Page 93 of Ship Outta Luck

Dean’s frowning at the satellite phone, clearly rattled that Thompson and Thorne haven’t checked in.

“Not yet.”

“Do they go radio silent on these jobs?”

“We’re supposed to rendezvous today.”

“Do you want to go find them?”

“I’m not sure that would help.” He’s staring at the phone like it might ring at any time. “They must have a reason.”

“Do you think something happened?”

“I can’t think like that.” He glances up at me, all dark eyebrows and eyes and two days’ worth of stubble, and I want to tell him it’s going to be okay.

I’m not sure it will be, so I keep my mouth closed.

“How’s it going for you?”

“I found it.”

It made my heart ache to look at my father’s handwriting, the tiny fish doodle next to it, so I memorized the coordinates and squashed the fishing list back into my pocket and glued my eyes to the depth finder while Dean tried his team on the sat phone.

“That’s great, princess.”

The fuel gauge shows only a quarter of a tank left, but it’s the battery that worries me. As much as I’ve used the bilge pump over the last two days, it could be in danger of running out of power.

If the bilge pump or battery fails, we’ll have no choice but to turn the boat around. Thank goodness I remembered to run thebilge pump last night. Honestly, it’s sheer luck theBettyisn’t at the bottom of the gulf.

With a sigh, I flip the manual switch.

It doesn’t start.

“Something wrong?” Dean asks, coming up behind me.

I don’t answer, instead flicking the switch up and down until it finally kicks on. Relieved, I slump against the captain’s chair, never so glad to hear the tell-tale whine of the pump starting.

My mind swirls with unfinished thoughts and wild emotions. One moment I want to stop the boat and finish what I started with Dean on the beach, and the next I’m wishing I never met him, because that would mean I could live my life without knowing who my father really was.

But my father is dead, and Dean is living, breathing right next to me. Somehow, he seems to sense my mood, and gives me space.

Gathering myself, I check the GPS and frown.

“Son of a bean dip,” I swear.

The depth finder still shows a hundred meters. It’s unlikely my father found anything that deep. I press a finger against the grayscale screen of the fish finder, bringing it to life. It picks up fish, yes, but it can pick up anything as large as the wreck on the seafloor, too… except not at this depth.

This isn’t the spot, and it can’t be right. It’s too danged deep.

I scan the watery horizon. “Son of a bean dip mother Frito.”

Dean’s laugh startles me, and I whip around to find him standing over my left shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are we where you wanted to be? With the fish?”

“According to the list, this is the amberjack spot.”

“And you really think this is where he dropped the narcotics shipment? It couldn’t have been anywhere else?”

I close my eyes, wishing I snagged the lure from the beach before I blew it all to hell.

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