[Chapter 2] -He Threw Her Into the Pacific—Then She Found the Secret That Killed Her Father

The mechanism released with a muted metallic click I could feel through my fingertips.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then the hidden panel shifted.

Only a fraction.

Enough.

A narrow line of darkness appeared between the plate and the hull.

My lungs were already burning.

I held the edge, forced the panel farther open, and felt cold seawater rush into the space behind it.

There should have been nothing there.

According to every official ship schematic I had reviewed, the area behind that section of Deck Four was structural void space.

No storage.

No machinery.

No access corridor.

Nothing.

But when my flashlight cut through the darkness, it illuminated metal.

Containers.

Dozens of them.

Secured in rows behind the false compartment.

My pulse changed.

Not panic.

Recognition.

I had spent weeks looking at cargo manifests that refused to make sense.

Boxes listed as medical equipment.

Replacement mechanical components.

Emergency relief supplies.

Weights that did not match shipping records.

Serial numbers that appeared twice.

Now I understood why.

The manifests were not wrong.

They were camouflage.

I reached inside far enough to photograph the first row.

Water distorted the beam.

Still, the identification markings were visible.

Not military supply codes.

Commercial transport labels.

Several had been deliberately scraped away.

Others had handwritten numbers instead of proper inventory tags.

That alone would have been enough to justify a full inspection.

Then my flashlight reached the far wall.

And I saw the restraints.

Not cargo restraints.

Hand restraints.

Attached to a bench.

My stomach tightened.

I moved the beam.

Blankets.

Water bottles.

A small medical kit.

Personal belongings sealed inside clear plastic bags.

A child-sized red backpack.

I stopped breathing for a second.

The investigation had just changed.

This was no longer about stolen supplies.

Or falsified manifests.

Or a commanding officer using ration shortages to maintain control.

Someone had been moving people through this compartment.

I photographed everything I could without entering farther.

The orders were clear.

Observe.

Document.

Do not become the evidence.

Above me, the engines changed pitch again.

The ship was slowing.

They were turning.

Kane had ordered a search.

Good.

That meant he still thought I was somewhere in the water.

I pushed the panel back toward its original position and kicked away from the hull.

My lungs were screaming now.

I surfaced beneath the shadow of the stern where the ship blocked most of the afternoon light.

The air tasted like fuel and salt.

Voices echoed from above.

“Mercer!”

Another voice.

“Petty Officer Cole!”

Then Kane.

“Search the water!”

His voice carried even over the engines.

“Do not stop until you find her.”

I stayed beneath the overhang, barely moving.

A rescue boat was being lowered.

That almost made me laugh.

Now he cared about procedure.

Thirty seconds earlier, he had thrown me overboard.

Now he needed witnesses to believe it had been an accident.

I pressed one hand against the hull and listened.

Sound carries strangely through steel.

Bootsteps vibrated above me.

Fast.

Heavy.

People running.

Then another sound.

A door slamming.

Kane was moving toward Deck Four.

He knew.

Maybe not exactly what I had discovered.

But he knew enough to be afraid.

I waited until the search boat moved past the stern.

Then I swam toward the emergency ladder on the opposite side.

A deckhand spotted me first.

His eyes widened.

“Mercer!”

I climbed.

Hands grabbed my arms.

Pulled me over the rail.

For several seconds, I lay flat on the deck coughing seawater.

A corpsman dropped beside me.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were just thrown overboard.”

“I noticed.”

He almost smiled.

Then his face hardened.

“Did he do it?”

I looked at him.

He already knew the answer.

So did everyone else.

Around us, sailors had formed a loose circle.

No one was talking.

They were looking at me.

Then toward the passage Kane had disappeared through.

The young signalman from earlier was sitting beneath a shade canopy with a wet cloth around his neck.

Someone had finally opened the water stores.

Cases of bottles were being carried onto the deck.

Apparently Kane’s ration policy had ended the moment half the ship watched him throw someone into the Pacific.

The corpsman handed me a towel.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

I pushed myself up.

My legs shook once.

Then steadied.

The master-at-arms on duty approached.

“Petty Officer Cole, I need a statement.”

“Not yet.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

I lowered my voice.

“Then you need to call Commander Reese.”

He froze.

That name meant something to him.

Good.

Commander Nathan Reese was listed aboard the Resolute as a visiting logistics auditor.

Only three people on the vessel knew he was my NCIS control officer.

The master-at-arms looked at me differently.

“Why?”

“Tell him Hannah says Deck Four is confirmed.”

His face went still.

He did not ask another question.

He walked away immediately.

The corpsman stared at me.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing you need to be involved in.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

I wrapped the towel around my shoulders.

Then I looked toward the passage Kane had taken.

He had been gone too long.

I started walking.

The corpsman grabbed my arm.

“Where are you going?”

“To stop him from cleaning up.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I can stand enough.”

He tightened his grip.

“You just got kicked into the ocean.”

I looked at him.

“And Kane just realized I came back.”

That made him release me.

I reached the interior passage.

Behind me, boots followed.

I turned.

The master-at-arms.

Two sailors.

And the young signalman.

His face was pale, but he was standing.

“You should be in medical.”

He swallowed.

“I saw what he did.”

“That doesn’t mean you follow me.”

He looked toward Deck Four.

“He locked water away while people dropped.”

His voice tightened.

“Somebody has to stop pretending that’s normal.”

I stared at him.

Twenty years old.

Barely steady.

But done being afraid.

“Stay behind the master-at-arms.”

He nodded.

We moved.

The passageways inside the Resolute felt different now.

Before, Kane’s presence had been everywhere.

In closed doors.

Lowered voices.

People moving aside when he approached.

Now sailors were standing in the passage.

Watching.

They had heard.

Some had seen.

News travels fast on a ship.

By the time we reached Deck Four, there were already a dozen people nearby.

And Kane was standing in front of the sealed access corridor.

He was shouting at a maintenance chief.

“Open it.”

The chief shook his head.

“I need authorization.”

“You have authorization.”

“Not for that compartment.”

Kane stepped closer.

“I am the authorization.”

The chief did not move.

That was new.

Kane grabbed him by the front of his coveralls.

Then he saw me.

Everything stopped.

The expression on his face was almost worth being thrown overboard.

Almost.

His hand released the maintenance chief.

Slowly.

“You.”

I stood at the opposite end of the passage.

Water still dripped from my uniform.

My hair was plastered against my face.

My chest hurt every time I inhaled.

But I was standing.