Page 1 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

PROLOGUE

CRUZ

Undisclosed Location

Six Years Ago

The water is dark—dense and quiet, like slipping into another world. No moonlight down here, just my dive light casting a shaky halo and the buzz of comms in my ear. My pulse is steady, but I can feel the edge. Adrenaline hums just under the surface, waiting.

I check my gauge. Depth: 82 feet. Oxygen’s good. We’re on schedule—at least by the clock. But this mission? It’s slipping sideways fast. Wrong current, wrong timing, wrong everything.

“Devlin, I’ve got eyes on the target,” Remy says over comms. He’s just ahead, threading through the rusted-out frame of a downed recon drone.

I sweep my light across it. Coral has taken over the metal like vines on a forgotten statue. This was supposed to be clean—standard recovery, no contact, in and out. But someone missed a patrol boat sweeping the area. Now we’ve got limited oxygen and limited options.

“Copy,” I say. “I’m coming through.”

Remy flashes a hand signal—classic him, smooth and cocky. Liquid Lightning, he likes to call himself. I call him a pain in the ass. A fast, fearless diver with a mouth that never stops. But solid. Always solid.

I slide in behind him, ducking under twisted beams and drifting sand. The wreck groans faintly with the tide, like a ghost exhaling. I’ve done this kind of dive a hundred times, but something about tonight feels… off. Quiet in the wrong way.

Then I hear it—a sound that doesn’t belong. A sharp clank. Metal on metal. My light darts forward. Remy stops moving.

“Remy?” I say, sharp now.

No answer.

I move faster, close the gap—and then I see him. Floating wrong. Not bleeding. Not broken. But still. Just still.

I get to him, hands on his frog gear. He’s breathing, shallow and slow, eyes wide behind his mask but alert. Something clipped him—maybe a beam came loose, maybe the current knocked him into the wreck. It doesn’t matter. He’s not hurt badly, but he’s rattled. Bad enough to lose focus. Bad enough that he freezes up.

I haul him back through the wreck, both of us moving slowly, carefully. When we surface, he tears off his mask and gasps like he’s never breathed air before.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods. But his hands shake.

We both know what that means. You can train for danger, condition yourself to ignore fear. But sometimes it finds a crack. Remy’s done. Not because he’s weak—but because he finally felt the edge.

And me? Watching him freeze like that... I feel something shift. Not fear. Not failure. Just clarity. This isn't a game anymore. Not a job. Not a calling. It's survival, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm doing it for the right reasons.

Three weeks later, I turn in my gear and walk off the base at Coronado. Nobody believes it. Not at first. But I know… I’m done. I don’t look back.

No fanfare. No salute. No brotherhood. Just silence and salt air. And a single file folder with the wordsHONORABLE DISCHARGEprinted across the top.

I use my pension and a chunk of old savings to buy a 40-foot sailboat docked in Key Largo. She’s a little battered, a little temperamental. Like me.

I name herSerenity.

* * *

TheGulf of Mexico

Six Months Later

I’m anchored near the Dry Tortugas when the producer finds me.

He comes by on a rented speedboat, the engine too loud, his sunglasses too reflective, like he’s trying to blind the ocean. He wears designer board shorts and a linen button down he’s never sweated through. Teeth too white to be trusted.

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