Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Nash

F ighting to get them to safety had felt like hours, although he knew it had been far shorter than that. Nash had gripped the wheel of The Reverie tightly, his knuckles white against the polished wood. The storm wasn't supposed to have been this bad. It had come up fast, as Mediterranean squalls often did, but this one had the force of something far worse, whipping the sea into a frenzy of churning, dark waves. He had felt the tension in his muscles as he navigated through the treacherous waters, each swell a battle, each shift of the wind a calculated risk.

But it wasn't just the storm that had stretched his nerves thin.

It had been her.

Deanna had moved about the deck with an efficiency that had both impressed and irritated him. After he'd barked at her to put on the life jacket, she'd seemed inclined to do whatever was needed. She hadn't just held her own—she'd actively helped, grabbing lines, securing loose equipment, keeping the boat steady where she could. It had reminded him of his days in the SEALs, those missions where his team had to rely on each other, no questions, no hesitation, just action. They had been his brothers, his lifeline. And now, Deanna's quick thinking and cool under pressure demeanor had stirred those same instincts in him, instincts he hadn't wanted to revisit.

A sudden wave had slammed into the side of the boat, sending a spray of saltwater over the deck. Nash had cursed under his breath, adjusting the wheel to keep them on course. The wind had howled through the rigging, tugging at The Reverie , trying to pull her off track, but the strong motor had kept them on course. The waves had felt like mountains beneath the hull, and the roar of the storm was relentless as the wind howled, lightning flashed, and thunder cracked.

He'd stolen a glance at Deanna as she'd secured a rope, her curly hair whipping wildly around her face. Despite the chaos, she had been focused, her hands moving with a confidence that caught him off guard. She had a knack for finding solutions under pressure, something he admired but didn't want to admit. Not right now.

"Watch the mainsail!" he barked, his voice harsher than intended. The mainsail had been lowered, but one of the lines that had secured it was coming undone. If it came loose, they'd be in serious trouble.

Deanna hadn't flinch. She'd adjusted the lines quickly, tightening the rigging and keeping the sail under control. He'd watched as she calculated the tension, making adjustments almost as if she'd done it a hundred times before. It had been infuriating to see how capable she'd been. He'd wondered who it was that had thought the curvy little sub needed saving.

Her capability and confidence in herself had only served to remind him of the men he had lost. Of how capable they had been too—until they weren't.

A flash of memory had hit him hard, unbidden: his SEAL team moving through the dense jungle on that final mission. His heart pounding in sync with the steady rhythm of their boots on the wet ground. The explosion. The screams. The smoke. It all flooded back in an instant, nearly overwhelming him. Nash had clenched his jaw, shoving the memory away with a force that had left him almost breathless.

That had been in the past. He wasn't that man anymore.

But no matter how hard he tried to keep the memories buried, they crept back up at moments like this, where every decision felt like life or death. The storm around him wasn't the only one he was fighting.

"I think I've got it under control," Deanna's voice had cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. There was a note of defiance in her tone, and it snapped him back to reality.

"Just keep doing what you're doing," he'd muttered, his eyes locked on the horizon.

But he couldn't deny it—she was handling herself. Deanna wasn't some helpless passenger; she was holding her own in a situation that would have had most people cowering below decks, panicking. And, in some twisted way, that had annoyed him more than if she had been falling apart. He was used to being the one in control, the one people relied on in a crisis. And here she was, reminding him that he wasn't the only one capable of making quick decisions under pressure.

Another sharp wave had crashed over The Reverie , and Nash had felt the boat lurch beneath him. He'd adjusted again, riding out the swell, his hands steady on the wheel. The island they had seen earlier loomed in the distance, its rocky cliffs barely visible through the thick sheets of rain. If they could just make it back there, he could anchor them safely until the worst of the storm passed.

She'd turned back to him, her eyes blazing with annoyance. "You don't have to do this all by yourself, you know."

The words had hit him harder than they should have. There'd been something in the way she'd said it—not just the words, but the way she'd looked at him, like she saw more than just the storm and the boat. Like she saw him, the man beneath the armor he wore so tightly.

Nash's jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. He couldn't. He didn't have the words for it. Not now. Not with the ghosts of his past clawing at the edges of his mind.

He'd turned back to the wheel, guiding The Reverie through another violent wave. But Deanna's presence was there beside him now, steady and unwavering. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something he wasn't sure he wanted to feel—the weight of not being alone.

"Fine," he'd finally said, his voice gruff. "Just stay sharp."

She shot him a look, one that was equal parts exasperation and something else—something softer. "I always do."

As the boat plowed through the angry waters, Nash hadn't been able to shake the feeling that this had been more than just a storm. It had been a reckoning. A reminder that the past wasn't as far behind him as he'd wanted it to be. And now, Deanna was here, reminding him that he had no choice but to confront not just the dangers around them, but the ones within him.

He just wasn't sure which one scared him more.

They'd managed to sail into the cove with relative ease. The way the cliffs wrapped around the cove acted as a buffer and the cove was deceptively calm as The Reverie had glided into the shelter of the island, the waves smoothing out as the boat left the open, tumultuous sea behind. Nash slowed the engine, eyes scanning the rocky shoreline, where jagged cliffs loomed high above the narrow stretch of beach. The island, small and seemingly isolated, was quiet. Too quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

"You all right?" he'd asked, his voice quieter now.

Deanna had nodded, her breath still coming in quick bursts as the adrenaline slowly ebbed from her body. "Yeah… just wasn't expecting that."

Nash had given a slight nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. "Storms can come out of nowhere in these waters. We'll wait it out here until it passes."

Deanna's shoulders relaxed and she'd sunk into the seat behind her. The island loomed around them, rugged and wild, its rocky shore offering shelter but also a sense of isolation. There was a sliver of beach, framed by jagged cliffs and lush greenery.

"Where are we?" she'd asked, her voice sounding small in the sudden stillness.

"One of the smaller islands off the main route. Mostly uninhabited," Nash had replied, his eyes scanning the cliffs. "It's remote. Quiet. We should be safe here."

But Nash had learned long ago that stillness didn't always mean safety. He glanced down at the Doppler radar and could easily see that the open sea was no place to be, especially as night closed in. He checked his satellite phone and the ship's emergency radio—he couldn't get a signal on either. Of course, he could activate the EPIRB beacon, but that was for emergencies only and this wasn't an emergency… yet.

As he cut the engine and dropped the anchor, the boat swayed gently with the lingering current. Deanna stood next to him, catching her breath from the storm, her hair still damp, her expression a mixture of relief and exhaustion. They had made it through the worst of the weather, but something about the island set his instincts on edge.

Nash swept his gaze over the beach and the dense foliage beyond, his eyes narrowing. There was something wrong. He couldn't pinpoint it, but he felt it deep in his gut—the same gnawing feeling that had saved his life more times than he could count during his SEAL days.

"Something's off," Nash muttered, mostly to himself.

He felt Deanna's questioning eyes on him, but she didn't say anything. He didn't like that. If she had a question or concern, she needed to verbalize it.

"Question? Concern?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Stay on the boat," Nash ordered, his voice gruff. "I'm going to check things out." He opened the weapons locker and pulled out a shotgun. "Can you handle this?"

"I'd rather have the assault rifle, unless you want it," she said walking forward and picking it up. He arched his eyebrow. "I took some weapons training a long time ago. Aren't you going to take a gun?"

"No. If I don't run into trouble, I won't need it, and if I do, I'd rather handle the problem quietly." He hid his smile as her face paled. "I'm going to set the alarm. If it goes off or anyone but me tries to board, shoot first and ask questions later. Then hit the EPIRB, weigh anchor, turn on the motor and get the hell out of here."

"I'm not leaving without you…" she started.

"If it isn't me coming on board, I'm either dead or as good as. If I'm not, the best chance I have is for Cerberus' rescue people to come in. I'm not asking you, Dr. Fowler, I'm giving you an order. You don't want to be on the receiving end of my discipline if you don't do exactly what I tell you."

Deanna hesitated but nodded, her usual stubbornness tempered by the weight of his words. She knew enough to recognize when he was serious, and Nash could tell she sensed something was wrong, too.

He moved swiftly, pulling on his tactical vest and slipping a knife into the sheath at his side before stepping off the deck and into the shallow water near the beach. The moment his boots hit the sand, Nash's senses sharpened. The island looked untouched, but Nash knew better than to take anything at face value. He crouched low, studying the terrain, the way the leaves and sand had shifted in subtle ways.

Footprints. Small, faint, but definitely there. He ran his fingers over the indents in the sand. Two or three people, judging by the depth and spacing of the prints. Recent, too. Whoever had been here wasn't far.

His eyes traced the line of the beach until they stopped at a pile of driftwood farther up the shore. At first glance, it looked like debris from a storm, but Nash wasn't fooled. The edges were too clean, the arrangement too deliberate, as if someone had been using it to camouflage something.

Nash stood, the muscles in his body tightening with the certainty of what he had seen. This wasn't just an uninhabited island. Someone had been here—and recently.

He made his way back to The Reverie, his mind running through scenarios, none of them good. The storm had driven them to this island for safety, but it had also left them vulnerable. If someone was watching, they'd know exactly where Nash and Deanna were.

"Deanna, it's Nash, I'm coming aboard," he called as he reached the boat, using the app on his watch to deactivate the alarm before pulling himself on board.

Deanna was sitting on the deck when he returned, her eyes flicking to him as he approached. "Did you find anything?"

Nash paused, meeting her gaze. There was no point in hiding the truth from her. She needed to know what they were dealing with. "Someone's been here. I found tracks on the beach."

Deanna's face paled slightly, but she held her ground, her eyes searching his for answers. "Are they still here?"

"I don't know," Nash said honestly. "But we need to be ready in case they are."

He didn't wait for her response. Moving with purpose, Nash set about reactivating The Reverie's alarm system. The boat was more than just a charter vessel—it had been retrofitted with top-of-the-line security measures, including infrared sensors, motion detectors, and alarms that could alert them to any movement within a hundred-foot radius of the boat.

As he worked, the sky darkened, the stars being blacked out by incoming cloud cover fading the light they'd cast into a deep, inky blackness. The storm was beginning to abate, but the uneasy tension in the air hadn't. He could feel it in the way the shadows crept along the beach, in the stillness of the night. It reminded him of the nights on a mission when everything felt too quiet, too calm—right before hell broke loose.

Deanna watched him from the corner of the deck, her arms wrapped around herself as the wind picked up. "You really think someone's watching us?"

Nash paused, his fingers hovering over the last security switch. He didn't want to scare her more than necessary, but he wasn't about to sugarcoat the situation. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances."

He flipped the switch, and a soft beep confirmed the system was live. Nash took a deep breath, letting his eyes sweep the dark shoreline once more. If anyone came near them, he'd know about it.

"Go below and get some rest," he said, turning to Deanna. "I'll keep watch tonight."

Deanna frowned, clearly uneasy, but she didn't argue. She knew better than to challenge him when his instincts were this sharp. "You're sure?"

Nash nodded, his gaze already shifting to the shadows beyond the boat. "I've got it covered."

She lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say more, but then she turned and headed below deck, leaving Nash alone with the night and his thoughts.

As he settled into his vigil, his eyes scanning the darkness, memories of his SEAL days flooded back, uninvited and unwanted. He could almost hear the voices of his old team, feel the weight of his gear on his shoulders, the tension before an op. It was the same feeling now, the same sense that danger was close—closer than they knew.

Nash's grip tightened on the railing. He didn't like the feeling crawling up his spine, didn't like the way it felt like the past was creeping up on him, mixing with the present. He wasn't a SEAL anymore, not the same man who had once lived for these moments. He had chosen a different path. A quieter one.

But some things, it seemed, you couldn't leave behind.

As the night wore on, the clouds began to dissipate, and the moon and stars began to blink into view. Nash remained on edge, his senses sharp, every small noise sending a jolt of awareness through him. He didn't know who—or what—was out there, but he was damn sure they weren't alone.

And whoever was watching them, wouldn't catch him off guard.

The night stretched on, a quiet tension hanging in the air as The Reverie swayed gently in the shelter of the cove. Nash leaned against the galley counter, watching the slow drip of the coffee as it filled the mug beneath. The soft gurgle of the coffeemaker was a stark contrast to the storm they had just weathered. Outside, the wind had quieted, and only the sound of the water lapping against the hull broke the silence.

But Nash couldn't relax. His senses were on high alert, every sound, every movement registered. The memory of those tracks on the beach nagged at him. Whoever had been here before, they were either long gone—or waiting. And that uncertainty gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, the warmth doing little to ease the cold feeling coiled in his gut. His eyes scanned the small cabin, the faint glow of the console illuminating the otherwise dark interior. Everything was in place, the boat locked down, alarms set, motion detectors primed. But even the best security systems couldn't quiet the instincts honed from years of living on the edge.

You're being paranoid. He knew better than to ignore his gut. Too many times, ignoring that feeling had ended in disaster.

Then he heard it—a dull thud against the side of the boat.

Nash straightened immediately, his body tense, the coffee mug forgotten on the counter. The sound was unmistakable, a solid impact followed by the faintest scrape, as if something—or someone—was brushing against The Reverie in the dark water below.

He moved quickly, slipping into the captain's chair and flipping on the external cameras. The night vision engaged, and the black-and-white images of the surrounding water came into view on the screen. His eyes flicked over the display, searching for movement, for anything that seemed out of place.

Nothing.

The water in the cove was calm, still rippling slightly from the earlier storm, but there were no visible threats. He switched angles, cycling through the different views: the beach, the cliffs, the boat's hull. Everything looked quiet. Peaceful, even.

But the sound had been real. He wasn't imagining it.

Nash frowned and hit another switch, turning on the underwater cameras. The screen flickered briefly before revealing the dark depths beneath The Reverie . His eyes scanned the screen, watching as the grainy, ghostly images of the water came into focus. The cameras weren't perfect—underwater, in the dark, they could only capture so much—but they were enough to detect any mechanical issues with the boat or, more importantly, anyone trying to approach unseen.

The hull looked intact, nothing was amiss. No damage. No sign of anyone tampering with it. Nash cycled through the various views, scanning the water surrounding the boat. It was murky, the sediment kicked up from the storm swirling slowly in the dim light, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. It wasn't mechanical, and it wasn't a person. Just something drifting through the water—probably debris from the storm.

Bumbling around in the dark , he thought to himself, trying to tamp down the lingering paranoia. The ocean was vast and unpredictable, and things like this happened all the time. Pieces of wood, sea creatures, loose lines—they all had a way of knocking into the boat when you least expected it.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was out there. Watching. Waiting.

He turned off the underwater cameras but left the motion detectors active, their quiet hum a small comfort in the otherwise quiet night. Taking his mug of coffee, he returned to the deck, his eyes scanning the shoreline. The island was still, the only movement coming from the distant sway of the trees as the wind picked up again.

Nash leaned against the railing, sipping his coffee, his thoughts drifting between the present and the past. The unease that had been gnawing at him all night wasn't just about the island or the mysterious tracks he'd found. It was something deeper, more personal. Something he had been trying to leave behind but couldn't.

He thought of Deanna below deck, probably restless even if she was trying to sleep. She was a complication he hadn't expected. Too damn smart, too damn capable—and too damn dangerous to his peace of mind. Her quick thinking earlier had impressed him, but it had also triggered memories of his SEAL days, of relying on teammates the way she had instinctively relied on him. That level of trust and dependence was something he had walked away from for a reason.

He took another sip, the warm bitterness of the coffee grounding him in the moment.

But the feeling of being watched hadn't gone away.

It clung to him, like a shadow, lurking just beyond the edge of his awareness. He'd felt it before—on missions where the enemy was always one step ahead, hiding in plain sight, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It wasn't a feeling that went away easily. And it wasn't one he could afford to ignore.

As the night deepened, Nash settled in for a long watch, his eyes never leaving the dark outline of the island. Whoever—or whatever—was out there, he'd be ready.

Because he knew one thing for certain: They weren't alone.