Page 128 of The Devil We Know

The look he gives me is surprised, but then Lilith, Carolina, and Camilla all gather around, waiting to find out what’s next on the list to complete a mission that has otherwise gone to hell.

Kaian sighs then raises a hand, motioning for us to follow him as he turns on his heel and walks away from the dock. “Let’s go.”

53

Futility

Matt

This can’t be fuckinghappening.

“Keep fucking looking,” Tony shouts. “There’s still time.”

I sigh heavily, looking out over the many boats and personnel searching the vicinity for any sign of Antoinette and Darius.

It’s been several hours and still, there’s no sign of either of them.

I’ve called in every favor anyone ever owed me, but even with every resource available in on the search, the futility behind it feels imminently inevitable.

A hand on my shoulder startles me. “Matt, how much longer do you want us to look?”

I stare at my Coast Guard contact blankly, unsure how to answer since my most immediate thought is any variation of forever.

He gives me a sympathetic look, his lips pressing together as he contemplates his words. Finally, he nods, then turns without saying anything, barking orders at everyone in his way.

I know he’ll do all he can for however long as he can, but at some point, they’ll have no choice but to abandon the search for more pressing official business, and it will all be over.

Annoyed, I pull out my phone, scrolling to the number I want and hitting connect. It rings a few times, and then a voice answers, “Shields?”

“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”

He’s silent for a moment, likely infinitely confused about why I would be calling, but not so confused that he had deleted my number from his contacts. “What’s up?”

I clear my throat, uncertain what exactly I called him for, and after a moment, he says impatiently, “Spit it out, dickhead.”

“A five-mile-per-hour current isn’t fast, right?”

Again, I’m met with silence, and for a moment, I wonder if he hung up on me. I glance at my phone screen, confirming the call is still ticking on, then put the phone back to my ear just in time for him to reply, “Why are you asking?”

I sigh, not wanting to explain but knowing I have to if I want his professional opinion. “A couple of my people fell into the water. We starting searching for them immediately, but so far, no sign of them.”

“From what height?”

“About six containers.”

“Which body of water?”

“Boston Harbor.”

He snorts, and I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes at me through the phone. “From that height, they could end up submerged fifteen feet or so. Current down there may sound slow, but it would be different when viewed from the surface and certainly feel different if you were down there fighting against it.”

“But a strong swimmer could get to the surface pretty quickly?”

“Matt,” Mark sputters. “People fall off fishing boats in the middle of the day in a busy fishing harbor and are most often found weeks later or never.”

I frown. “What does that have to do with this?”

“Everything. It’s the middle of the fucking night. They fell the equivalent of more than eight stories, so if they weren’t already injured, which, given your track record, I will assume they were, they would most likely have been injured upon impact with the water. Assuming they weren’t knocked senseless, the depth they’d have reached by the time they got their bearings enough to attempt to swim to the surface would be nearly impossible to recover from. And just to complicate matters, it would be pitch-black down there, and they’d be dragged down by their clothing. Assuming they were clothed, of course, which could go either way with you.”

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