Page 90 of Ship Outta Luck

“And?” Her lips are an angry slash across her face. A shiver rocks her, and she slumps onto the edge of the captain’s chair.

“I don’t know. But you can be damn sure I’m going to find out.” And I’ll make sure whoever fucked us over pays for it.

Another drop of blood splatters across the deck.

“June, your hand.” I reach for it, but she pulls away.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s bleeding. At least let me look at it while you drive.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“I think I’m capable of bandaging your hand.”

She shakes her head, dark hair streaming over her face. “No. That’s not what I mean and you know it. How can I trust your team? How doyouknow you can trust your team? I’m not an ex-Marine, but I am also not an idiot. Someone told them where to find us. Who else knew we would be at that beach, Dean?”

I nearly flinch back at the venom in her voice. Anger rises in me, bitter and heavy, hot and fast. Not at her. At the fact she is right. Unless… unlesssheis the one who made contact. Maybe when we stopped for gas, she’d been seen on the boat. It was possible.

Unlikely. But possible.

“It wasn’t my team. Thompson and Thorne got away clean, went the opposite way. We’ll meet up with them when it’s safe.” I grab the first aid kit from where it’s perched precariously on top of the instrument panel. White gauze, saline, antibiotic cream, tape. She doesn’t pull away when I reach for her hand, making quick work of it.

“Then who?”

“We should sweep theBettyfor new trackers.” Something I need to do now.

“What do you even mean, trackers? What are you going to do, crawl around and look for something?”

I stare at her, and she stares back.

“Maybe. I’ve already swept it once.” The admission comes out before I think better of it.

Something in June’s eyes shutter. “You have to know how creepy that is.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She clutches her hurt hand to her. “Fine. Do whatever.”

Nodding, I reach under the control panel, feeling around. My arm ridiculously close to her body. The warmth of her skin sears me, even though I take care not to touch her, even though every fiber of my being cries out to take her in my arms, to set her down and make sure she is okay.

My hands feel along the grooves and channels of the navigation instruments, the fish finder, the steering column, the speedometer.

My fingers find purchase, calluses catching on something hard.

“Do you know what this is?”

June looks down and shakes her head.

“I wanted to make sure before I pull it out.” Maybe not the best word choice. “Pry it out.”

She doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes round as saucers. “What is it?”

“It’s a GPS transmitter. I fucked up. Ahh. I fucked up.” I rake a hand through my hair, sick to my stomach.

And I thought… for a moment, I thought maybe June was the one who signaled the cartel. But here I am, clearly shit at my job.

The black tracker is small and insignificant looking. I crush it in my hands, leaving nothing but plastic shards.

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