Page 54 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
He looked at her then, his eyes dark with worry. “We do this together. But I swear to God, if someone tries to hurt you again?—”
“They won’t get the chance,” she said, squeezing his hand. “We’ve got too many people watching.”
And as the sun dipped below the tree line, casting long shadows across the porch, no one said a word. But every one of them knew—this wasn’t over.
Actually, it had just begun.
Chapter 14
The trail behind Cypress Ridge wound like a lazy snake through the dense brush, the late-afternoon sun casting golden shards through the canopy overhead. Fletcher moved slowly, boots crunching along packed earth and pine needles, clipboard in hand, surveying a downed tree reported near mile marker six in Calusa Cove Park.
This was the part of his job that he loved. The quiet, peaceful, rich beauty of the land that surrounded the Everglades. The hours he could walk in silence and be connected to the earth. As a kid, he hadn’t truly grown to appreciate this spot. While he’d loved living here and had only a few regrets, he hadn’t fully come to understand what it all meant. Perhaps no one had until they’d lived a little and seen a little heartache. It took searching the world for something that had already lived in his heart to see what had always been a part of him. To know what had always grounded him in ways many couldn’t understand.
The Navy and being a SEAL had taught him honor, duty, and what being loyal really meant. It had given him brothers. A family he chose. A family who, no matter what, had his six. It had brought him full circle, giving him perspective he couldn’t have ever gained anywhere else.
Sometimes, that saddened him because it meant he had to accept that he and Baily had had no chance back then. It hadn’t been their time. He’d needed the space to grow and evolve, and while she’d been able to do all that living in Calusa Cove…he hadn’t. He’d needed the distance.
He paused in the clearing. Birdsong echoed in the stillness. Too still, he realized. He frowned.
There was something wrong with the silence. He felt this thick weight of soundlessness. The unease of it. How it had an edge to it as if it were waiting for something to happen. He knew this sensation well. It had happened in battle all the time. He’d never welcomed it, but out there, while fighting for country, it had been a way of life.
But it didn’t belong in Calusa Cove.
He squatted, scanning the area and reaching for a broken limb blocking the path, when the crack of a rifle split the air. A searing pain tore through his upper arm, white-hot and blinding. He dropped instantly, the world tilting as he slammed shoulder-first into the ground, sending leaves scattering.
“Shit—”
Blood soaked through the sleeve of his Parks and Rec shirt. He dragged himself behind the trunk of a long-dead sabal palm, adrenaline slamming into his bloodstream like a freight train. He took in a slow, shallow breath. The shot had come from the northeast, from a high location, and he’d been damn lucky he’d moved when he had or that bullet might have landed in the back of his head.
Testing whether the shooter was still there—and in the same location—he shifted, rustling the leaves, but staying behind the trunk.
Another shot cracked overhead—clean, precise. A sniper.
He pulled out his cell, opting for that instead of his radio. Too much noise and the possibility the enemy was listening to his frequency. He pressed the phone to his ear. It rang twice.
“Hey man, what’s?—”
“Dawson. I’ve been hit,” Fletcher whispered.
“Did you say hit? As in shot?” Dawson asked.
“Yeah. Sniper. Clean. Still there, in a tree maybe fifty yards away. I’m on the Cypress Ridge Trail. North fork. I’m bunkered behind a tree between Marker Six and Seven. Closer to Six, about a half a klick from the bend. Need backup.”
Crack. Bark exploded above him, spraying splinters across his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered, pressing his hand hard over the wound on his arm. It wasn’t too bad—the bullet went through, clean—but it burned like hell. His fingers trembled as he reached for his sidearm. Just in case.
A full two minutes passed.
“I’m en route. Patrol car had a damn flat. Taking my personal vehicle. ETA eight minutes. Texted Hayes and Keaton. Hayes is on the way. Keaton’s with Decker. Told him to stick by his side. Stay down. Stay sharp. And watch your fucking back.”
Fletcher sucked in a slow breath and kept low. He needed to think like Hayes, the sniper of the group. They were patient people in the field. They could lie on their bellies, propped up on their elbows, eyes peering through a scope…for flipping hours, and not bat an eyelash. Everyone thought it took a unique personality style to be a demolitions man on a team? No. It was the sniper who stood out as the odd duck.
Sweat slicked his brow. His ears strained for movement, but the shooter—if military trained—would be able to stick this out for a very long time.
Five minutes ticked by. Three more to go, and Dawson was never late.
Eight minutes was a long time under fire.
