Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(32)

“Come on, man!”

I should have expected this. They don’t like it when you ignore them.

It’s unlikely our voices will carry over the music, unless this junkie gets more irate, which is possible. Ivy can’t be so oblivious to expect that they are the only ones here, but if she discovers me, there’s no way to explain why I am, too.

“I just need a fix and I’ll be good. Just help me out with—”

His voice cuts out as soon as my fist delivers an uppercut under his jaw. I grab hold of his filthy body to ease it down carefully. He should be out for a while.

Hoping that earns me some peace, I continue watching Ivy work, until the face begins to take shape. A man, with black hair and a long, slender nose and square jaw. It’s hard to tell what color his eyes are from this distance, and the poor lighting, but I can tell they’re dark. It’s not until she begins spraying the outline of a short, sculpted beard that I realize who the man is.

She’s painting me.

My face, on the wall of this dilapidated, condemned building.

It shouldn’t please me, and yet it does.

I smile. I’ve gotten inside her head without even trying.



I’ve been trained to resist the urges of sleep, to push myself longer and further than a normal human being. I’ve survived on no more than four hours of rest per night for weeks at a time. Many nights, I rely on Ambien to drift off. But I’ve been awake for nearly two days now, aside from that short catnap in my car, and my eyes burn with exhaustion.

Still, I tail Ivy as she walks the length of Ocean Beach, her sketchbook tucked under an arm. The rising sun and quiet streets make it more difficult, but I manage to keep my presence unknown, because that’s what I’m good at.

She heads toward the shoreline and settles herself onto a crop of stones, giving the surfer in the distance a moment of her attention. He’s impressive enough to distract even me, navigating the treacherous swells of the outer sandbar with the expertise of a seasoned surfer. He’d have to be. These are some of the hardest waves to surf in the world, especially in prime season, which we’re deep in the middle of.

Growing up in San Francisco, it’s only natural that I know how to surf. Still, it’s been eleven years since I rode these waves. Eight since I stood on a board in San Diego, near the base. At one time, some people called me an expert, too.

My experience with deep, frigid waters and sweeping currents certainly helped when it came to passing the intensive tests that are required to become a SEAL. Tests that only twenty percent of candidates ever pass. I blew through the basic physical requirements. In the intensive twenty-four-week-long BUD/S training program, I led my group for time in the physical conditioning and combat diving phases.

For a sport that I enjoyed so much, I’m surprised I’ve forgotten it so easily. I watch that surfer now with a small amount of envy, and promise myself that, when this assignment is over, I’ll coast on a barrel wave again.

Ivy has dismissed the surfer already and is now flipping pages over in her sketchbook, her hair fluttering around her with the soft breeze. Her head’s down and she has seemingly shut out everything around her. After a full night of spray-painting walls, I don’t know how she has any desire to draw, but I guess that’s why I’m not an artist. My creativity is limited to how I’m going to get past security gates and passcodes and barking dogs without being identified.

I simply lean against a lightpost and watch as she sketches from that rock for half an hour, as the sun rises farther in the sky and people in brightly colored latex outfits pass her, out for their morning jog—some alone, some in groups, some with dogs who veer off path with noses pointed toward her—until she closes her book, tucks it under her arm, and trudges through the sand toward her car.

Not until I’ve watched her drag her feet up the stairs of her home, her energy finally spent, do I leave her for my own rented bed.



“Yeah,” I say into the receiver, my eyes shut against the beam of midmorning sunlight shining directly on me. The thin and tattered cotton curtain hanging over the window is pointless for both shade and decoration.

“What’s the update?”

I sigh. “Negative for the house.”

“You’ve searched everywhere?” Bentley pants into the receiver. I assume he’s on his treadmill. The guy always loved going for a morning run.

“Top to bottom.”

“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath.

I reach over my head to pinch and tug at the lifted wallpaper seam until it begins to tear away, waiting for Bentley to say something. If he’s going to annoy me by checking up daily like this, then he can be the one putting effort into the conversation. And if he pisses me off enough, I can just go back to Greece.

Except I’m not going to do that, because for some stupid reason, I already feel a vested interest in making sure that video is found and nothing happens to Ivy in the process. Because even though I don’t have evidence for this, I have a gut feeling that she’s completely innocent.

“What’s your next move?”

“The shop. And her.”

“Keep me informed. If nothing turns up today, I’ll bring in help for you.”

“What? No.” My stomach tightens instantly. “You know I work alone.”

“And you know that this tape needs to be found or we’re all f*cked!” he snaps. “This job of yours? Any future assignments? You can kiss it all good-bye.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is more calm. “They’ll be there to help turn over rocks.”