Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Maintaining a high level of concentration meant being able to differentiate between random trash and relevant evidence. As I searched the area using a deliberate pattern, I encountered way more trash and debris than anything worthy of bagging as evidence. But I also knew better than to get discouraged. Disappointment meant getting sloppy, speeding up when I needed to stay slow and steady even though I could feel the restlessness from the surface volunteers.
I’d always loved how diving distanced me from the world, insulating me from others’ energy and real-world problems and concerns. It allowed me to focus solely on the task at hand. But that didn’t mean I was oblivious to the eager voices and tense energy of those waiting.
Carefully, I went lower into one of the steep drop-offs, murky water made worse by random railroad ties, fallen trees, and debris in the bottom of the pit. But then I saw it. Right angle. Boxy shape. Large.
Steady. Steady. I didn’t say anything on the mic as I investigated closer. Plastic, but hard, like a shell. Oh. Wait. I encountered a protrusion that was definitely a handle. Suitcase. A large old-fashioned one with hard sides, a plastic handle, little nubby feet, and latches on either side of the handle. But the handle itself was wrapped with a cord of some kind which led to several cement blocks, the sort used in gardening projects.
I used my light to examine it further. There was something slick on the top side. Looked like half a bumper sticker with a distinctive crown on it.
“Yup. Got something.” I kept my voice level on the com. Any excitement I felt would have to wait—adrenaline was the enemy in these situations and the reward later. “Suitcase. Weighed down with bricks. Documenting the scene, then coming up for evidence and lift bags. Gonna be a heavy, awkward hoist, but we’ll get it done.”
Of that, I was certain. I didn’t do hope, but I did trust my gut, and my gut said this suitcase was key. No try. No hope. No might. I would get that evidence.
However, as it turned out, getting back down to the suitcase proved almost more challenging than finding the damn thing. I knew exactly the equipment I needed, a large bright-yellow, self-draining evidence bag, bridle straps, and lift bags commensurate with the expected weight of the case. I made quick, efficient work of assembling everything.
Holden rolled over to where I was double-checking connection points and carabiners. I was mentally rehearsing each maneuver, and I took my time looking up, knowing full well I wouldn’t like whatever he had to say.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a team back down with you?” he asked, leaning forward, voice deceptively casual. And yep, I didn’t appreciate the question.
“No need.” Meeting his alarmingly intent gaze, I matched his casual tone. “I’ve deployed evidence bags solo many, many times, including under worse conditions. It’s a steep, tight space with a lot of debris. None of the volunteers have the sort of experience needed.”
“I get that. But wouldn’t it be better to take a helper or two down than to have to scramble divers to go retrieve your ass if you run into problems? Maybe just a spotter to watch?” His patient tone was that of someone who’d practiced his pitch on the way over to me.
“Did they draw straws to decide who got to try to talk sense into me?” I glanced back over at Monroe and the cluster of volunteers.
“No straws. I volunteered.” He laughed lightly before sobering. “But yes, there’s a lot of concern about the risk to you in retrieving this item. The weight of the case is only one factor. As you said, it’s in a difficult spot.”
“And I’ll handle it.”
Holden gave me a lengthy and considering stare that made my spine prickle. “I’m sure you will, but we’re going to have a team of rescue divers suited and ready to deploy.”
“Fine.” I knew my rep, knew the fine line I walked between independent and difficult to work with.
“Cal.” Holden breathed my name like a question. “What’s with the go-it-alone insistence? I have plenty of military friends. SEALs operate in teams, right?”
“Not a SEAL anymore.” And that was all I was going to say about that.
“Fair enough.” He sighed like I’d let him down by not talking more. And while I got that reaction from people often, Holden’s stung more than most. This was neither the time nor the place for soul-bearing conversation, but for the first time in a very long time, I had to swallow back my words as Holden continued, “But no stupid chances, okay? You coming back up safely matters a hell of a lot more than the evidence, and you know that.”
Actually, no, I didn’t. But I knew when to not disagree. “Yep.”