Page 8 of The Captain
Hours later, after briefings and forms and a shower that scoured sand from skin I hadn’t realized was raw, I stood alone on the dock behind the facility, brown hair wet down my back, a clean tank top clinging to damp skin. The sun had slid west, turning the water the color of old gold. In the yard, a flag snapped in a breeze that smelled like rain. My phone lay face down beside me on the railing, the map unopened. I drank from a bottle of water and imagined it was something stronger.
Down the creek a small motor cut, and I lifted my chin into the wind. The world tilted when I did, the way it always had since the day I fell hard for the ocean as a girl. Everything in me listened. My skin ached at the edges where the air met it. I could almost feel the pressure changes offshore, like a hand on the back of my neck.
Somewhere out there, men in uniforms would sit in a cold room and watch lines that turned sound into graphs. Somewhere beyond them, a swimmer with more arrogance than fear would cut through sky-warmed water like a knife. Somewhere even beyond that, deep, where the light faltered and the world turned blue-black, something enormous would sing into the dark and wait for an answer.
I tucked my hair behind my ear. The day wasn’t done with me. I opened the map, traced a neat little box someone else had drawn over the body I loved—then locked the screen and slid the phone into my back pocket.
“Fuck it.”
I wanted ice in a glass and a room too dark for good intentions. I grabbed my keys, left the map facedown on the rail, and went to find a bar.
4
JACOB
Night had settled over Charleston like a heavy curtain, muffling the world but turning up the static in my head. The streets buzzed with tourists stumbling out of restaurants, their laughter too loud, faces flushed from shrimp boils and sweet tea cocktails.
I ignored them, weaving the Jeep through narrow roads until I spotted the sign for Salty Mike's Deck Bar. Tucked off Lockwood Drive on the marina, it was a dive that didn’t bother with pretense—cheap booze, killer views of the Ashley River, and a vibe that said come as you are, but keep your shit to yourself. I’d overheard a local at the airport talking it up, saying it had been pouring drinks for thirty-six years, with a weathered deck overlooking the harbor and enough grit to keep the tourists at bay.
Perfect. I wasn’t here for company. I was here to drown the ghosts, at least for tonight.
I parked in the gravel lot, tires crunching over shells and sand, and cut the engine. The air carried fried seafood, brine, and a faint whiff of diesel from the boats in the slips. Salty Mike’slooked like it had been battered by storms and time—wooden deck jutting over the water, string lights flickering like they were on their last gasp, a neon “Open” sign buzzing in the window.
Inside, it was dim, smoky despite the no-smoking laws, the scent baked into the walls like a stubborn stain. The bar was scarred wood, stools patched with duct tape, shelves behind it lined with bottles that had seen better days. A jukebox played a gritty blues track, low and raw, while a handful of patrons—fishermen, a couple of bikers at the pool table, a lone woman staring at the water—kept to themselves.
No one looked up as I walked in. Good. I slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar and nodded at the bartender, a burly guy with a beard thick enough to hide secrets and tattoos curling up his arms.
“Jack Daniels,” I said, my voice rough from my swim. “Leave the bottle.”
He sized me up, recognizing the type—quiet, haunted, here to forget. He shrugged, set a glass down, and slid the bottle over. “Cash up front for that.”
I tossed a hundred on the bar. “Keep it coming, if I need more.”
He pocketed the bill and moved on, leaving me to my mission. I poured the first shot, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and knocked it back. The burn hit like fire, spreading through my chest, chasing the ocean’s chill from my bones. I savored it, letting it settle, but by the third pour, I barely tasted the whiskey. Just the memories, creeping in like shadows at dusk.
The weight in my chest pressed harder, that familiar ache no mission or training could bury. Out in the water earlier, I’d almost outrun it—almost. But here, in the haze of booze and low light, it clawed back. Faces I didn’t want to see. Voices I couldn’t silence.
I poured another, staring at the bottle like it might have answers. Dominion Hall lingered at the back of my mind, a 0600 check-in that felt like a noose. What the hell did they want with me? Some billionaire club pulling Pentagon strings?
Meachum had sounded pissed, like even he didn’t buy it. Orders were orders, though, and I’d show up. Just not without a hangover. Not my usual M.O., but fuck it.
The bar filled slowly as the night wore on—more locals, the jukebox shifting to a heavier beat. Laughter bounced off the walls, glasses clinked, and the scent of fresh-fried hushpuppies drifted from the kitchen. I kept to myself, nursing the bottle, the world blurring at the edges. The bartender refilled my glass once without asking, and I nodded thanks. No one bothered me. They knew better.
Then the door swung open, a gust of humid air cutting through, and she walked in.
The woman from the beach. I knew her instantly—the curve of her hips, the way she moved like she owned the air around her. She’d swapped her soaked clothes for a tight tank top that hugged her breasts and jeans that looked poured on. Her dark hair was loose, maybe still damp from a shower, framing a face sharp with angles.
She scanned the room, eyes lingering on the harbor view through the windows, then headed straight for the bar. Right next to me.
She didn’t glance my way, just leaned forward, elbows on the wood. “What kind of wine do you have?” she asked the bartender, her French accent sharp and lilting.
He grunted, wiping a glass. “House red or white. Nothing fancy.”
She snorted, muttering under her breath in French, “Quel trou à rats. Du vin? Plutôt du vinaigre.”
What a rat hole. Wine? More like vinegar.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Normally, I wouldn’t. But the whiskey had loosened my tongue, and French came easy—too easy, from years of ops in places where blending in meant survival. I leaned her way, keeping my voice low, and said in French, “Voulez-vous goûter mon whiskey? C’est meilleur que leur vin.”
