Page 102 of Ship Outta Luck

A career-defining moment. A life’s goal achieved—and all I can think about is how badly I wish my father was here to share it with me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

DEAN

I slowly looparound the ship—which, I have to admit, is pretty fucking cool. June flits about the rotting wooden remnants of theSantu Espiritu, swimming in some kind of pattern that I chalk up to a protocol she has, or conversely, a random product of excitement.

She’s beyond thrilled. Her body telegraphs joy at every turn, and she keeps bringing her hand to her mouth, even though it’s already covered. Even if she didn’t, her frantic thumbs up signaling and pointing does it.

Despite my secondhand excitement for June, worry gnaws at the pit of my stomach.

This is wrong.

The shipment is here somewhere. It makes more sense that June’s dad would scuttle the drug sub nearby, where June would no doubt eventually stumble over it. The drug shipment? That’s the least of my worries.

The stakes are higher than cocaine and opiates.

No. Whatever’s hiding inside that sub should turn the tables on a string of domestic terrorist cells. I don’t know how far up into the government they go: names, place, meeting times. Or most importantly, their plans. According to all the chatter, all the reasons I put my crew on this op once I’d been read in, this shipment is the key to disrupting their plans. But it won’t make a fucking difference if I can’t find it.

My pulse beats inside my eardrums, amplified by the near silence of being underwater. I swim out a little further past the find, confident June will be fine if I slip away for a few minutes.

A grayish rock peeks out from behind undulating ribbons of seagrass, small fish darting around it. A blanket of green moss covers most of it. I swim past it, eyes scouring the sand and silt. Ten yards. Fifteen.

Then it hits me.

Eyes wide, I stretch my arms out and scissor my legs, turning back towards the remains of theSantu Espirituand that gray rock.

It wasn’t a blanket of moss.

It’s a fucking camo net.Jesus.

My fingers scrabble over the rock, pulling the thick green netting back as far as I dare. A sharp edge on the metal slices my finger, and red leaks into the saltwater in a stinging rush, but I don’t care.

Fuck.

It’s massive.

The sub is eight feet long, easily, half buried in mud and silt, everything but the tip painted in a flaking camouflage that would make it harder to spot from the air when pulled behind a boat.

There’s no way I’m moving this on my own.

My hands carefully work over the rough surface until I find the seam and follow it to the lock for the hatch.

Opening it underwater means contaminating any evidence.

Shit.

The needle on my air gauge dips into the red zone. Less than ten percent of air left. My size, though an asset on land, always causes problems when it comes to how fast my lungs need air.

A tentative plan forms in my mind.

We have to surface. A loud roaring sound fills my ears, and a shadow passes over the seabed.

A boat.

It’s gotta be Pierce.

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