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That made him laugh. “No can do. You’re the senior officer here. It’s my duty to watch your six.”
She gulped hard. Was he ... flirting ... with her? She squared her shoulders. “Then as your commanding officer, I order you to go first.”
“Fine.” He faked a sigh. “But if I get eaten by a sand monster, I’m haunting you for eternity.”
With Cody taking point, they trudged up the warm, white sand to the shack. The old, two-room beach cabin hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years, its weathered boards a testament to countless seasons of sun and salt. Sand had piled against the doors, as if nature was trying to reclaim the structure.
As they stepped inside, Paige was struck by the musty smell. But underneath the dust and age, there was a homey quality to the place that tugged at her heart. She could picture her father relaxing here.
The interior of the cabin was a time capsule, frozen in the moment her dad had last closed the door. Sunlight filtered through grimy windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air.
The main room was small but efficiently arranged. A worn leather armchair faced the window, its surface cracked andfaded from years of exposure to the salty air. A simple wooden table stood nearby, its surface dusted with a fine layer of sand that had crept in through the weathered floorboards. In one corner, a small kitchenette boasted a rusted propane stove and a few chipped enamel mugs hanging from hooks.
She traced a finger over the rough-hewn walls, feeling the texture of the wood beneath years of sun-bleached paint. A sagging bookshelf grabbed her attention. Well-read novels and technical manuals, mostly. But it was a small, leatherbound album tucked between two books that made her breath catch. With trembling hands, she pulled it out, brushing off a layer of grit.
Inside, she found newspaper clippings and printouts—her high school graduation announcement, a brief mention of her college achievements, even a grainy photo from an industry conference where she’d presented. Her father had been following her life from afar, collecting these fragments like precious gems.
How much time they’d wasted.
A lump formed in her throat as she noticed a hand-drawn sketch tucked into the back of the album. It was her, laughing, her head thrown back in a moment of pure joy. The skill and detail in the drawing spoke volumes about how often her father must have studied it, how he’d held onto this image of her.
Cody’s voice broke through her reverie. “You might want to see this.”
He stood by a small desk, its surface cluttered with maps and handwritten notes. Pinned to the wall above it was a corkboard covered in a web of red string connecting various photos and documents. A testament to her father’s obsession, his tireless work even in this remote hideaway. Some of the images she recognized as Consortium operations, assassinations, extortionschemes, and other covert missions designed to sway … or outright topple … foreign governments.
The reality of their task suddenly hit her full force. They were looking for a drive no bigger than six by six inches, hidden somewhere in this cabin or possibly the surrounding area. If it was here at all. The enormity of the search threatened to overwhelm her.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, a cloud of dust rising around her. The sheets were stiff with age and disuse, a poignant reminder of how long this place had stood empty, waiting.
“Where do we even start?” she whispered, her eyes scanning the cluttered room. Every nook and cranny could potentially hide the crucial piece of technology they sought.
Cody knelt beside her, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotions threatening to engulf her. “We start at the beginning,” he said softly. “And we don’t stop until we find it. Your father left this for you to find, Paige. He believed in you. We’ll figure this out together.”
Paige nodded, drawing strength from his words and the tangible connection to her father surrounding her. A half-forgotten Sunday school lesson drifted into her mind, and she found herself murmuring, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
Cody raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
“Matthew 7:7,” she explained, her voice growing stronger. “It seems fitting, doesn’t it? We’re definitely in for some serious seeking.”
33
Paige sank back downon the bed, sketchbook in hand, and checked her watch. Only twenty minutes? It felt like hours had passed.
Sweat trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away, leaving a smudge of dust across her forehead. The cabin’s stifling air got thicker with each passing minute.
She’d meticulously combed through her father’s closet, finding nothing but moth-eaten shirts and a pair of well-worn boots. She’d even carefully removed and replaced every book on the shelves, checked behind faded pictures on the walls. After tackling the kitchen, Cody was prying up loose floorboards.
Her earlier words echoed mockingly in her head. “Seek, and ye shall find.” Well, she was certainly seeking, but finding? That was another matter entirely.
She glanced around the cluttered room, feeling overwhelmed by the seemingly endless hiding spots yet to be explored. The merciless Florida sun streamed through the grimy windows, turning the small cabin into an oven.
Needing to recenter, she opened the sketchbook again, flipping carefully through the desiccated pages.
As she turned another page, a particular sketch caught her eye. It was a detailed drawing of the cabin’s interior, but with one crucial difference—the old potbellied stove in the corner of the living area had been rendered with unusual precision. Unlike the loose, carefree style of the other sketches, the stove was drawn with meticulous attention to detail. Even more intriguing, her father had sketched a series of seemingly random numbers along the stove’s pipe, disguised as heat waves. Her father had always loved puzzles and riddles.
“I think I know where to look.” She traced the sketch with her fingers, her mind racing. The old black stove stood innocuously in the corner of the main room, its rusty surface betraying years of disuse. But in her father’s drawing, it was the focal point.
Who even had a stove like this in the tropics?
