Mallory Kane - Security Breach

“I know. Out here, we can barely see lights from the town on clear nights, or if there’s a fire we can see flames and smoke.”

“Well, the darkness and isolation makes it desirable for smugglers.”

“Maddy, you have to tell me why Zach—”

“Sandy!” Maddy snapped. “What did I just tell you?”

“A lot of vague stuff that you won’t explain. Fine. I’ll let you know if anything happens. That is if I’m able to.” Sandy was being sarcastic, but Maddy had just laid a new and awful truth on her and refused to explain it.

Her husband may have been murdered.

“Sandy, call the sheriff and get him to take fingerprints off the desk. That’s the easiest way to figure out who did it.”

“If their prints are on file. But they probably aren’t.”

“Call the sheriff, Sandy,” Maddy said.

“Maddy, this might not make any sense to you, but I don’t want anyone in my house. I just got home. All I want to do is be here with the baby. We have a lot of things to sort out, him and me. There’s no real reason to get fingerprints, is there?”

“Sandy, I mean it. I’m supposed to be in training this whole week, but I’ll take a break and call you if I have to.”

“All right. I’ll call. Now can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How are you feeling? Is the baby doing well?”

“Yes. We’re both doing fine.”

“Did that little thing ever fall off?”

“Little thing?” Sandy said. “Oh, right. That’s what the doctor said about the sonogram. Not that I know of. It’s still there.”

“So did he actually say it’s a boy?”

“No. Apparently physicians don’t like to actually commit, but he sounded pretty sure. You know,” she said with a sad smile, “Tristan said we were having a boy. He really believed it.”

“Aw, honey.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Sandy forced a laugh.

“Have you thought of a name yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“So you’re back there in Bonne Chance. Are you and the baby going to stay there?”

“I plan to,” she said. “But I might go back over to Baton Rouge when I’m closer to the delivery date. It might be easier, having Tristan’s mother to help me.”

She barely listened as Maddy went on and on about what a great idea it was to go back to Baton Rouge. When she had a chance, she broke in and said goodbye, that she was going to sleep. Maddy warned her again what would happen if she didn’t call the sheriff, then they hung up.

“Okay, bean. How about you? Do you think I should call the sheriff about the computer? Yeah. Me neither. Although I think I’ll go see Boudreau tomorrow. Let him know I’m back. He might have seen someone sneaking around the house.”

She smiled as she rubbed the side of her tummy. “Although, if Boudreau saw somebody he didn’t know going into Tristan’s house when I wasn’t there, he’d probably shoot them.”

Chapter Two

Tristan woke up feeling relaxed. The early-morning sun shone across his bed, warming his legs. He took in a deep breath, scented with gardenias. Sandy. She’d glowed the last time he’d seen her, just as a pregnant woman should.

As he smiled sleepily and turned toward her, searing pain tore through his calf, igniting painful memories.

He wasn’t in his bed with his wife beside him. He was on a cot in his old Cajun friend Boudreau’s cabin, where he’d been since Boudreau saved his life.

A memory of dark water and bright shark’s teeth hit his brain. His muscles tensed and the hot pain in his calf, where muscle had been ripped away by thick, sharp teeth, seized him again.

Clenching his jaw and groaning quietly, he consciously relaxed his leg. He’d learned the hard way that if he could avoid tightening the tendons and whatever muscles were left on that side, it didn’t hurt quite so bad.

The pain finally faded, but it was no relief. All he felt was a gaping emptiness inside. He was supposed to be dead. Was dead, as far as his hometown, Bonne Chance, Louisiana, and his family knew.

He couldn’t have notified his family if he’d wanted to. According to Boudreau, he’d spent nearly two weeks unconscious, then when he finally woke up, he was too weak to stand and walk.

Since then, he’d forced himself to walk every day, pushing through the awful pain. He couldn’t imagine how his mangled leg would ever work right, but if determination had anything to do with it, he would be successful.

Every morning, he sent up a prayer of thanks to God for letting him live. He’d been granted quite a few miracles in the past two months, and that one was the greatest.

He needed another miracle, though. He needed to walk across the dock from Boudreau’s cabin to his family home. The miracle he envisioned was that once he got to the house, Sandy would be there waiting for him, beautiful and happy because he was alive.

He’d run to her without limping or falling and take her in his arms, feeling the swell of her tummy between them. She would take his hand and place it in just the right spot to feel their baby kick.

But Sandy wasn’t there. She was in Baton Rouge with his mother, thank God.

Thank God for several reasons. First, while seeing her might be his fondest dream, that wasn’t his primary motivation to recover as fast as he could. He had to find and bring to justice the man who’d ordered him killed.

And to do that, he needed to retrieve a vital piece of evidence—at least, he hoped it would be vital. But he had to get his hands on it and it was in the house.

As much as he longed for Sandy, he prayed she wouldn’t come back to Bonne Chance. Not until he’d tracked down the person who had tried to kill him and wanted him dead.

While he’d been daydreaming about Sandy and their baby, the sun had risen above the window casing. From the floor, he picked up the bumpy cypress walking stick Boudreau had whittled for him,

He took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. Putting on his shoes was a painful chore, but not as painful as standing.

He used the stick to lever himself upright. As he balanced, putting weight on his right leg, he grimaced in anticipation.

And there it was. The pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.

Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun’s heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.

But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn’t shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.

He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.

He’d felt but hadn’t reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he’d opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.

Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.

He didn’t sit, because then he’d have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.

Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous amount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.