Page 26 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

Pelican Point used to run offshore prep programs—basic obstacle courses, dive certifications, tactical simulations. I spent a brutal summer grinding through those courses when I was barely more than a kid with something to prove. Remy was there too—loud, relentless, always needing to be the biggest presence in the room. We bled together on this concrete, learned to survive side by side. But somewhere along the way, while I forged discipline, Remy let his demons win. This place built us both. But only one of us walked away better for it.

His voice cuts through the fog. Lazy. Drawling. Still smug. Still bitter. "Been a while, Cruz."

I roll my jaw and blink away the fuzz. He’s leaning against a crate, arms crossed, posture loose like a man with nothing to lose and a score to settle. His face is half-shadowed by the flickering overhead light, but the smirk cutting across it is unmistakably Remy—twisted and hungry. Like this isn’t just revenge—it’s personal. Like he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for years, each day darker than the last.

“Remy.” I make it sound casual, like we’re bumping into each other at a dive bar. Not a hostage situation. “Still compensating for that frag grenade you dropped in training?”

He laughs. Low and humorless. “Still hiding behind medals and camera crews?”

He circles me slowly, boots scuffing the concrete with deliberate rhythm, like a predator drawing out the moment before a strike. I let him. Every second he wastes with posturing is another second I need—another breath to clear the fog, another beat to catalog the space, the exits, the timing. His voice is a slow poison, bitter and drawn-out, but I drink it down, because beneath the venom is an opening. And I intend to use it.

“You think you’re better than me,” he says. “Walked away from the teams, got rich playing Jacques Cousteau..."

"Cousteau was an oceanographer and an explorer. I'm a treasure hunter."

"And a rich celebrity. You could’ve pulled me in. Given me a shot. But no. You left me behind.”

“That’s not what happened.”

He steps closer, boots grinding into the concrete like punctuation to a threat, his breath sharp and hot with fury. I don’t flinch. I want him closer—close enough to smell the desperation curling under all that bravado, close enough to see the rot behind his eyes. The overhead light flickers again, casting long shadows that dance across his clenched fists. He’s not just here to talk. He’s here to hurt something. Maybe me. Maybe the world that forgot him. But I stay still, calm. Because if I move too soon, I lose my edge. And right now? That’s all I’ve got.

“I froze once,” he growls. “Once. And you sold me out. Like I was weak.”

“You were reckless. And you nearly got the two of us killed. I didn’t sell you out. You imploded. You quit.”

His fist slams into the crate beside me with a violent crack that sends splinters flying, the sound ricocheting through the concrete walls like a gunshot. The impact vibrates through the floor, a brutal punctuation to his spiraling rage—a warning, a promise, and a threat all in one.

I don’t blink. I want him angry. Unfocused. Sloppy. Let him lean into the rage, let it blur the edges of his control—that’s where mistakes live. And I’m counting on him to make one.

“I watched you on that stupid show,” he says. “With your perfect boat. Your perfect life. You think you earned it?”

I lean back just slightly, scanning the room with peripheral vision. There—zip ties binding my wrists, one edge pressed against the rusted bolt anchoring the chair leg. The metal's flaking, but the corner is jagged, almost serrated. Sharp enough to bleed if I pull too hard, but maybe just sharp enough to cut through plastic. It's a risk. A calculated one. But I'm running low on time, and the taste of urgency is bitter on my tongue. I inch my wrist toward it, slow and deliberate, praying Remy's too caught up in his own performance to notice. One slip, one jerk too fast, and this whole thing detonates. But if I time it right...

“You’re pissed because I moved on,” I say. “Because I didn’t drown in the same guilt you marinated in.”

“Because you forgot me.”

“No. I remembered. I just stopped pretending you were still the guy I’d trust with my six.”

He lunges, but I’m ready. The second he shifts, I twist hard—my chair tips backward with a crash, metal screaming against concrete. My wrist jerks with a searing bolt of pain as I wrench it against the bolt—skin tears, blood slicks my grip—but the zip tie snaps with a sharp pop. I hit the ground, roll hard, and come up swinging. No hesitation. Just instinct. Just fury.

He curses. Too slow. I'm already moving. My fist slams into his gut—hard enough to fold him in half—then snaps upward into his jaw with bone-jarring precision. There's a crack, maybe his nose, maybe just the sound of all that arrogance hitting the floor. He goes down in a heap, groaning, one hand clutching his stomach, the other clawing at air like he can't quite believe what's happening.

He looks up at me, dazed, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. But there's no fight left. Just bitter defeat. I don't wait to savor it.

I spit to the side, wipe the blood from my brow, and bolt for the door.

Crystal. I'm coming.

Crystal.

I don’t know where they took her. I don’t know who else Remy’s working with. But I know one thing: I have to find her.

* * *

CRYSTAL

Okay. Think. They don't consider me much of a threat. I'm not even tied up—kind of insulting when I think about it, but it does make things easier. I'm in a small room—maybe a supply closet. I peer out the small grimy window. Two thugs. One parked outside the door with a gun tucked too obviously into his waistband. One distracted by his reflection in a freezer glass, fixing his hair like it's prom night. I'm in a back room that smells like moldy oranges, oil, and something vaguely metallic. And the air feels... wrong. Still. Charged. Like this place is holding its breath. Like I'm not just a historian in the wrong place at the wrong time—but a loose end someone forgot to tie off.

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