Chapter Eighteen

Tahoe

The phone call from Aidan is brusque, the information delivered in a matter-of-fact way. I’m used to that. Rarely does it affect me, but suddenly I can’t breathe—my chest motionless because of the shock. The call for help came as we were unloading our gear from the airplane to the trucks. We flew back to Bronze Bay using our private plane. There’s only one in which we can all fit. Now that we have a contract with May’s Airfield we flew straight here. I was on pins and needles with the intent of going to see Caroline the second I stepped on land. Support staff carry cumbersome pelican cases from the hold and stack them in the truck beds as I take stock of my own bags.

Aidan was loading up his stuff when he received the phone call from our base. An airplane crash. It landed on an island off the coast of Bronze Bay and the SOS system is down with a clear visual of smoke rising at the place of impact. It’s her. I know it is. Even if they didn’t say names, they mentioned the type of aircraft that was missing from the airport, and connecting the dots was easy after that. The rain falls down in an angry tirade, the drops pelting the side of my face. Why would she fly in this? Where was she going?

“Tahoe you stay here. We’ll take the boats from the base over to the island with the fire department,” Leif says, overhearing the conversation that is spreading like wildfire among our surly, tired pack. It’s been one hell of a mission. Admitting to being out of practice would be the same as admitting defeat. My muscles are coiled with annoyed rage, and I’m pretty sure even my bones are crying out in protest. All of this doesn’t touch the drowning sense of dread I feel right now. Caroline.
My cell rings in my pocket. It’s Shirley. She’s squealing into the phone, her voice a panicked version of a hysterical cat. “I just landed,” I state calmly, trying to let her know I can’t solve anything that quickly. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll figure it out,” I reply, trying to keep my voice even. “We’re getting all of the information right now.” I cover the mouthpiece of my cell while she cries in the background.

“I’m not staying here,” I respond to Leif. “There’s no fucking way I’m staying back.” Does he know me at all?
“You don’t even know if it’s her,” he replies, slinging the response over his shoulder as he organizes the masses in front of us, doling out instructions and tasks.

I shrug. “If it’s not her it’s even more reason for me to come. You’re not keeping me here,” I say, shaking my head. I let go of the mouthpiece to talk to Shirley who finally mentioned something that piqued my interest. “What did you say?” I ask.

“She texted me. It only said Shell Island. It is her,” Shirley says in between sobs. I ask when she heard from Caroline last and she says she was at the airport with her earlier today and then just the text message. I ask a few more questions, and I promise to take care of everything. Even if it’s the hugest lie in the history of deceit.

My focus shifts. Caroline is okay. She made it if she could send a text message. She has to be okay. I’ve made my decision. The only decision that matters. One of the trucks is in my line of vision. Without thinking twice, I hop into the cab and tear out of there as quickly as humanly possible, skidding around on the dirt road like one of those assholes in the drifting movies.

All caution is thrown to the wind as I dismantle every rule I’ve ever formed for myself. Always use care and caution. Nope. Don’t take anything too seriously. That’s out the window too. Keep it light. Nothing has ever felt heavier. I just returned from weeks of hunting bad guys. A task that is just as complicated as it is difficult. SEALs are tapped to do these types of jobs for a reason. We’re the best at it. The irony that I suck harder than a hoover vacuum in my personal life would be funny if it wasn’t so awful. I see two other trucks in my rearview driving just as reckless as I am. The rain tames the dust making the visibility better. By muscle memory, I pull into my usual parking spot and throw the truck in park. I jog through the parking lot to the office, the rain soaking the rest of my uniform. It’s torrential at this point so even my boots are sloshing each step I take.

Aidan greets me as I blaze into the doorway. “The boats are started. They’re waiting for men,” he says coolly, his palms outstretched. He’s trying to pacify the beast.

“Anything else? Any other updates?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “The fire department loaded their equipment and they are ready. The rain will work to our advantage. Hop on the second boat, brother,” Aidan says.

His tone tells me he knows how important this is. I’m not saying my life is worth more than someone else’s, but hers is. He knows it. You can only take so much good out of the world. The scales will tilt in the favor of evil. That’s what happened with the terror attacks. Dirty facts of life.

“You aren’t going to try to keep me back here?” I snarl, ambling to my desk to pull on my worn out ball cap from a bottom drawer. “Leif thought to try,” I add.

Aidan’s footsteps are loud and his voice carries as he greets more men who enter the building. The same status is given to them, and he turns to face me. “Go find your fucking puppy,” he growls. The grin tells me he’s being kind, a fact no one else in their right mind would understand. He slaps me on the back. I force a smile as reply.

Wet from the rain and sweating from the unknown, I jog down to the docks. My muscles protest, and it gives me something to focus on instead of thinking about the alternative. The searing selfish pain of my mistake. All of them, actually. Harboring so much resentment from a past relationship, I let it affect a new one. The only one that matters. Trying to control every aspect backfired.

Boarding the boat, we set off at a breakneck pace, pounding on the choppy wake as we travel toward Shell Island. The smoke is pouring into the dark sky, a signal we’re traveling in the correct direction. We’ve passed the island while going out to sea for fishing and training so I know exactly where it is. I thought it was pretty. It’s too small for houses and doesn’t have the infrastructure to have buildings of any sort. I’ve seen colorful tents so I know it’s a popular camping spot. There are shells bleached white from the sun that line the coast and trees of varying sizes. I can’t recall the shape of the island even though I’ve seen it bird’s eye on a map. The motors are too loud and the chop to rough to ask questions, or else I would be pestering everyone around me. The driver of the boat is stoic, a steely take no shit mask on his face. He’s a guy from another Team who got transferred to Bronze Bay against his desires.

The mangled, fiery wreckage comes into view as we approach and I’m pretty certain it matches my insides right now. The time to be cool, calm, and collected is long gone. Now, the time has come to panic like a mother fucking, raging idiot.

I bellow as we slow down and the side comes into view. I know every one of the airplanes that belong to May’s Airport by heart. I memorized them when I was trying not to obsess over Caroline and what that meant for my street cred. Even though I already knew it was her, and Shirley told me as much, seeing it in front of me in living color is a page from my worst nightmare playbook.

Someone puts their hand on my shoulder, but I can’t turn my gaze away from the wreckage to acknowledge the gesture. It takes multiple seconds to swallow, another few to realize I need to take a breath, and then several more to shuffle my feet as the boat hits land.

Men pour off the first boat and the portable water system shoots water onto the flames, while others approach a wing of the airplane that has been torn off. It’s obvious it exploded after it landed, and not on approach, small indicators giving away gruesome clues.

My gaze scans the beach surrounding the aircraft, hopeful to find what I’m looking for. My hand rests on my side arm even though this isn’t a time for guns. It shows how desperate and disheveled I am in this moment. Orders are being followed and my feet refuse to move.

Another matte black boat rolls onto the beach, and I know Leif must be on it. A silence transcends all that is happening, the business of everyone working as a team as I finally trudge through the rain towards the plane.

Voices cut through my self-imposed deafness. Words like empty cockpit, no human remains, must have escaped before the explosion, make my heart hammer along faster than the rain stinging my skin.

The sight of the blackened cockpit speeds my breathing. “She wasn’t in there,” Leif says, walking past me. “Come on,” he says. His lips are moving and although I hear his words, it feels like a slow-mo movie. I can’t fully comprehend. “Come on, Tahoe,” Leif repeats. “You’re okay. We’ve got this.” He nods a few times until I nod back.

Shaking it off is difficult. “Take that section over there,” he says, pointing left, further from the wreckage. “Guy and Taz are over there combing the brush. Help them search.”

I take my orders and start for the section of island, but someone yells, voice booming, in the opposite direction. That’s when I run. A haphazard staggering on top of the shells and sand. More voices echo off the trees, and my soaked ball cap feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.

“She’s over here! Medic! Medic!” It’s Aidan’s voice.

When I make it to huddle of people, I throw a few men out of my way to get a visual. They have a makeshift tarp propped up shielding the top half of her body from the rain. I’d recognize those bare legs anywhere. The shade of tan. The curve of her knee. I try to ignore the burn marks as I survey her body. My gaze travels up further to her bare stomach as the medic rushes in to perform CPR.

The three freckles.

Connect the dots.

He breaks her ribs with a hard compression, the slicing crunch and crack prickles my skin. Someone tries to pull me back, but I turn with a hard, right hook to a face. No one fucks with me after that.

I drop to my knees when I’m next to her and lay my hand on her stomach, keeping those three marks hidden. They’re mine. Removing my hat, I bow my head. I’m not the praying type. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you have to doubt God exists. I’d sell my soul to the devil with a firm handshake if it means Caroline pulling through. So, I do pray. Hard. Mercilessly. With every fiber of my being. I ask for healing.

I ask for a miracle.

Perfection is messy, but I guarantee it never looks like this.