CHAPTER NINETEEN

Even though Jake managed to fall back to sleep, Wyatt and Vica were up for the day.

Vica planned to head to the kitchen as soon as either Dom, Clint, or Benett set off for work, but Wyatt had other plans. Not only did he have a chiropractor appointment with Wolfe, but he planned to stop by the grocery store. Maybe if Shelley saw his face, she'd come clean.

He still wasn't cleared by Justine or Grayson to return to work—which was killing him—but he knew it was for the better. The last thing he needed was to overdo it and set himself back in recovery even further.

"Dom has the kids for the morning, but I should be back by about eleven," he said to Vica as they sat outside on his patio in the Adirondack chairs sipping coffee in the early morning.

She nodded. "I have a meeting with Gabrielle at ten. She is coming to the restaurant though. She says she's managed to track two other women who Track attacked and Wyndham paid off. They might be willing to speak on my behalf, but they are scared."

"Scared of what?" he probed .

She lifted her brows. "Uh … I've had someone try to kill me at least three times. So I'm sure they were bullied into taking the hush money by the same form of coercion."

"Right." He nodded. "Good point." His lips twisted in thought. "Maybe if we can offer them some kind of guaranteed protection?"

"Do we have the means to do that? Do you know anybody? What would that look like?"

All good questions and none of which he had the answers to. Stroking his chin, he stared blankly ahead, summoning a solution, but it never came.

A knock at the sliding glass down which was partially open pulled their attention. It was Clint and a very tall, very broad man with dark-red hair.

Wyatt was on his feet immediately.

"Hey," Clint said. "This is Isaac Fox from Seattle PD."

Wyatt's gaze flicked to Vica, who also stood up, then back to his brother. He sent a wordless question to Clint using just their eyes.

"We can trust him," Clint said. "He's the guy who helped us big time with Brooke's case."

Ah, okay.

Now Wyatt remembered why the name "Isaac Fox" sounded familiar.

"San Camanez isn't really my jurisdiction," Isaac started, "but when Clint called and told me what was going on, I said I'll help however I can."

Clint nodded. "We can't trust Jenkins or Fischer, and as much as I like Myla and Everett, they're young and green in the world of policing. Jenkins and Fischer aren't intimidated by them, and don't listen to them. It's not a team environment in that police station and the whole island knows it."

Isaac pulled in a deep breath through his nose and his head bobbed. "It can happen. The old dogs won't learn new tricks, and stay barking long after they should have retired."

"Coffee?" Vica asked.

Isaac and Clint both nodded. "Please," Isaac said, as they all followed Vica back into the kitchen and took seats at the kitchen table.

"Vica says she's meeting with Gabrielle today. That there are two women who had similar experiences with Track and were paid off by Wyndham to be quiet," Wyatt stated, sipping his coffee.

"Oh, there are at least eight that I'm aware of," Isaac added. "I did a bit of quick digging in the ferry line this morning and found eight names of women that Wyndham Croft has paid off in the last five years. And you can bet your ass he's having them all watched right now."

"Shit," Wyatt murmured. "He's making sure they all keep quiet."

Isaac nodded. "Wyndham Croft is dirty money. Sure, he owns Croft Engineering, but he's got his hands in all kinds of other shit. Along with the FBI, we've been watching him for years. Ties to organized crime, racketeering, embezzlement, fraud, and I think he was one of the guys who visited Epstein's island. Like the man is dirty, but he has the means and the contacts to keep himself looking clean."

"So the possibility of those two witnesses, let alone the other six, actually coming forward is pretty slim?" Wyatt asked, meeting Vica's heartbroken gaze in the kitchen.

Isaac's mouth dipped into a sympathetic frown and he met Vica's gaze, his blue eyes turning sad. "Slim, yes. Impossible, no. We just need to be smart about this." He scratched at the rusty scruff along his angular jaw. "This is going to sound really callous, and I apologize in advance, but we need to find the women with less to lose."

Vica reared back at that. "What do you mean less to lose ?"

Isaac focused on her. "I mean, a woman with children, or a spouse, or large extended family, will be less likely to help if she has more targets for Wyndham to threaten. But if we find someone similar to Vica—again, I mean no disrespect, but a woman with no children or partner, and less to lose, less leverage, less targets, then she might be willing to help. If we are able to guarantee her safety. Like witness protection. "

The cop's reasoning made sense, even though it made Wyatt sick to think about. "Are there any like that?" Vica asked.

Isaac nodded. "Three. Two are the women your lawyer mentioned, and then one more. Evie Sanchez." He dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment, took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled long and slow before finally reaching her eyes again, his gaze drifting to each of them. "Evie worked with Track last year. He got her alone at the staff Christmas party and he raped her."

Bile coated the back of Wyatt's tongue. It was a good thing that motherfucker was already dead.

"She wound up pregnant. Got an abortion and tried to file a report with HR and the police. But the rape kit mysteriously went missing—"

"Yeah, I bet it did," Wyatt shot back, shaking his head as rage bubbled hot in his veins.

Isaac simply nodded. "And of course, I'm sure you can guess, but HR did nothing to support her."

"Because HR isn't there for the employees, it's there for the business," Clint said. "Anybody who thinks otherwise is deluding themselves."

"Where is Ms. Sanchez now?" Wyatt asked.

Vica nodded. "Is she okay?"

Another frown pulled down the corners of Isaac's lips. "She dropped the case, and shortly after disappeared."

"Like was killed?" Clint asked, his eyes wide.

Isaac quickly shook his head. "No, no. Nothing like that."

Everyone visibly exhaled in relief.

"Sorry," Isaac apologized, "she's very much alive. She just bought a house on the Oregon Coast and makes beach glass mosaic art now. She was paid off, and no longer needs to work." Isaac's lips twisted. "She is our very best bet." His eyes were sad. There was something about this Evie Sanchez that he wasn't saying.

"You think she will talk?" Vica asked, hopeful.

Isaac shrugged a big shoulder. "It's worth a shot. But you can bet your ass she's being watched. Her house is also probably bugged. Her emails are being monitored. You're the first person to not accept the hush money. And you've been vocal about bringing Track and Wyndham to justice. Wyndham's lawyers will have warned him about the previous victims potentially being contacted. So he'll cover his butt by dispatching watchdogs."

"Won't these women be in violation of a gag order?" Clint asked.

"If it never went to court, there's no gag order. I couldn't even find a record of settlements. The payoffs were all done off the books. Wyndham wanted no record of his baby boy being a multi-convicted predator. It reflects badly on him."

"Disgusting," Clint said, shaking his head.

Vica brought everyone's coffees over to them and they thanked her.

"So how do we even get in touch with this Evie Sanchez without alerting Wyndham's goons?" Wyatt asked.

Isaac gingerly sipped his coffee, then his dark-red brows shot up. "This is really good coffee."

"Italians just make better coffee," Wyatt said, shaking his head. "I can't figure it out, but they just do." He winked at Vica, who did a cute little shoulder wiggle and smile.

"So, I know some guys who are good at this kind of thing. All former military. One actually lives on the Oregon Coast. He's the friend of a friend. His wife is a billionaire heiress and scientist with access to a private jet. So I've reached out to Barnes, and he and his wife, Brier, are going to go pay Evie a visit. They're going to pretend that they're interested in purchasing some of her art and he's going to communicate the situation to her. I think if we could get her here and protected, that might be best."

"Of course," Wyatt said. "Anything. She's a victim of Track's too. Anything we can do to help."

Vica nodded. "That poor woman. Raped, impregnated, forced to have an abortion—because who would want to carry their rapist's baby—and then the only option is to take the money and run because vindication is not an option. Shut up and run, or die." She bunched her fists on the table as her face became flushed and tears brimmed in her eyes. "This world is just …"

"I agree," Isaac said. "It's fucked up."

"When is all of this with your friend taking place?" Wyatt asked.

"Today or tomorrow," Isaac replied. "He'll keep me posted though."

"Depending on the size of the jet, we could talk to Mal Ernie about using his airstrip," Clint offered. "It's worth a shot."

"Gonna have to bribe him with a lot of beer," Wyatt said, unenthusiastically. "Man hates people and starts threatening to shoot if you step on his property."

"Who is Mal Ernie?" Isaac asked.

"Oh, he's a retired endodontist," Clint added. "His parents were OG islanders, had like six kids, but only Mal wanted the property. The rest got as far away from this life as possible. Mal is divorced and has adult kids. He owns like four little prop planes that he likes to fly, and built an airstrip on his property. It also serves as his driveway. He just cleared a bunch of trees and made it really freaking long and straight. It's honestly like the biggest chunk of residential property on the island."

"But he likes beer," Wyatt said. "A lot. So if we rock up with a few cases of beer, maybe he'll cooperate and not shoot."

"Sounds like a really nice, community-minded fella." Isaac rolled his eyes and sipped more coffee.

"Cream of the ol' crop," Clint scoffed.

"Well, if Mal doesn't cooperate, we can see about landing at SeaTac and just having her escorted by security to the island. Or a helicopter can bring her over. Barnes is a helicopter pilot. I'm assuming there's somewhere one can land?"

"Bonn Remmen's land is open enough," Vica chimed in.

Clint and Wyatt both nodded. She was right.

"Okay, so we have a bit of a plan," Isaac said. "In the meantime, what can you tell me in about the attempts on Vica's life here? "

"How much time do you have?" Vica asked with a sarcastic snort.

By the time Isaac left, and Wyatt's kids woke up and he got them fed, he was actually forced to run out the door, otherwise he'd be late for his chiropractor appointment with Wolfe.

He hated being late.

Growing up with a father in the army, and then joining the marines himself, Wyatt knew the importance of being on time. Of the respect it showed for someone else's time and how much better life ran when things went as scheduled.

So he may have gone a little faster than he should have as he drove Jagger's truck across the island to Wolfe's clinic.

"I'm here," he exclaimed, slightly out of breath as he burst through the clinic doors and into the luscious air-conditioning. "Sorry."

"Dr. Unger is about five minutes behind schedule," Ramona, his receptionist, said from behind the desk. "You're all good, Wyatt."

Chuckling at his own stress, Wyatt exhaled a big sigh as he flopped down into one of the waiting room chairs.

Although the clinic was not part of the kooky labyrinth that made up the group of kiosks and small shops surrounding the Town Center Grocery Store, it was directly across the street from it. Wyatt found parking on the street, since finding parking near the grocery store was impossible, and even though there was a sign outside of Unger Wellness that said "Parking for Unger Wellness Patients Only" nobody listened to it. Particularly tourists.

It was more like a ten-minute wait before Wyatt was called to go sit in an appointment room, but in truth, he didn't care. He liked Wolfe, and the guy did everything he could—including house calls—to help his patients.

"So, are we taking it easy and pivoting at the waist?" Wolfe asked as he lumbered into the appointment room, his laptop perched open on his enormous palm He closed the door and sat down in a rolling office chair, setting the computer down on a desk. It was a running joke on the island that Wolfe should have been named "Bear," based on the sheer size and breadth of him. He was probably close to six foot six and at least two hundred and thirty pounds. The man was pure muscle, which bode well for his job as a chiropractor, and as a volunteer firefighter.

In truth, he was a giant, blue-eyed, blond, German teddy bear that everyone on the island adored.

Wyatt exhaled and nodded. "When I remember, yeah. I haven't been back to work yet. I'm not standing for long periods of time, and I'm trying to remember to alternate between ice and heat. I'm also weaning off the pain meds."

Wolfe nodded. "Okay, well, face down on the table. Let's see if you're lying. Because Shakira says her hips don't lie, but I say the spine doesn't lie. If you've been overdoing it, your back will tell me. Then I will call you a liar."

Rolling his eyes and snorting, Wyatt did as he was told and got face down onto the chiropractor table. "You should know as well as anybody how hard it is for me to sit still. But I am doing my best."

"I'm sure you are." Wolfe's tone was pure sarcasm as he prodded Wyatt's neck and back with his strong, thick fingers. "Actually, you are not a liar. The swelling has gone down quite a bit. It would seem you are resting."

"I told you."

"I would book in for some acupuncture with Suvi sometime soon though. Next five days for sure. Then plan for some physio with Rolph. Massages help too."

"You trying to drain my bank account and pad yours, Wolfe? Do I even have whiplash or an aggravated disc? "

Wolfe grunted. "This here is tight though." He cranked up the table, pressed his hands in the middle of Wyatt's lower back. "Deep breath in. Good. Now out."

Clunk.

"Oof," Wyatt said, feeling that intense crack as the middle section of the table under his belly sunk into the table the way it was supposed to.

Wolfe prodded the same spot. "Good." Then he did it higher up, more between Wyatt's shoulder blades. Wyatt definitely felt that crack. "I am going to leave your neck alone. You have much better mobility there now, but the muscles are still swollen. Continue with the ice and heat, and the moving at the hips rather than the neck. Come back in three or so days and we'll see how the whiplash is doing."

"No decompression table today?"

Wolfe shook his head. "I don't think you need it."

"Cool." Wyatt sat up and extended his hand to Wolfe. "Thanks, Wolfe. I really appreciate it."

Wolfe shook his hand. "I don't always take payments in the form of consumables, but if one of these appointments you would like to pay me in beer, I would not be offended. I hear Clint has a very nice Hefeweizen this summer."

Wyatt smirked. "Duly noted. I will be sure to arrive with beer next time."

"I also enjoy Belgian-style Witbiers. His one with orange peel and coriander is very refreshing."

Wyatt opened the door, his hand on the knob. "It's my new favorite."

"Ice and heat," Wolfe reminded him as Wyatt went up to Ramona's desk to book his next appointment and pay.

In no time, he was out of the clinic and running across the street to the grocery store. Even after Vica and his intense sex early that morning, speaking with Isaac, and getting his back cracked by Wolfe, anger continued to simmer in Wyatt just beneath the surface. His fists bunched and flexed at his sides as he wandered down the aisles of the store, filling his basket with various things. Before Vica left for the restaurant, he asked her to give him a grocery list of things she wanted in the kitchen at home, and the woman did not disappoint.

Parmigiano, ricotta, Roma tomatoes, fresh basil, fresh oregano, more garlic, a really good extra virgin olive oil —apparently she didn't like the one he had—and a very good balsamic vinegar . She said he cheaped out on the one he had in the house. He disagreed, but she just told him he didn't know what he was talking about. She planned to make focaccia bread with the boys and said she wouldn't settle for mediocre ingredients. She also added "good" olives to the list, not caring what color as long as they didn't come from a can. And finally, she requested more flour because she'd nearly used up all he had making pasta and bread.

The woman could be so bossy.

Good thing he liked it.

He'd found everything on her list besides "good" olives and was wandering the aisles since apparently, the grocery store had moved all their pickled items to a new location.

"Can I help you find anything, Wyatt?" came a familiar voice that instantly made Wyatt's body turn molten-hot.

He spun around to find Shelley Diamond standing there with her green employee polo on, and a smile. Not an ounce of guilt shone in her brown eyes. "Olives," he said, clenching his molars together. "You've moved them."

Her smile grew bigger. "Oh, yes. We did. Last week. Just over here." She took off toward the back of the store, smiling and waving, and saying hello to local islanders shopping. "Just right here," she said, pointing to a small corner next to the bakery section. "How are those adorable little boys of yours, hmm? Enjoying summer?"

"They are," he said through gritted teeth. "Been a bit scary for them though. A friend who is staying with us was nearly run off the road by a car. Then, we were hit in my truck and then shot at."

Shelley's eyes widened, and she gasped. "Oh my gosh! Is everyone okay? "

Wyatt's eyes formed thin slits. "How can you stand there pretending?"

The woman looked genuinely confused. "Wh-what are you talking about? Pretending what?"

He shook his head. "What's in your garage, Shelley?"

"M-my garage?"

"Are you really that badly in debt that you're taking money from a criminal in exchange for trying to kill an innocent woman?" He was yelling now, causing customers to pause and stare.

Shelley's eyes welled up with tears and she tucked her blonde-gray hair behind her ears. "Wyatt, I would never. I haven't gambled in three months. I'm going to meetings. I swear. Yes, I have debt, but I'm working very hard to get out of it—honestly. I would never …" She gasped and her eyes went even wider. "S-someone asked if they could pay me to rent my garage for a few months. I was t-told to never go into it, but that they needed to store something there. I peered into it one day and just saw a car. So I didn't think anything of it. The money has helped me get out of debt. But I swear, Wyatt, I've never driven it."

"What's going on over here?" It was Wallace Franks, one of the owners of the store. The Franks family owned the store, and their son, Wallace—who was in his mid-forties—ran the day-to-day.

Jordana, another cashier and a friend of Brooke and Justine, came over as well. "Why don't we pop to the back office?" She wrapped a protective arm around Shelley and led the distraught woman through the store to the employees only section.

"Wyatt," Wallace said, tilting his head to the side to indicate Wyatt needed to follow them.

Of course, as he followed Wallace, he received more than a few curious glances from customers, but he paid them very little attention.

Wallace held open the door for him and they joined a crying Shelley, and Jordana, in the cramped, sad, little office.

"What is going on?" Wallace asked, his tone not unfriendly, but also letting everyone know he wasn't pleased.

Shelley's bottom lip wobbled. "I … agreed to let someone store their car in my garage, but apparently that car was involved in an attempted hit-and-run." Tears streamed down her face. "I didn't even recognize the person who asked me if they could store the car. They just knocked on my door one day. Said their family just bought vacation property on the island but had no space to store an extra vehicle. They asked if I could store it for them for a while and that they'd pay me."

"And you never thought that was suspicious?" Wyatt asked.

She shrugged. "The money was good. And I never park in there anyway. It mostly just had old junk. So I sold the junk to help pay off my debt. And rented out the garage to continue to pay off my debt." Her brows furrowed. "How'd you know the car was there?"

"I was about to ask the same question," Wallace said, all three of them staring down Wyatt.

He exhaled, his cheeks hot as embarrassment and shame settled in. He fucked up big time and they all knew it. His brothers were going to be so pissed off at him. But he needed these people on his side. And something told him, they were not double agents working for Wyndham Croft. He could trust them with the truth.

So he laid it all out for them. Starting with what happened to Vica that first night. Then the goons coming to the gate trying to pay her off. The attempted hit and run. The shooting. The car crash. All of it. He swore them all to secrecy, but a large weight slipped from his shoulders the moment he exhaled and said, "Now you're all up to speed."

Three people's mouths hung agape.

"And I'm storing the car that tried to kill her," Shelley whispered.

"I'm sorry we trespassed. But we're desperate. Me marrying Vica isn't going to keep her from getting arrested. It kept her from being deported for now, but it's a Band-Aid over a bullet wound. "

"I understand why you did it," Shelley said. "And you have my full cooperation. The police can come and open up the garage, dust for prints, and do whatever." She wrung her hands and shivered. "I feel like I've accepted blood money or something."

Jordana rubbed her back, her gray eyes sympathetic. "You didn't know. I probably would have done the same thing if they'd made me that kind of offer. I don't use my garage either. And as a single mom I can always use extra cash."

"How can we help?" Wallace asked. "What do you need from us? This is …" he shook his head. "It's not how we do shit on the island. And the idea that it could be a local pulling this shit makes my blood boil."

"Me too," Wyatt said.

Jordana lifted her gaze to them and tucked a strand of her dark-red hair behind her ear. "What did the person who came to your house offering to rent your garage look like, Shelley?"

Shelley swallowed and licked her lips. "Uh … well, she was young."

"She?" Wyatt asked in surprise.

Shelley nodded. "Early twenties, I'd say. Short, blonde hair. Very pretty little thing. I can't remember what color her eyes were, I'm afraid. She was friendly. I didn't get any bad feelings about her. She said that her parents just bought or inherited land—again, I can't remember—and her dad needed a place to store a vehicle. They were willing to pay, and it was more money than I would have thought renting out the dumpy garage would be. So I said yes."

Wyatt's brain was still reeling over the fact that it was a young woman who approached Shelley. Not one of the goons who stepped out of that Chevy Suburban like they were auditioning for a Sopranos remake.

He heaved a sigh. "Well, we need to convince Mal Ernie to let us use his landing strip. We also need people to be on the lookout for a vehicle with front end damage. They have determined that the vehicle that hit my truck was a gray SUV. Probably mid-sized. So think Toyota RAV-4, not Chevy Suburban."

Everyone nodded .

"This can't leave this room though. We honestly have no idea who we can trust, and I'm taking a huge leap even telling you guys." He made sure to make eye contact with each of them. "But I know I can trust you."

"We're at your disposal, Wyatt," Wallace added, holding out a hand.

Wyatt shook it, smiling. "Thank you."

Shelley stood up from where she'd been sitting in a chair against the wall. Wyatt held open his arms and she went to him.

"I'm sorry, Shelley. I … I was angry enough when it just involved Vica, but after they hit my truck and shot at us while my kids were in the car, all I can see right now is red. Logic and reason are not something I'm paying enough attention to at the moment."

She squeezed him tighter. "It's okay, honey. I completely understand. And I'm so sorry for the part I've played in it."

They broke their embrace, and he took her by the hands. "Thank you."

Jordana handed him his basket of items, smirking when she studied the contents. "Tell me you're living with an Italian without telling me you're living with an Italian."

That made him chuckle. "She's very particular."

"I had a roommate in college who was Italian, and she was very much the same. The best cook in the freaking world though. So I never complained when she moaned about the mediocre olive oil. I made sure to get the better one next time. Because it really does make a difference."

He nodded. "It absolutely does. And as a chef, I thought I had the good stuff in my house. Apparently not."

When they exited the office, everyone was smiling. Guilt still gnawed at his gut for the way he attacked Shelley, but she didn't seem bothered by it anymore, and reiterated before they re-entered the main store, that she would help and cooperate any way she could.

He was just leaving the grocery store with his two fabric shopping bags full of groceries when the sight of Jagger, looking very pissed off, caught the corner of his eye.

His hands were on his hips, his brows were pinched together until they nearly kissed beneath his glasses, and he was glaring down at, and appeared to be berating, Raina Aaronson.

This was not the first time in the last few months that the two of them were caught up in a heated argument. They were too far away for Wyatt to hear though.

Raina, despite her small stature, wasn't intimidated or deterred by Jagger. She even poked him in the chest which just seemed to make steam come out of Jagger's ears.

What the hell was going on with those two?

Raina was one of Gabrielle's cousins. She was co-owner of the winery and vineyard, and the last time she and Jagger got into a public argument was at Bonn Remmen's celebration of life, where Jagger accused her of trying to bribe the Island Elders to pick her family's proposal.

It got heated then, and both families had to step in and separate them before they started launching swats and kicks, and not just verbal barbs.

He must have been staring for a while because suddenly Jagger glanced up, saw Wyatt, and his face turned bright red beneath his big lumberjack beard. Then he gave one final snarky remark—at least that was Wyatt's assumption—to Raina, before stalking off.

But he didn't even approach Wyatt, he just disappeared.

Jagger was an odd dude.

Salt of the fucking earth. A great brother and incredible uncle. But he was an odd dude.

Wyatt would have to debrief Dom, Bennett, and Clint on his Jagger sighting and see if they had any insight. Then he sighed as he took the stairs down to the gravel. He'd have to debrief them on what happened with Shelley too. They would not be happy.

Growing up, everyone knew that if the boys were involved in any fights, whether with each other, or other kids, Wyatt was the one to throw the first punch. He had a temper, and even though getting married, having children, and becoming a widower had subdued him immensely, he was still very quick to act first and ask questions later. It landed him in hot water more than he cared to admit.

His gut was rarely wrong though. He knew when someone deserved comeuppance for behaving like a dick.

By the time he got home, his mood was a lot better. He knew that Shelley would follow through and cooperate in any way she could. He just hoped that her cooperation didn't land her in trouble with whoever asked to rent the garage from her. They'd need to disclose this to Isaac too. At least it removed the need for a search warrant.

He pulled onto the long laneway that served as the driveway for the pub and property, but when he arrived, his body went ice cold. Two cop cars were parked in front of the pub and all the patrons and staff—except Vica—were standing outside.

He didn't even bother to turn off his truck before he opened the door and booked it to Bennett, who was chatting with Myla and Everett. "What happened?"

"Someone sent a package to Vica," Bennett said, his face ashen.

Terror rippled in frigid waves down Wyatt's face. "Where is she? Is she okay?" He made to run into the pub, but Clint gripped him by the shoulders. "She's fine. She's fine. Everybody is okay."

"Why did the place get evacuated?" Wyatt asked.

"Because when she opened the package, it was a bomb," Bennett said, his face somber.

Wyatt swayed a little. "A bomb?"

Jesus Christ.

"Good thing Burke was a former bomb tech. Huh?" Clint said, shaking his head. "He, uh, he climbed into a kayak, took the bomb out into the middle of the water, and is attempting to disarm it before it goes off."

Wyatt's mouth dropped open. "You're kidding me?"

Myla pointed out to ocean where, sure enough, a red kayak sat a ways out in the waves and Burke was hunched over an unidentifiable object."

"Where's Vica?" he asked.

"Down there." Bennett pointed to the beach where Vica stood with Everett Jacobs, the other police officer, watching Burke.

Wyatt took off toward her, having to maneuver his way through the crowd. When he reached her, she was sobbing, her hands cupping her face. Seeing him, she clung to his body, burying her face in his shirt. "This is all because of me."

He held her tight, both of them watching Burke. "No. It's not. You've done nothing wrong."

"How do things look?" Everett asked into a radio.

"One more wire. Then I'm going to drop it into the water and paddle like hell," Burke replied.

Everett nodded. "What's your time frame?"

"Sixty seconds."

Vica gasped.

Wyatt gripped her tighter.

"Done. Fifty-two seconds." Burke said before he held the bomb over the side of the kayak, dropped it in, then began to paddle like an Olympian toward shore.

Everett had already hit a timer on his phone.

They all held their breath, watching as Burke raced for his life.

Wyatt glanced down at Everett's phone.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six .

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Everett winced.

Burke reached shore.

Vica dug her nails into Wyatt's arm.

But nothing happened.

They all exhaled in relief.

Burke smiled and waved as he climbed out of the kayak, and everyone up near the pub cheered.

"This is getting too fucking scary," Wyatt said. "A bomb? A motherfucking bomb?"

Everett nodded. "Yeah, man. This is …" he raked his fingers through his light-brown hair, "out of my wheelhouse."

Burke reached them, and Vica flung herself into his arms. "Don't you dare do that again," she said. Then she swatted his arm and cursed a bunch in Italian, before hugging him again. He was all smiles though.

Wyatt held out his hand and shook Burke's before hauling his friend in for a hug. "Thanks. That was …"

"Fucking terrifying," Burke said. "Not gonna lie."

Wyatt met Vica's gaze, then Everett's. First, they tried to run Vica over. Then, they successfully ran her, Wyatt and the boys off the road, and shot at them. They shot at children! Fucking children! Then, they shot at Vica on the property. Once again, not giving a shit about a wayward bullet ricocheting off a tree and hitting someone else. And now, she was being sent a fucking bomb to a restaurant full of people? Whoever was after her was getting desperate and reckless. They no longer cared about how many other people got hurt, as long as their target was eliminated in the process .

The question that itched like a fresh mosquito bite on the back of his neck, though, was how did they know she was working in the kitchen in the first place?

Did they have a mole in their midst? Did Wyatt and his brothers hire a fucking turncoat?

With his good mood obliterated, he marched back up to the pub, pulling Bennett and Clint aside. "I don't care if we lose every fucking staff member, we're getting some answers. And if we have to interrogate them, then we will. This. Ends. Now."