Page 1 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
Chapter 1
Fletcher Dane heard the boots scuffing across the cement flooring. His spine stiffened in response. His muscles ached. His bones rattled. It had been at least a full day since his captors had visited his tiny cell. He’d gone without water, food, and thankfully, the screams coming from his teammates. He could do anything…but that. He knew no one had broken. Or at least, that’s what he believed. If one of them had, they’d all be dead.
Only one concerned him, though.
Ken.
He was the only one with a wife and kids.
Not that the rest of them didn’t have something to live for, but Ken had a family. He had people who depended on him for more than a phone call once a week to check in.
Ken also had one foot out the door.
He constantly talked about leaving the Navy, saying his days were numbered, and that he most likely wouldn’t sign his re-enlistment papers. It hadn’t come as a shock to Fletcher or the rest of the team.
Dawson had been the first to mention the words out loud, but Keaton had repeated them, and Hayes had nodded in agreement.
Fletcher just couldn’t imagine it. He’d known Ken his entire life. They’d been best friends since he could remember.
The metal door rattled to life, and Fletcher did his best to mentally and physically prepare himself for the next battle. He wasn’t afraid. He knew what was coming, and he’d endure. He’d been electrocuted, waterboarded, cut, burned—you name it, his captors had done it. All in the name of giving up the mission. But Fletcher would never talk. He’d die first. The men inflicting the torture seemed to know that line between life and death well and straddled it each and every time they entered this small room to beat Fletcher. He did his best to keep quiet. All the men did, but pain had a way of escaping no matter what.
He sat up on the grimy mattress his captors had provided and watched as two men entered the room. They hoisted him to his feet and dragged him through the door.
That was new.
He didn’t protest. He didn’t fight. And he sure as hell didn’t say one fucking word. There was no point.
The men led him into a different room at the end of the hall. His heart hammered in his chest. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He knew at any moment, this could be the time they put a bullet through his brain. He’d been on numerous missions where he and his team had been the ones charging in, coming to the rescue. But with every passing day, hour, minute, the resolve that his team would be freed…left his mind.
Not that he gave up hope that a team was looking. But he’d accepted they might never be found.
One of the men stuck a long, old-fashioned key into the lock, pushed open the door, and shoved Fletcher into the space. He stumbled, his muscles too weak to maintain balance and hold him upright. He fell to his knees. He blinked, staring at a pair of dirty, bloody, bare feet. He glanced up and gasped.
Strapped to a chair in the center of a room that smelled like copper and rot, Ken Mitchell looked nothing like the guy who’d once shot-gunned beers on a Florida beach or teased Baily for not knowing how to tie a proper boating cleat. His face was swollen and bruised, his eyes barely open. But when his gaze met Fletcher’s, there was still something there—something sharp and defiant.
Something that told Fletcher this was a man who would not be broken.
Now, he felt like a real asshole for doubting his best friend. The one who had been by his side when his parents had died. The one who had followed him into the Navy, like it was the most normal thing to do.
The man behind Ken said something in a language Fletcher didn’t understand. His tone calm, detached.
“You talk now,” the man said. “Or he dies.”
Ken shook his head and mouthed, No.
Fletcher lifted his chin, rocking back on his heels as the other man grabbed him by the hair.
“You have nothin’ to say?” the man asked.
Fletcher swallowed the bile that smacked the back of his throat. He held Ken’s gaze. Memories of childhood flashed between the two men. They’d shared hopes, dreams, and broken hearts. There might have been a distance between the two men over the last few years—a wedge that had been solidly placed between Ken and the team by marriage, kids, and a different set of goals.
But none of that mattered now. Ken was as solid as they came in battle, and Fletcher knew that.
Fletcher inhaled sharply and blinked.
“Speak, now, or this man will die, and it will be your fault,” the man said, holding Fletcher’s gaze before tilting Ken’s head to the side.
“Fuck off,” Ken muttered. “Neither one of us is saying a damn thing to you.”
