I wiped at my stinging eyes with the back of my hand, but it didn't help. I still saw nothing.
For all my years studying disasters, I'd never understood this part—the helplessness. The way it emptied you out.
I thought if I moved or if I called again, it might break the spell. No sound came out. I stood there as useless as a paper shield against a wildfire.
The world behind me kept moving—sirens, shouting, glass shattering—but it barely brushed against my skin. I'd already stepped out of my own life as if watching it from behind the smoke.
None of it mattered.
Only the smoke. Only the place where he'd vanished.
His touch had jumpstarted something in me—something raw, desperate, and real.
Now, he was gone, and the charge was already fading.
Chapter five
Michael
Irantowardtheexplosionas everyone else fled. My bare feet slapped against hot sand, concrete, and wooden planks that vibrated with each impact. The marina unfolded before me in jagged pieces—splintered docks, toppled benches, and boats rocking violently in their slips.
My lungs burned with each breath from the toxic cocktail of chemicals and smoke filling the air around me. The scents of scorched metal and melted fiberglass coated my tongue. Beneath it all ran the chemical smell of accelerant. The explosion wasn't an accident.
I'd nearly forgotten this state of mind during my days in paradise. With a massive threat rearing its ugly head, everything non-essential fell away. The burning marina became a tactical scenario.
The smoke billowed dense and oily, carrying particles that stung my eyes and throat. A mask would have provided some safety.
The black clouds rolled across the water's surface like a living thing, hungry and expanding. Behind it, flames crackled and popped, consuming one expensive yacht after another.
People screamed. A child wailed for its mother in a language that had to be Tahitian. My mind muffled the sounds. My training had taught me to filter chaos and find the signal within the noise. I searched for the sources of the explosion.
My fingers twitched for a weapon that wasn't there. No sidearm. No radio. No team. Only me, barefoot in trunks and t-shirt, running toward danger.
The rational part of my brain whispered that this wasn't my jurisdiction. That meant it wasn't my problem. I was off-duty, an ocean away from my responsibilities. I should have turned back.
Rationality lost the argument.
Beyond the SWAT training, deeper than the badge or the oath, was something else—something I'd inherited from my father but rarely talked about. We shared the simple, terrible compulsion to move toward whatever might hurt someone else.
My brothers Matthew and Miles called it heroism. The activists who attended last month's police oversight hearing had used other words: "testosterone-fueled aggression that escalates situations."
Marcus had been more pointed, calling it "a death wish disguised as duty."
Whatever it was, it drove me forward as sweat trickled down my spine and ash coated my skin. Each step took me deeper into the heart of whatever had ripped a hole in paradise.
I spotted movement on the dock beside a burning yacht. A figure staggered backward, dragging something—someone, a marina guard. His blue uniform darkened with what could only be blood. His body hung limp, head lolling to the side while the rough grip tugged him.
The figure wore a mask. The black tactical covering revealed nothing but cold and pale blue eyes. A small insignia glinted on his collar. It was corporate, not military.
He didn't move with rescue in mind. It was retrieval. Every action screamed private contractor—the kind who received elite training before entering the more lucrative corporate security world.
I zeroed in on details that didn't belong: the precision grip on the unconscious guard's collar, the careful distance kept from the flames, and how the masked figure scanned the perimeter with mechanical efficiency. He was executing a plan.
I vaulted over a fallen storage locker. Splinters jabbed into my heel, but the pain remained distant.
I shouted, attempting to project my voice above the chaos. "Let him go!" I positioned myself at the far end of the dock section, with the resort behind me and the burning marina ahead.
The masked man froze for a fraction of a second, his head turning toward me. He dropped the guard abruptly. The body hit the dock with a sickening thud that made my stomach lurch.
