The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(33)

Once I’m on solid ground, I realize that I forgot the rope.

“I’m still watching you,” I tell the gator as I try to keep my gun on him while using my left toe to loop the rope. “Ha, got it.”

I receive no applause for this feat, only more indifference. I’m okay with that.

I walk up the edge of the ramp in the direction of the alligator’s thick tail. Reptilian eyes watch me.

This guy just doesn’t care. Something tells me that Winston and Raul went out of their way to make him comfortable here and unafraid of people. Chicken dinner every night?

“I’m just going to tie this off.” I loop the kayak’s rope through the fence so it won’t drift away.

With my gun still pointing in the general direction of the alligator, I move to the locked gate. Between it and the surrounding fence, the fence maker left a sizable gap. Useless for most trespassers, but there’s enough space for me to squeeze through.

I pull myself through the fence and turn back to the ramp. The toothy doorman makes the sound of leather scraping pavement as he slides into the water.

“Seriously, dude? You waited until after?” The beast clearly wanted to show me that he was leaving on his own accord and was, like, totally not afraid of me.

I tuck the gun into my holster at the back of my jeans and flop my track jacket over the butt. If I get caught trespassing while wielding a weapon, I could get shot.

I survey the yard and realize that there’s been a camera on a metal post watching the ramp the entire time. And it’s not even an inconspicuous camera. A red recording light is shining brightly, making it perfectly apparent this place is under surveillance—or at least looks like it is.

When I was a little girl, some stores were too cheap to spring for security cameras and instead mounted fake plastic ones in the corner, always with bright-red lights and signs proclaiming 24-HOUR POLICE MONITORING.

I hope this camera’s the same thing and that I’m not about to be attacked by guard dogs and private security guards rappelling down from helicopters.

I wait for a minute, inspecting the area and listening for the sound of anyone approaching.

Satisfied that I’m alone, with the exception of my pal floating somewhere near my kayak, I take a few more steps forward.

Passing through the line of trees, I face the two buildings I saw on the satellite map. But there’s a lot more that didn’t show in the imagery.

Aluminum trusses are scattered around, and there’s something even odder—a large, aboveground pool.

It’s the kind of thing you see in backyards in rural areas, about twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and a touch over five feet deep. An overhead lift on wheels is parked to the side, midway between the pool and the larger of the two metal buildings.

As I approach the pool warily, I smell a disgusting stench. Apparently, the pool boy’s been a little lazy. The water is green and filled with leaves and branches.

Out of the corner of my eye, a headlight flashes. I abandon the pool and run to the building farthest from the road. I could have made it back to my kayak, but my curiosity’s getting the better of me.

I slide behind the building and watch as headlights flood the area. It sounds like at least two large trucks.

Damn. I move deeper into the shadows behind the building and find a spot between two large metal drums, tucking myself between them.

Take it easy, Sloan. It’s probably just some . . . whatever.

Doors open, and there’s the sound of footsteps on gravel. I hear splashing followed by laughter.

It could be anyone. Don’t panic.

One of the men steps in front of one truck’s headlights and walks toward the fence along the ramp.

My blood turns to ice as I see his face.

It’s the man from my boat.

The one I didn’t kill.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BUOY

I press my back against the side of the building, willing myself completely flat. I’m in the shadows, true, but I don’t know how in the shadows I really am. I decide that movement is worse than being visible.

The tall man walks up to the gate overlooking the ramp and peers down at the water. Did he see me on the kayak?

He’s looking for the alligator, which means that he’s been here before. Why? And why did he come back?

Someone else shouts to him, “Check the other one.”

He turns around—his eyes go right past me as he walks over to the building I’m hiding behind. My knees buckle a little, and I panic for a moment, my left hand moving to my back to make sure the gun is still there. It feels nothing.

That’s because it’s still in your right hand, idiot.

The building vibrates as the roll-up door rises. The ramp is about a hundred feet away. I could try to run for it while they’re inspecting the building . . .

I take a hesitant step forward, then spot a shadow of another man as he steps in front of the headlights. I hear the sound of a metal lighter, and my nose swears a moment later when it smells cigarette.

Damn it.

He’s not moving.

Okay. What’s plan B?

I look to my left and realize that the back of the building’s shadowed by overhanging trees.

While waiting for the men to leave is an option, if one of them comes only a few feet around the side of the building, I’ll be caught.

I decide it’s better to make my way toward the back. Worst case, I can lose myself in the mangroves. Although that’s easier said than done. They look incredibly dense from here. I’d probably only make it a few feet.