…just so you know. The first helicopter I’m sure you saw dropped six armed officers down on that ship. It’s all over.”

“Any fatalities?”

He shook his head. “Not on our side. Now…come on aboard. Let’s get you out of here.”

The ocean roared in the distance, eternal and indifferent to the human drama playing out on its shores. Cassandra followed the men down toward the ocean and the helicopter as they led Roth away, wondering if he was right about humanity's destructive nature. But then she remembered Lydia Thornton's dedication, her sacrifice to protect these waters. Maybe there was hope after all.

The helicopter's searchlight painted everything in harsh white relief as Cassandra stepped aboard. And even when they were airborne her eyes turned right and, as always, sought out the ocean.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The sun hadn't quite risen over the town of Castle Bluff when Cassandra found herself back in the precinct's main conference room. Coffee cups and half-eaten donuts littered the large table, the remnants and proof of the long hours they'd already put in—both during the mission and after Roth had been arrested and his mercenaries either killer or captured.

Cassandra studied the faces around her—Mick, looking tired but satisfied; Ragland's team, still alert despite the hour. A slight smell of sweat permeated the room. There was another smell as well, one Cassandra doubted most people would pick up on…the smell of spent adrenaline and excitement.

A sleek conference speaker sat in the center of the table like a black monolith, attached to a landline phone. For the past ten minutes, Commander Richards' voice had been speaking clearly through the device.

"And just so I'm clear, no one on our team was injured in the firefight?" Richards asked through the speaker. He’d already been briefed on the core details and was now seeking the finer details.

"I took a few punches from Roth," Cassandra said, absently touching her jaw where a bruise was forming, "but that seems to be it."

“And the other side?”

Ragland answered, his tone level and professional. “Two casualties, three injuries, and three arrests—including Roth.”

Cassandra’s mind drifted to Hawkins. One of the Castle Bluff deputies had informed her upon their arrival, after arresting Victor Roth, that Hawkins had already been released from the hospital with just eighteen stitches. Given how violent the confrontation had been, she understood just how lucky they all were to escape with that being their only injury. The memory of Roth's rage, his desperate fighting as she’d battled him, was still fresh in her mind. But she also understood that even beyond that anger, there was some other, evil thing lurking. He’d hired a team of mercenaries to help him, showing his disregard for human life and his focus on his own greedy self-interests.

"Do you need any additional resources on the scene?" Richards asked, his voice crackling slightly through the speaker.

Ragland cleared his throat, shuffling through a thick stack of papers in front of him. "I don't believe so—not immediately anyway. We've got a Coast Guard unit out of Portland currently aboard the container ship. And sir, what we've found so far is staggering." He pulled out several documents, spreading them across the table. "We've uncovered detailed logs dating back eighteen months, showing systematic illegal dumping operations. The scope is unprecedented."

He paused, selecting another document. "Their financial records show connections to at least six other shipping companies, all carefully documented in a parallel bookkeeping system. They maintained two complete sets of books—one for legitimate operations and another tracking their illegal disposal services. The level of organization is remarkable."

"The modified storage tanks we discovered," Ragland continued, his voice growing more intense, "were specifically designed to release waste gradually during normal shipping routes. They had sophisticated GPS tracking systems integrated with oceanographic data to identify optimal dumping locations based on current patterns. And, of course, Roth was helping them find those locations.” He sighed angrily (something Cassandra wasn’t aware one could do) and added: “Someone put serious thought into this."

He flipped to another page, his expression grim. "The manifests we've recovered show they were charging premium rates to dispose of some of the most toxic industrial waste I've ever seen documented. We're talking about chemicals that should never come near ocean water—heavy metals, industrial solvents, a few radioactive materials. Conservative estimates suggest they've dumped over fifty thousand gallons in the past year alone."

"And there's more," Bradford added, pulling out another folder. "We found encrypted communications with facilities across three continents. This wasn't just a local operation—they'd created an entire underground network for illegal waste disposal. The potential environmental impact..." He shook his head, words failing him. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing we caught this when we did.”

“Okay, now what about logistics for wrapping this all up?” Richards asked.

"I'm going to need to sign Roth out of local custody and bring him to DC," Cassandra interjected, tapping her own notebook filled with hastily scrawled names and numbers. "When I even suggested to Roth that he might get some leniency from a federal judge if he provided other names and contacts he'd been dealing with, he sang like a bird. I've got so many names and numbers that it's making my head spin. He gave up everyone—shipping executives, facility managers, even some government officials who looked the other way."

Mick leaned forward, his coffee cup in hand. "Sir, we've also discovered links to other research facilities involved in illegal waste disposal. Just from a cursory glance through the container ship's records, we've identified at least three major laboratories that were paying them to dispose of hazardous materials off the books. The paper trail is extensive—emails, invoices, shipping manifests, all carefully coded but clear once you know what to look for."

"Outstanding work, all of you," Richards said, genuine pride in his voice. "Keep me updated on any further developments."

After the call ended, the room erupted in handshakes and congratulations. The tension that had held them all taut for the past several hours finally began to ease, replaced by the warm glow of success and camaraderie.

Ragland approached Cassandra, his usually stern face softened with admiration. "I've seen a lot of agents and officers in my time, Fierce," he said, clasping her hand warmly, "but the way you take down Roth? That was something else. You've got more guts than most people I've worked with put together."

"Thanks, Ragland," Cassandra replied with a smile. "Though I have to say, your team's response time was impeccable. A few minutes later and things might have gone very differently."

"Oh please," Sarah Reeves chimed in with a grin. "You’re a bad ass, Fierce. You and Mick both. It was an honor to work with both of you.”

As they said their goodbyes, Ragland pulled Cassandra aside one last time. "Seriously, Fierce," he said quietly, "what you did out there...taking that lifeboat out in the dark after a killer on your own…not everyone would have had the courage. You ever need anything, you call me. My team's got your back."

After a few more handshakes and pats on the back, Cassandra made her way out into the precinct. She was exhausted and wanted to find a hotel or somewhere to crash, but her eyes were drawn to the hallway where the interrogation rooms were located. Mick approached, reading her expression as he always did.

"What's on your mind?" he asked. His voice was haggard and tired. She could see the need for sleep in his eyes as well.

"I need to speak with Blackwood."

“What for? He’s been wrapped. They’ll probably release him in a few hours.”

“I don’t know. Closure, maybe? Just to be certain.”

"Let's go, then."

They walked along the hallway, passing the interrogation rooms and heading to the holding cells in the building's annex. Blackwood had been moved to a cell after Roth was brought in. They found him sitting on a metal bench, his usually immaculate appearance in disarray. His expensive suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, his eyes haunted with the weight of his company's crimes.

"Mr. Blackwood," Cassandra said, looking at him through the bars. “How are you?”

“All things considered?” he said with nervous laugh. “I suppose I’m okay.”

“Has anyone spoken to you about the charges?”

He nodded and said, “I don’t think so. But even if someone did, it may have glazed right over me. I’m beyond tired and the past day or so has been a frigging whirlwind.”

“Nothing is official or on the record yet, but it looks like you'll be cleared of direct involvement in the dumping operations. Unless something damning pops up in emails, you’re in the clear.”

Blackwood's shoulders sagged with relief, but the devastation remained etched in his features. "Thank you," he said softly. "But that doesn't absolve me of my failure to see what was happening under my own roof. I mean, I knew it was happening but the money blinded me. And I swear to you…I had no idea just how bad it had gotten." He ran a trembling hand through his unkempt hair. "I was so focused on the big picture, on our public image, that I missed the corruption growing right in front of me. All those environmental initiatives we championed, the speeches I gave about ocean conservation... it was all happening while people close to me were poisoning the waters we claimed to protect."

"What will you do now?" Mick asked.

"I'm stepping down as CEO—temporarily, at least. It's the right thing to do." Blackwood's voice cracked with emotion. "And I'm pledging significant resources to fund cleanup efforts. We'll work with environmental agencies, fund research into damage assessment and restoration. OceanPure needs to live up to its name. We need to be part of the solution, not another corporate entity hiding behind empty environmental promises." He looked up at them, his eyes glistening. "I just hope it's not too late to make amends."

“Maybe it’s not,” Cassandra said. “And lucky for OceanPure, we have the direct coordinates to where you can start.” She gave him a smile that felt far too fake before turning away.

As they left the holding cells, Cassandra found herself reflecting on the broader implications of the case. Sometimes this job wasn't just about catching bad guys—it was about protecting the very essence of what made their world habitable.

She and Mick headed for the breakroom, where fresh coffee awaited them. As they filled their paper cups, Cassandra felt a familiar sense of satisfaction edging in along her exhaustion—the kind that came from knowing they'd made a real difference. One case solved, countless others waiting. But for now, this victory was enough.

She raised her cup. "On to the next, I suppose."

Their cups met with a soft crinkling sound, as the first rays of true dawn finally broke through the window behind them.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Cassandra walked along the concrete path of the Congressional Cemetery, watching freshly fallen leaves tumbled along in front of her. The late morning sun beamed down, painting the headstones all around her in shades of amber and gold. She eventually stepped off of the walkway and slowly made her way along the neat rows of markers, her footsteps crunching softly on the manicured grass. The historic cemetery, located in Alexandria and just a short drive from her apartment in DC, was a masterpiece of landscaping and preservation, with ancient oaks and maples creating a natural cathedral overhead. Their branches swayed gently in the autumn breeze, casting dancing patterns of light and shadow on the ground below.

Red and orange leaves seemed to lead the way. It was only late September, so they had fallen a bit early this year—but it was a fitting scene for a cemetery, she supposed. The air held that peculiar crispness that seemed to sharpen every sense, that special sort of smell and chill that existed between mid-September and Halloween. She breathed deeply, taking in the rich scent of earth and late-blooming flowers.

Cassandra found her mother's plot easily, muscle memory guiding her feet down the familiar path. Elizabeth Fierce's headstone stood proud and elegant, its polished granite surface gleaming in the late day sun. Cassandra felt a pang of guilt; thought she had once come here quite often, it had been far too long since her last visit. Work always seemed to get in the way, cases piling up like the autumn leaves gathering at the edges of the cemetery's iron fence.

The plot itself was immaculate, surrounded by carefully tended roses and a small border of cheerful purple violets – her mother's favorite. A carved angel watched over the grave, its wings spread wide in eternal vigilance. Cassandra had always thought the angel's face bore a striking resemblance to her mother's gentle features. The stone caught the light just so, creating the illusion of a subtle smile – the same knowing look her mother used to give her.

Without hesitation, she lowered herself onto the grass beside the headstone, not caring about her designer slacks. It felt natural, almost childlike, to sit cross-legged before her mother's grave in the manner of a child. The grass was cool beneath her, still damp from the morning's sprinklers. A gentle breeze stirred her hair, carrying with it the distant sound of wind chimes from somewhere in the cemetery.

"Hi, Mom," she said softly, her voice carrying on the gentle breeze. "Sorry it's been a while. Work's been... intense." She paused, smiling slightly. "Actually, I just wrapped up one hell of a case. Remember how I always told you I'd make a difference…somehow? Well, this one... this one really did. We caught the bad guys, saved some lives, maybe even helped save a little piece of the ocean in the process."

The words flowed easily as she recounted the investigation, describing the midnight boat ride that had started it all. "Being out there on the water at night, Mom... it made me think of Dad. Of that night." She traced her fingers through the grass. "I still get scared sometimes, you know? When I'm out there in the dark. But I face it head-on, just like you taught me. Just like you did after Dad disappeared. I know you tried you best, and I made it hard. But I…I always realized that you were trying. Sorry if I seemed ungrateful. I just...God, I missed him. I still do."

A monarch butterfly drifted past, its wings catching the sunlight. Cassandra watched it dance away before continuing. "You never gave up hope about Dad, did you? Even at the end." Her eyes drifted to the empty space beside her mother's plot – the space they'd reserved but never used. "We both held onto that dream... that maybe one day he'd just walk through the door with some wild story about survival and amnesia. Remember how we used to make up different scenarios? Each one more outrageous than the last?"

She laughed softly, but the sound caught in her throat. "I think... I think it might be time, Mom. To let him go, I mean. Really let him go." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I was out on my sailboat last month, near where they think his boat went down. I stood at the rail and just... talked to him. Told him that I had to let him go…that I was going to be okay."

Tears pricked at her eyes, but they weren't entirely sad. "Maybe it's time to fill that empty space. To give you both a proper place together. To stop living in that limbo between hope and…and acceptance." The thought didn't hurt as much as she'd expected it to. Instead, it felt like releasing a long-held breath.

She sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the shadows lengthen across the cemetery grounds. The late morning light painted everything in rich, golden hues, transforming the somber graveyard into something almost magical. In moments like these, she could almost believe her mother was sitting right beside her, offering that quiet strength she'd always possessed. In times like this, in the quiet of it all, it was easy to imagine that not only did Heaven absolutely exist, but it was within reach.

As if in response to her thoughts, a warm breeze rustled through the cemetery, carrying with it the sweet scent of late-blooming flowers. Cassandra closed her eyes, letting the peacefulness of the moment wash over her. When she opened them again, she felt lighter somehow, as if sharing her thoughts had lifted a weight she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.

Rising to her feet, she brushed off her slacks and placed a gentle hand on top of her mother's headstone. "I'll be back soon, Mom. I promise. And maybe next time... maybe next time there'll be two stones here. It's time, isn't it?" She wiped an errant tear away and began walking back to the walkway that would lead to the parking lot and her car.

She had barely taken three steps toward her car when her phone chimed. Fishing it from her pocket, she was surprised to see a text from a number she had saved but nearly forgotten about.

Detective Hawkins.

His text read: You left without saying goodbye. I wasn't going to let it go but then decided I could use it as an excuse to talk to you.

A smile tugged at her lips. She stopped walking and typed back: Sorry... I don't do well with goodbyes. She then looked back in the direction of her mother’s plot and thought: Man, isn’t that the truth?

His response came quickly: How do you do with hellos?

Intrigued—and not a fan of texting—she hit the call button instead of texting back. He answered on the first ring as she continued walking back to the parking lot.

"What are you even talking about?" she asked in lieu of a hello. She was surprised by how natural it felt to speak with him outside of work. His voice had a different quality now – softer, less official.

"Well," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "I'm heading down to DC next week to take part in the debrief on the Roth case. Took some vacation time too, thought I might see the sights. And I was hoping... maybe you'd like to grab a drink?"

Cassandra's first instinct was to decline – she always did. She simply didn’t have the time for or the interest in a social life…especially a semi-romantic one. But something stopped her. Maybe it was the conversation she'd just had with her mother, or the way the setting sun painted everything in shades of possibility. When was the last time she'd actually been on a date? Had it really been two years since coffee with that FBI agent? Christ, she didn’t even remember his name.

"I suppose," she said, trying to keep her voice casual despite the smile spreading across her face. That is, I could try to squeeze you into my schedule."

His warm laugh sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach. “I’d appreciate that.”

Not wanting to over-extend the conversation and give herself the chance to change her mind, Cassandra said, "Text me when you get into town and we’ll figure out the details.”

"I’ll do that."

“Goodbye, Hawkins.”

After ending the call, Cassandra turned back in the direction of her mother's grave – and the empty space beside it. Change was coming, in more ways than one. Maybe it was time to close some doors and open others. She could picture the matching headstone, finally marking her father's rest. If she could say yes to a drink with Hawkins, maybe other changes weren't so scary after all.

As she slid into her car, Cassandra felt an odd mix of excitement and apprehension about the future. But for the first time in a long while, the excitement was winning out. She started the engine, adjusted her mirror, and caught herself grinning like a teenager. A date. When was the last time she’d been anything more than annoyed about the idea?

The setting sun caught her rearview mirror, momentarily filling her car with golden light. It felt like a sign – of what, she wasn't quite sure. But for once, she was looking forward to finding out.

NOW AVAILABLE!

RISING DARKNESS

(A Cassandra Fierce Suspense Thriller—Book Five)

“Molly Black has written a taut thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat… I absolutely loved this book and can’t wait to read the next book in the series!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

When a murderer turns Alcatraz into a deadly historical reenactment, Coast Guard Investigator Cassandra Fierce must use all her skills to stay one step ahead. Cut off from the mainland by a vicious storm, can she unravel the killer's intricate plan before time runs out?

“I binge read this book. It hooked me in and didn't stop till the last few pages… I look forward to reading more!”

—Reader review for Found You

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

RISING DARKNESS is book #5 in a long anticipated new series by critically-acclaimed and #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Molly Black, whose books have received over 2,000 five-star reviews and ratings. The series begins with RISING TIDE (Book #1).

The Cassandra Fierce series delivers a pulse-pounding suspenseful thriller led by a complex and talented heroine. This gripping mystery series combines non-stop action with nail-biting tension, offering readers a roller coaster of shocking revelations and unforeseen turns. With its breakneck pace and addictive storytelling, these psychological thrillers are guaranteed to keep you engrossed until the wee hours. For fans of crime fiction writers such as Lee Child, Teresa Driscoll, and Rachel Caine, the Cassandra Fierce series is a must-read.

Future books in the series are now available!

“I loved this book! Fast-paced plot, great characters and interesting insights into investigating cold cases. I can't wait to read the next book!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Very good book… You will feel like you are right there looking for the kidnapper! I know I will be reading more in this series!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“This is a very well written book and holds your interest from page 1… Definitely looking forward to reading the next one in the series, and hopefully others as well!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Wow, I cannot wait for the next in this series. Starts with a bang and just keeps going.”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

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“Well written book with a great plot, one that will keep you up at night. A page turner!”

—Reader review for Girl One: Murder

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“A great suspense that keeps you reading… can't wait for the next in this series!”

—Reader review for Found You

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Sooo soo good! There are a few unforeseen twists… I binge read this like I binge watch Netflix. It just sucks you in.”

—Reader review for Found You

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

RISING DARKNESS

(A Cassandra Fierce Suspense Thriller—Book Five)

Molly Black

Bestselling author Molly Black is author of the MAYA GRAY FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seventeen books; of the RYLIE WOLF FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books; of the TAYLOR SAGE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eight books; of the KATIE WINTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising eleven books (and counting); of the RUBY HUNTER FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CAITLIN DARE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising six books (and counting); of the REESE LINK mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CLAIRE KING FBI suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the PIPER WOODS mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the GRACE FORD mystery series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the CASEY BOLT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the JADE SAVAGE mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the ELISE CLOSE psychological thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TESSA FLINT mystery series, comprising seven books (and counting); of the CLARA PIKE FBI suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the CASSANDRA FIERCE suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the SERENA KNOX suspense thriller series, comprising seven books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Molly loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.mollyblackauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY MOLLY BLACK

SERENA KNOX SUSPENSE THRILLER

RUN AWAY (Book #1)

RUN FROM HERE (Book #2)

RUN HOME (Book #3)

RUN FROM HIM (Book #4)

RUN OUT OF TIME (Book #5)

RUN NOW (Book #6)

RUN SCARED (Book #7)

CASSANDRA FIERCE SUSPENSE THRILLER

RISING TIDE (Book #1)

RISING FEAR (Book #2)

RISING ABYSS (Book #3)

RISING TERROR (Book #4)

RISING DARKNESS(Book #5)

RISING DOUBT (Book #6)

RISING NIGHT (Book #7)

ELISE CLOSE SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND HER LIES (Book #1)

BEHIND HER SMILE (Book #2)

BEHIND HER SECRETS (Book #3)

BEHIND HER GATES (Book #4)

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS (Book #5)

CLARA PIKE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

REMEMBER THE FEAR (Book #1)

REMEMBER THE DEAD (Book #2)

REMEMBER THE LIES (Book #3)

REMEMBER THE SILENCE (Book #4)

REMEMBER THE PAST (Book #5)

TESSA FLINT MYSTERY SERIES

BARELY SEEN (Book #1)

BARELY HEARD (Book #2)

BARELY FORGOTTEN (Book #3)

BARELY MISSING (Book #4)

BARELY ALIVE (Book #5)

BARELY THERE (Book #6)

BARELY SILENT (Book #7)

JADE SAVAGE MYSTERY SERIES

ALL SHE FEARS (Book #1)

ALL SHE WANTS (Book #2)

ALL SHE REMEMBERS (Book #3)

ALL SHE NEEDS (Book #4)

ALL SHE HIDES (Book #5)

ALL SHE DREADS(Book #6)

ALL SHE LOST (Book #7)

CASEY BOLT MYSTERY SERIES

BROKEN (Book #1)

FLAWED (Book #2)

BLEMISHED (Book #3)

DAMAGED (Book #4)

TWISTED (Book #5)

FRACTURED (Book #6)

TAINTED (Book #7)

GRACE FORD MYSTERY SERIES

NEARLY MINE (Book #1)

NEARLY SAFE (Book #2)

NEARLY FREE (Book #3)

NEARLY GONE (Book #4)

NEARLY HIS (Book #5)

NEARLY LOST (Book #6)

NEARLY DONE (Book #7)

NEARLY NEXT (Book #8)

CLAIRE KING MYSTERY SERIES

ONCE HE SEES (Book #1)

ONCE HE LONGS (Book #2)

ONCE HE TAKES (Book #3)

ONCE HE FEELS (Book #4)

ONCE HE KNOWS (Book #5)

MAYA GRAY MYSTERY SERIES

GIRL ONE: MURDER (Book #1)

GIRL TWO: TAKEN (Book #2)

GIRL THREE: TRAPPED (Book #3)

GIRL FOUR: LURED (Book #4)

GIRL FIVE: BOUND (Book #5)

GIRL SIX: FORSAKEN (Book #6)

GIRL SEVEN: CRAVED (Book #7)

GIRL EIGHT: HUNTED (Book #8)

GIRL NINE: GONE (Book #9)

GIRL TEN: WANTED (Book #10)

GIRL ELEVEN: VANISHED (Book #11)

GIRL TWELVE: (Book #12)

GIRL THIRTEEN: STALKED (Book #13)

GIRL FOURTEEN: SHATTERED (Book #14)

GIRL FIFTEEN: DECEIVED (Book #15)

GIRL SIXTEEN: PURSUED(Book #16)

GIRL SEVENTEEN: ABANDONED (Book #17)

RYLIE WOLF FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

FOUND YOU (Book #1)

CAUGHT YOU (Book #2)

SEE YOU (Book #3)

WANT YOU (Book #4)

TAKE YOU (Book #5)

DARE YOU (Book #6)

TAYLOR SAGE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

DON’T LOOK (Book #1)

DON’T BREATHE (Book #2)

DON’T RUN (Book #3)

DON’T FLINCH (Book #4)

DON’T REMEMBER (Book #5)

DON’T TELL (Book #6)

KATIE WINTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SAVE ME (Book #1)

REACH ME (Book #2)

HIDE ME (Book #3)

BELIEVE ME (Book #4)

HELP ME (Book #5)

FORGET ME (Book #6)

HOLD ME (Book #7)

PROTECT ME (Book #8)

REMEMBER ME (Book #9)

CATCH ME (Book #10)

WATCH ME (Book #11)

RUBY HUNTER FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IF I RUN (Book #1)

IF I TELL (Book #2)

IF I LIVE (Book #3)

IF I FORGET (Book #4)

IF I RETURN (Book #5)

CAITLIN DARE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

COME GET ME (Book #1)

COME FIND ME (Book #2)

COME TAKE ME (Book #3)

COME CATCH ME (Book #4)

COME SAVE ME (Book #5)

REESE LINK MYSTERY

BEYOND REASON (Book #1)

BEYOND REACH (Book #2)

BEYOND REPAIR (Book #3)

BEYOND DOUBT (Book #4)

BEYOND NORMAL (Book #5)

PIPER WOODS FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMEWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

SOMEWHERE SANE(Book #2)

SOMEWHERE WHOLE (Book #3)

SOMEWHERE FAR (Book #4)

SOMEWHERE WRONG (Book #5)

SOMEWHERE HIDDEN (Book #6)

SOMEWHERE DARK (Book #7)

SOMEWHERE SILENT (Book #8)