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I’m so good about gauging danger, just not when I’m distracted by anger.
A nasty feeling grows inside me. The realization that hits me is heavier than the pull of the powerful mass of water.
I swam right into the rip current.
37
ARCHER
Anna Reich.
The name lights up on my phone, but I don’t pick up.
Strange how people who once were important in your life don’t mean anything anymore. I don’t feel the slightest excitement about seeing my ex. I know why she’s here. She wants a piece of the action, now that my fortune tripled after my dad’s death. What girl doesn’t dream of marrying a billionaire?
Fuck her.
I need to talk to Kat before she gets the wrong idea. Kat’s mind is like hydrogen near a lit match.
My phone flashes with Slate’s name—he only calls me in emergency scenarios.
“Yes,” I say calmly.
“Mr. Crone. It’s about Miss Ortiz.”
I frown. “Yes?” She probably ran away from him.
“Sorry, sir. She went swimming, despite one of the guards trying to stop her.”
Swimming? In this weather? “And?”
“She didn’t come back.”
Dread washes over me with such force that my fingers gripping the phone turn white. In a second, I’m on my feet and rushing through the door. “Where?”
“Main beach. Pier 12 mark.”
“Turn on the shore spotlights!” I snap as I run to my bike. “Emergency sirens on! Guards on jets in the water. Now! Every person available! Have a Waverunner ready for me!”
The memory of my mom and Adam never coming back from a car ride flash like a giant warning sign in my mind as I jump on the Streetfighter and fire up the engine.
Fucking Kat! Hold on, baby!
That’s when the emergency alert for her vitals goes off on my phone. Her heart rate is 170. Fuck!
I reach the boardwalk in less than a minute, drop the bike, and run across the beach.
I dial Bishop.Pick up! Pick up!He’s lived on this island for years and knows it by heart. Plus, he’s a surfer.
The sound of the beach sirens is so abrupt and loud that it feels like the end of the world. The spotlights come on like an explosion of light and start sweeping over the coastal area, revealing a dozen guards, some of them darting across the beach toward the piers, others firing up jet skis and Waverunners.
I run up to one of the guards who already has one ready for me.
Bishop finally picks up. “Hey, Archer.”
“Bishop! I need info! The tide on the west side of Zion, what is it? Direction of the rip current. Distance from the shore. Fast!”
You can tell Bishop has military training because there are no unnecessary questions as he spits out the info, and without saying goodbye, I hang up and jump on the jet ski.
