Page 121 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Owen huffed a laugh. “You were fucking heavy.”

The SUV dropped into another rut. Pain exploded through Hudson’s ribs. The world blinked out and back.

Owen shot him a glance. “Whatever you’ve got left, don’t waste it.”

“Hmm.” Hudson shifted in his seat.

Gunner snuffled in the back seat, his collar clinking. Tire tracks cut deep into fresh snow. Spruce gave way to wind-bent cedars. Beneath the blood and burned coolant, Hudson caught the first faint trace of salt. Light appeared through the canopy as the forest fell away.

The coastline opened up below them. The bay stretched gray to the south, whitecaps marking the wind. A narrow spit of land jutted into the water.

Morrow Point. The cannery stood on its stilts at the end of it, dark against the snow.

Of course. Rough ground on the approach. Open water out. A clean handover to a waiting boat. No witnesses for miles.

Hale couldn’t have chosen better.

“There.” Owen pointed as Gunner stuck his head between both seats, his nose testing the air.

A patrol boat eased toward the dock. Aluminum hull. Sheriff’s star. Aurora Cove Sheriff’s Department.

Sarah was coming in from the water.

Hale’s men would see her too. And men watching an extraction collapse got desperate.

Hudson’s eyes locked on the boat.

Fuck.

Sarah.

48

Sarah went first.

The entrance to the main processing hall was the same one she’d used days earlier—the heavy steel door at dock level, its hinges crusted with salt, a gap beneath it where the floorboards had warped.

She pulled it open now with her rifle raised, weapon light cutting into the darkness, the weight of her body armor pressing against her bruised ribs. Corroded pipes, puddles glinting from overhead leaks. The air was thick with the must of damp timber.

“Slow,” she whispered.

Walter fell in behind her, barely audible except for the quiet rasp of his rifle against his jacket and the deliberate placement of each boot. The wind gusted a loose sheet of metal somewhere deep inside the cannery.

Boom.

The sound rolled through the building like distant thunder. Sarah’s finger tightened against the trigger guard before discipline eased it again.

Jesus.

Something cold struck the back of her neck. She pivoted, weapon light sweeping the ceiling. Water dripped through gaps in the roof, falling from beam to beam before finding her collar. She wiped the back of her neck and moved on.

The floor gave slightly beneath her feet, flexing on its pilings as the tide surged. She took careful steps, testing the wood. Water slapped against the timber, the sound traveling up through the boards, into her boots before burrowing into the base of her spine.

She breathed out long and slow. They’d brought this into her town. She was going to find every last one of them.

Steel hooks swung lazily from overhead, nudged by the draft. Somewhere beyond, lengths of chain clinked together.

She held her breath, ears straining.