Chapter 1
A quiet morning was a good morning.
Mackey repeated the words to himself as he glided from location to location, senses open to detect anything abnormal. So far, only the usual: salt, a hint of ethanol from a vessel long past, a pulse of electricity here and there, and blood.
There was always blood somewhere in the water. But he’d been trained to ignore it. It could be distracting to his work, so he was grateful for that training, as hellish as it had been. When it came to his shark brain, he needed all the advantages he could muster.
He checked on ItoSu first, slipping into the little bay that housed their marina. He did his usual circuit around the inlet’s perimeter, finding nothing more threatening than a jellyfish, before swimming over to scan the houseboat Jay Ito and Pete Sutherland shared. Everything there seemed in order. The trapdoor they used to slip out and shift into their dolphin forms was closed. He had to assume it was locked from the inside because he couldn’t check it right now; the boat was rocking a little, and he could hear Pete. He turned and swam for the mouth of the bay. Wasn’t like he was some creepy-ass eavesdropper or something.
Down the shore a ways, he checked for Lieutenant Landry’s boat. It wasn’t a houseboat, just a motored cruiser, but sometimes Landry and Espinoza got away for a night and anchored off-shore. Not last night, apparently, but when he tried the next most likely place, he found the Lieutenant doing his own morning swim. He twitched his tail in Morse—O-K—so the seal would know it was just him and then made for his next destination.
The only problem with a quiet morning was the water’s surface. When it was flat like this, there was no hiding his dorsal fin amid a little chop. Careful to stay under, he made his way farther down the coast to Rogue Rescue headquarters. It had occurred to him he could just swim to work every day. But there was no good ingress into the site—it was secured, of course—and that would mean he’d be climbing up the nearby rocks naked. He didn’t care, but someone would eventually notice and report him, and then there’d be a whole thing, so no. That could expose his team. Unacceptable.
As he arrived, so did the graveyard unit in their chopper, though from a rescue or from drills, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. He was more concerned with the waters surrounding the facility. He swam them, scared off a few pesky mantas and then moved on.
Had he known where Commander Brackett lived, he might have patrolled that area, too, but in twelve years he’d never figured it out. Wasn’t like he was going to follow her home to find out. Besides, she had Nichols to guard her. That he had figured out.
They thought nobody knew. They were wrong.
But they were also safe, so he made for his final stop of each morning. The old pier jutted into the water on sketchy posts. From land, the thing looked on the verge of collapse, but that’s what he liked about it—kept away the fussier sorts who congregated at the newer concrete piers that boasted coffee shops at the ends.
Only a few intrepid old men fished off this pier, and he liked to circle its algae-furred posts and listen to them. He couldn’t hear their words, but one of them had a low, gravelly voice that sounded like his granddad’s. It always sent him back to his own place ready to meet the day.
But the man wasn’t there this morning. Mackey weaved around the posts, listening and ignoring the tempting chunks of bait on the lines above him, but he couldn’t hear the voice he sought. Worry began to niggle at his mind—had something happened to the guy? Was he sick? Had someone hurt him?
But he had to shut those thoughts down. He had to get back, get ready for work. The other men on the pier didn’t sound distressed about anything, so he tried to let it go as he swam back toward his place.
It lay up the shore, farthest north of his team’s homes. The lighthouse had been his granddad’s, and his granddad’s before him, and even further down the line. For a couple hundred years, a Mackey had served from that big hunk of rock. It looked every one of those years, its wood exterior weathered to gray and patched in spots. Its structure was sound—he kept it in good repair—but he resisted painting it. Didn’t need to attract attention from tourists, or worse, divers.
The beacon drew enough attention, but then that was its job. His granddad had fought automating it, but Mackey’s work—his paid work—meant he couldn’t man the light all the time. He couldn’t let it just stop, though, even if people had started to say lighthouses were no longer necessary, with GPS and depth sensor technology.
One person might need it someday, and that was reason enough.
As he neared it, he thought about the old fisherman again. He wasn’t really a fisherman, he guessed. Couldn’t make much of a living off a decrepit pier, not in California. The man had probably done something else and only fished because he was retired and free to do so. Except for this morning. Something had kept him from it, and Mackey wondered—
A flicker of tail snagged his attention.
Focus. He kicked in the direction of the fish, all senses wide open. Light, sound, smell, taste, temperature—all the same—but there. He felt the electric pulse from the creature’s muscle movements. Surging forward, he opened his mouth wider. The teeth usually did the trick. He didn’t like things lurking around his rock, and specifically near the grate he used to access his house. Whatever this was—
—slammed into his side. Panic, rage, aggression. Whipping around, he caught a flash of gill, of white belly—shark—and surged after it. The thing churned up the water, creating a curtain of air bubbles. He broke through the attempt at camouflage and charged the beast. It turned sharply to face him and bared its teeth.
Blood, the scent, the flavor, the heat warming the water around him.
The next thing he knew, Mackey was charging toward his rock as if he was going to ram it. Slowing just enough, he used his snout to bump the stone that hid the mechanism, and the round iron grate swung open. He swam into the tunnel, pushed the corresponding stone on the wall there, and then swam the few remaining meters. When he came to the half-circle well at the center of the rock, he shifted and grabbed the ladder.
He gripped the rungs and tried to do the same with his thoughts. He usually fought hard to keep them with him in a tussle. Emerging from a skirmish with no memory of exactly what had happened… He’d heard guys throw hero worship at the ones they called berserkers—the warriors who would go into some kind of fugue state at the start of a battle and come out only when it was over, if they survived. Maybe it kept them alive, but that kind of mindless violence scared the shit out of him. Made him feel more fish than human. Of some lower order. Unacceptable.
It had been another great white. He hadn’t seen one around the rock in a while, had managed to stake his claim here pretty effectively. Once in a while, his fucking dolphin colleagues showed up to play some prank or other, but sharks steered clear. This one just now must be new to the area. He’d just have to make matters clear for it.
He tasted blood again and wiped his mouth, but then felt the warmth of it over his right eye. He splashed his face, but red began to streak down his chest again. Hustling up the ladder, he keyed his code into the pad by the access door. When its bolts clunked open, he pushed through and locked it again. Checked the clock. Forty-three minutes before briefing.
It was a gash, but only one and nothing he couldn’t take care of. Leaning on his bathroom counter, he pressed a towel to his forehead. Went through the mental checklist of things to do before work every morning. He did most of them upon rising, but a couple remained.
Holding the towel in place, he took the stairs up and around to the watch room. Checked the console. Scanned the shallow eave above the gallery outside for anything that shouldn’t be there. Just a gull’s nest, but it wasn’t hurting anything. On his way out of the bright, round space, he paused by the door. Nodded to the man in the photo that hung there. Then he took the stairs down two at a time, all the way to the bottom and the long tunnel under the water.
At the far end, he jogged up the steps to his garage. The shelf above the shop sink held his first aid kit. Two tapes stitches and a heavy bandage later, he looked almost presentable.
As he backed his Jeep out of the garage, he checked the time again. Not as early as he’d like. Taking a deep breath, he tried to slow his pulse. It was pounding in the cut on his forehead.
So much for a quiet morning.
~
Chapter 2
If this asshole didn’t get off his bumper, Trick Harper was going to lose his shit.
For the second time an in hour. Good thing Vince hadn’t been within a continent of his little altercation in the water this morning. He’d just been trying to swim off some nerves, not start a fight, but a month ago, his former boss would have demanded another flurry of performance reviews, another series of meetings to help him Recenter the Mission, and Define and Align His Professional Goals, and Commit to Forward Growth, or Some Other String of Capital Letters, as if they turned regular words into solid-gold ideas.
He didn’t need more reviews or meetings. And he wasn’t going to get them—not from Vince. This was basically his last chance to get his act together. He had Vince’s recommendation but only if he could, without further incident, get where he needed to be.
Which was not being taken up the chute by this meathead in the Jeep.
He flipped the guy off and then slowed down a tick. Because maturity was his superpower.
That and self-reliance. If the guys back on the research team thought he was going to fail here, they hadn’t been paying attention. Vince liked to spout his guru shit about resilience, but Trick had lived it. He was it. Adaptability was his middle fucking name. The hospital had misspelled it, but he’d adapted to that too. Shortened it to S. Enough for determined form-fillers, easy to sign, and no leprechaun jokes.
He would get through this. No, strike that. He would crush this. He’d done rescue work before, on conventional units and covert ones. He was fucking phenomenal at it, and while not all his bosses had recognized his brilliance, let alone rewarded it with commensurate advances in position or pay, none of them could deny he’d gotten the job done. No one had ever died because he was in the water.
Couldn’t always say that about sharks.
And no way was he going to dwell on why he was here. First of all, it was California, so as last-chance transfers went, it wasn’t so bad. And second, Vince had already dwelled it into the ground. Trick got it: not everyone appreciated his ability to go off-plan when necessary. Sometimes, when the parameters were too tight, you had to nudge them. And sometimes, if other people were thrown by that—if they couldn’t adapt—they got hurt. Wasn’t his fault he was the quickest-thinking motherfucker in the ocean.
New directions popped up on his map app. In half a mile, he’d finally get rid of his ass-kisser back there. Which reminded him: he needed to figure out where to find some tail in this town. He was gonna need the distraction, and some brainless beach muscle would be just the thing.
The entrance of his destination was as nondescript as he’d expected. Tall fence, guard station. He pulled up to the window. “Trick Harper for Commander Brackett.”
The words vibrated in the bones of his skull, the consonants sending puffs of air against his teeth and tongue. He didn’t usually notice that, but he’d allow he might still be the slightest bit nervous. He was used to working under Vince—dude no longer intimidated him—but Brackett’s reputation preceded her. His first step in not fucking up this assignment was to not screw up with Nadine Brackett.
The guard handed him a security badge and directed him to the parking lot. He watched the guy’s lips, just to be sure he didn’t miss anything, but he was pretty sure he could find an outdoor lot. Waving thanks, he pulled forward.
And noticed the Jeep behind him.
No way. He hesitated a moment to see if the guard would stop the guy, but they just waved at each other and then the guy was on his tail again.
Great. Well, it wasn’t like he’d done anything to him. Not really. Flipped him off, and maybe that was illegal in California, he wasn’t sure. But dude should give himself more time to get to work; then he wouldn’t have to hump people’s bumpers.
Feeling edgy, Trick pulled into a free space and watched the Jeep. It prowled the lot, up one row and down the next, before rolling into a spot. The driver got out immediately, and Trick stayed his butt in his seat because the guy was huge. Trick was no slouch, tall with a swimmer’s build, but this guy was, like, twice as broad. The dark T-shirt and cargo pants he wore were sized well for him, leaving no doubt that nearly every inch of flesh under them was muscle. Looked like he shaved his head, but Trick wasn’t close enough to tell for sure. He was robbed of any glimpse of his face; the guy just headed straight for the facility. Didn’t want to be late for work enough to break Trick’s neck first, which, admirable.
Trick barely had them to spare, but he waited a couple minutes. It wouldn’t do for the guy to connect him as the driver who’d flipped him the bird and then pointedly decelerated. No need to antagonize the first piece of doable ass he’d seen since he landed.
His badge opened the front entrance, and he stopped at the desk there for the second tier of check-in. An admin led him to Brackett’s office. He was a little surprised she hadn’t found someone who signed, but he’d told her in their email exchange that he read lips and spoke, so maybe she’d taken him at his word.
How refreshing. Someone who didn’t underestimate him.
She’d also left her office door open. He was able to knock on the doorjamb and see her response to come in. Not so much accommodation as to be coddling, but enough to help things go smoothly. He could respect that. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. As sun-drenched crushable assignments went.
Brackett rounded her desk to shake his hand. The top of her silver head came to his shoulder, but he knew well enough not to count that against her. Woman’s gaze was way too shrewd. Sometimes these situations called for charm, but this wasn’t going to be one of them. No need to pull some bullshit to convince her when all he needed was to get to work. He was a pro.
Brackett nodded. “So, you fucked up pretty good, huh?”
He stared at her, but her expression didn’t change. “Excuse me, Commander?”
“Vince says you’re a capable rescue swimmer.”
He’d expected her to repeat herself. Adapt. Adapt. “I am.”
“Been a while, though, hasn’t it? Several years?”
Every speaking person presented a new challenge, a new set of lips, teeth, and tongue to interpret. Brackett spoke almost without facial expression, her jaw tight. “Four,” he said, over-aware of his pronunciation. “I’ve been in the private sector since then.”
“Private sector.” She winked. “We’ll train that out of you.”
Yeah, sure.
Her eyes flicked past his shoulder and her chin rose slightly. “Come in.”
Two men filed through the door. The first was a tall, slim Black guy who regarded him with a calm curiosity.
The second was the Jeep driver. He was even bigger up close, his bulk eating up half of Brackett’s office. And Trick had some scars, but this guy…Jesus. They crisscrossed his head, neck, and arms, so that the bandage he wore above one eye was no fucking surprise. He looked like he’d been brawling his whole life. His features looked mean, underlaid with granite. His eyes were a dark gray, almost black. His expression was as flat as Brackett’s.
She gestured to the first man. “This is your team lead, Nathan Landry. Goes by Lieutenant when the situation calls for it. Unless I’m within three meters, what he says goes.”
Trick shook Landry’s hand. “Trick Harper. Looking forward to showing you what I can do.”
Landry’s eyebrows rose. “Can you follow orders?”
Sometimes. “Yes.”
“Then we’ll do just fine.” The set of Landry’s mouth was more relaxed than Brackett’s, and his face much more expressive. By the end of his sentence, which he punctuated with a nod, Trick had him down.
So who was the other guy? He could feel him looming but resisted looking and turned back to Brackett.
But she wasn’t waiting to tell him. She was frowning at the big guy. “What happened to your face?”
Trick looked at him quickly.
“Had a run-in before work,” the guy said.
Trick fought a shiver. He’d felt the guy’s voice on his skin.
“On patrol?” Brackett said with something like a smirk.
“Yes, Commander,” the guy responded. With nothing like a smirk.
So, he was security? That was promising. Trick started to imagine a uniform built for this dude. It involved a lot of leather.
He realized too late that everyone was looking at him. Waiting. He turned to Brackett.
She addressed the big guy again. “Mackey, this is Trick Harper. He comes to us from Vince Ito’s team. He’s a shark shifter, too.”
Too? He glanced at this Mackey.
At the bandage on his forehead. In pretty much the same spot…
Aw, fuck.
Brackett was waiting for him to look at her. “Harper, this is Ian Mackey. He’s the shark on Landry’s unit.” She smiled, finally, baring even, white teeth. “And your new partner.”
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