Page 78 of Dirty Valentine
Jack hit speaker, and the electronically distorted voice that emerged carried the satisfaction of someone who’d been planning this moment for years.
“Sheriff Lawson.Your parents are running out of time.”
Jack’s expression didn’t change—fifteen years of tactical operations had trained that response out of him—but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.The only tell he allowed himself.
“Potts.”
“Finally figured it out.Took you long enough.”The mechanical voice held layers of mockery.“Every crime scene, every piece of evidence, every moment you trusted me with your investigation—I was three steps ahead of you.”
“Where are they?”Jack’s tone was flat, professional.The voice of a negotiator, not a son.
“Where Bridget Ashworth grew her healing herbs.Where her blood first touched Virginia soil.The stones have been waiting three centuries for justice, Sheriff.Tonight they’ll finally witness it.”
I felt the pieces shift into place—Evangeline’s property.The stone circle on the survey maps.
“You have until eleven thirty,”Potts continued.“One hour and fifteen minutes should be plenty of time to suit up and find your way through the marsh.Unless you get lost.That would be unfortunate for everyone involved.”
The line went dead before Jack could respond.
Sheldon sat frozen with his mouth slightly open, cracker crumbs scattered across his pajama top.“Was that the bad guy?”
“That was the bad guy,” I confirmed.
“She sounded really scary,” he whispered.
The room stayed silent for exactly three seconds after that.Then Jack was moving with the controlled efficiency of someone who’d done this too many times.
“Everyone back to your vehicles.Full tactical gear—night vision, waterproofs, extra ammunition.”He was already pulling his own equipment from a gun safe in the corner.“Martinez, Daniels—meet at the boat launch in thirty minutes.Cole, take your team to the front entrance.Coordinate through Derby.”
The room emptied quickly.I could hear vehicles starting outside, radios crackling as they coordinated equipment pickup.
“Doug, I need satellite feeds on both approach routes.”Jack’s voice remained steady as he checked his sidearm.“Derby, keep comms clean.Heavy tree cover will interfere with signals.”
His gaze shifted to me as I laced up waterproof boots.“You’re staying here with command.”
“Your parents might need immediate medical attention.Smoke inhalation, drug overdose—an ambulance will have to take the long route.”I met his eyes steadily.“I might be the difference between them walking out or being carried out.”
Jack went still, and I could see him weighing tactical necessity against personal risk.His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to my stomach—acknowledging the secret we shared without words.
“You stay with me.No heroics.”
“Understood.”
The boat launch sat wrapped in pre-dawn darkness, the Rappahannock a black mirror reflecting pinpricks of starlight.Fish and Wildlife had delivered two jon boats as requested—aluminum hulls that would move silently through shallow water.
Martinez and Daniels were already in position, their movements efficient despite bulky gear.Both wore tactical vests over waterproof clothing, night vision goggles flipped up on their foreheads, weapons secured in waterproof cases.
“Comms check,” Doug’s voice crackled through our earpieces.
“Copy,” Jack responded, settling into the lead boat.
Plank took the oars in our boat, pulling us through black water without a sound.Behind us, Martinez matched the rhythm perfectly.The marsh closed around us—ancient cypress trees rising from dark water, their gnarled roots creating a maze of obstacles.Spanish moss hung in gray curtains that brushed our faces as we passed.
The night vision goggles turned everything into eerie green shapes, but at least we could navigate safely.Every shadow could hide danger, every sound might signal discovery.An owl’s hunting cry made everyone tense.The splash of something large in the water had weapons swinging toward the sound.
“Visual on the dock,” Plank whispered.
We secured the boats in absolute silence.Jack was out first, moving with the fluid precision of someone who’d learned that speed and stealth weren’t mutually exclusive.The path wound through cypress stands, over rotting planks that groaned softly under our weight.
