Page 61 of Savage Surrender

“Guns,” Owen agrees from across the island.

“A bow. Arrows. Real knives.”

Freddie finds a pad of paper in the office and writes it down from his seat at the end of the counter. His list already has food, water, coffee, first-aid supplies, batteries, chargers, clothing, toiletries, and three underlined reminders to find suppressants. As I watch, he adds weapons in a separate column, then draws an annoyed little box around it as if the paper is responsible for how badly armed we are.

“We can’t walk into a gun store and pass over our IDs,” Weller says.

“Today we make what we have useful,” I say before they can turn this into a full argument. “Ezra might be able to help with better weapons.”

I grab the pad from Freddie and draw the rough shape of the first floor.

“Whitney goes on the threat list,” I say.

The surf seems to get louder around the house, each wave breaking somewhere beyond the windows while sunlight lies prettily across the pile of knives between us.

Tristan sits on a barstool, arms folded. “I’ve been thinking about how she found someone willing to do her dirty work, but Whitney never needed someone to like her. She needed to know what they wanted, who they hated, or what they couldn’t afford. Montgomery collected people the same way.” Tristan glances at Weller. “His security has the guest list, footage, staff records, ballistics, and enough money to make witnesses remember useful things. If the shooter left anything behind, Montgomery has a better chance of finding it than we do.”

“Great. Maybe he can be useful before I kill him.”

Owen sets a hammer down with care that feels more violent than throwing it.

“Did you see the shooter?” I ask.

“Not clearly.” Weller’s attention goes distant. “A tall figure moving behind the crowd after the first shot. Hat on. Jacket. I believe it was a man.”

“Same build I caught,” Owen says.

I make a list.

Whitney. Shooter. Male accomplice? Emmett Montgomery William Dashwood Vincent West Charles Miller Alexander Barrett Havershams (3)

Owen and I take the map outside while Freddie follows with the list, adding items whenever one of us calls a new need back. The house sits high enough on its pilings for a person to move beneath most of it without bending, and pine needles have blown across the sand beneath the deck. One set of stairs climbs from the front. Another comes up beside the outdoor shower, where cedar slats make a perfect place for a person to wait without being seen from the windows.

“Camera here,” I say.

“Two,” Owen answers. “One facing the stairs, one under the deck.”

Freddie writes both down.

The hot tub screening blocks the view from the common room to the south corner. Beyond it, live oaks and palmettos press close enough to the property that the wind keeps making things move at the edge of my vision. I walk the tree line slowly, studying snapped branches, old depressions in the sand, the narrow spaces between trunks where a body could disappear. Under the deck’s south corner there’s a shallow depression the size of a boot, or the size of nothing, weathered too soft to read. I crouch over it until my eyes water. The ground here holds marks badly; one good rain wipes everything clean, which cuts both ways.

Owen stays at my shoulder. Close enough that the heat of him follows along my arm while we work. His scent is stronger outside, blackcurrant and spice riding the salt air, and every time he leans over the map my omega becomes deeply interested in how much easier this job would be if I climbed him instead.

Five years at the refuge taught me to appreciate a competent partner. The drug in my blood has decided competence should be rewarded with my thighs around his head. Teamwork comes in many forms, apparently.

“We should rotate the perimeter,” he says when we reach the boardwalk. “One of us out here at all times.”

The boards stretch through the dunes in a straight, exposed line before dipping out of sight, pretty and private and a perfect route to the water, which makes it an equally perfect route back to us.

“Not yet.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“We put up cameras and sensors, then act like the tourists we are pretending to be unless we have a reason not to.”

“I’m not pretending to be a tourist in that shirt again.”

Behind us, Freddie says, “Adding more colorful shirts for Owen,” and ducks when Owen turns.