Hunter's read was dead-on.
The frame-up worked.
Early the next morning, Bates hadn't even finished waking up before his phone exploded with a call from the docks.
By the time he tore through town and skidded into the marina, he saw it with his own eyes.
His salvage boat was already half-swallowed by the sea.
Two high-powered pumps were roaring nonstop, vomiting seawater back into the harbor as his crew scrambled across the deck like ants on a sinking log.
Bates stood there with a dark face and a Cuban cigar clenched between his teeth.
"Somebody tell me," he said evenly, "what the hell this is."
The calm in his voice made it worse. There was rage packed inside every syllable.
A tall sailor strode up, face just as ugly.
"Boss. We got played."
His name was Wright, one of Bates's earliest loyalists.
Bates cut his eyes at him.
"Wright. How does my boat start leaking overnight?"
Wright's jaw tightened.
"Someone dove under us last night and cut cracks into the hull."
He turned and barked toward the deck.
"Dale, bring it here!"
Two young Latino guys jogged over, each carrying equipment.
Wright pointed.
"We found these underwater. The mechanic checked the damage. No question, it was sabotage."
He hesitated, then added with disgust.
"The cuts are sloppy. Whoever did it was a beginner."
Bates recognized the gear immediately.
A scuba rig.
A compact cutting torch.
In an instant, half a dozen names flashed through his mind, people who'd love to see him bleed.
And the one that stuck was Jared.
Bates knew the history.
Back then, Jared had claimed he'd discovered a pirate wreck trapped in a coral reef zone. Salvaging it would have required blasting the reef. Jared didn't do it.
Not because he cared about the ocean.
Because he didn't have a salvage boat, and he didn't have money for explosives.
Bates had offered to partner up. Jared refused.
So Bates did what Bates always did. He found the spot, blew the reef, hauled the wreck, and cashed out. He made over a million in local currency, hit the papers, and became a name in Nassau.
Jared never forgave him.
He ran his mouth everywhere, swearing the wreck was his first and calling Bates an environmental thug who only cared about money.
That was where the feud began.
Enemies understood each other best.
Bates knew Jared wasn't some noble ocean guardian.
He was greedy. Petty. And allergic to splitting profits.
Bates had even dug up the receipts from back then. Jared had begged for loans, panicked because he couldn't buy explosives, then turned around and rejected every offer of cooperation because he wanted the whole prize to himself.
So Bates had tracked him, stolen the location, and struck first.
Now the debt was coming due.
Still, Bates frowned.
"It shouldn't be him," he muttered. "That guy's so broke he can barely eat. If Sam wasn't feeding him, he'd be dead already."
He stared at the ruined boat, then at the retrieved gear.
"And he'd never throw scuba gear and a torch into the ocean. Not with his pockets."
But suspicion was suspicion.
Bates's face hardened.
"Wright. Go find out what Jared's been doing lately."
"See if he's got funding. A partner. A boat."
Wright blinked, then understood. He nodded and left with a few men.
They were locals. They moved fast.
By noon, Wright was back.
His expression said everything.
"Boss," he said, voice tight, "it might really be Jared."
Bates didn't speak.
Wright continued.
"I heard he's been hanging around White Beach. The rich zone. Somebody saw him with a guy in a suit, like a businessman."
"People saw Jared's group renting dive gear and treasure-hunting equipment this morning."
"And the dock workers said they boarded a yacht."
Bates's cigar burned down as his stare went flat and cold.
"Good," he said softly. "Very good."
"I haven't even gone looking for trouble yet, and Jared wants to start a war."
He turned to Wright.
"Put eyes on him. Constantly."
"Everyone else gets this boat fixed, now."
"And you. Go to Garland and pick up weapons."
Wright's anger flickered into a grin.
"On it."
As Wright stomped away, Bates pulled out another cigar, clipped the tip, and lit it slow.
He inhaled, savoring the bite on his tongue, and looked out at the ocean like it had personally offended him.
"Jared," he said, almost gently, "I'm going to make you regret waking up."
Out on the water, Hunter Sun was doing what he did best.
He piloted a small yacht through the nearshore lanes, roughly a few dozen miles off the coast. He kept himself about six miles behind Jared's yacht, never closing enough to be noticed, never drifting far enough to lose the trail.
Every time Jared's boat stopped, Hunter stopped too.
He would adjust course, mark the coordinates, and note the duration.
Later, he'd return alone and dive it properly.
He wasn't a local. He didn't know the seabed, the currents, the underwater hazards.
That was why Jared existed.
Hunter was willing to be patient.
When Jared stopped, Hunter would kill time. A few casts with a sea rod. A quiet drink. A slow scan of the horizon.
He followed them like this for three days.
And he never got bored.
Because he wasn't the only one stalking Jared.
There was another vessel on the periphery too, shadowing the same yacht, keeping a predator's distance.
Hunter had already confirmed it.
Bates.
And the last piece that mattered?
Sam.
Her mood had improved slightly over these days, but she still wasn't close with Jared. No playful touches. No private smiles. No couple energy.
The crack hadn't healed.
Then Jared's yacht stopped again.
Same area as before.
But this time, it didn't leave.
The longer it lingered, the more certain Hunter became.
He raised his binoculars.
On the deck, they were celebrating. Arms in the air. Bodies bouncing. The kind of joy people only showed when they believed they'd won.
Hunter's eyes narrowed.
They'd found it.
The only question was which one.
The drug plane.
Or the pirate gold.
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