The Cave
Copyright © 2019 Amanda McKinney
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-7324635-8-5
eBook ISBN 978-1-7324635-7-8
Editor(s): Nancy Brown
For Mama
Contents
Also by Amanda McKinney
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Also by Amanda McKinney
Lethal Legacy
The Woods (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Lake (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Storm (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Fog (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Creek (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Shadow (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Cave (A Berry Springs Novel)
Devil’s Gold (A Black Rose Mystery, Book 1)
Hatchet Hollow (A Black Rose Mystery, Book 2)
Tomb’s Tale (A Black Rose Mystery Book 3)
Evil Eye (A Black Rose Mystery Book 4)
Sinister Secrets (A Black Rose Mystery Book 5)
Dragon’s Breath (A Black Rose Mystery Book 6)
Skull Shore (A Black Rose Mystery Book 7)
Check out the hot, new series coming Fall 2019!
STEELE SHADOWS SECURITY
Cabin 1 (Steele Shadows Security)
Cabin 2 (Steele Shadows Security) **Coming Fall 2019**
Cabin 3 (Steele Shadows Security) **Coming Fall 2019**
And many more to come…
Text AMANDABOOKS to 66866 to sign up
for Amanda’s Newsletter and get the latest
on new releases, promos, and freebies!
Awards and Recognition
THE STORM
Winner of the 2018 Golden Leaf for Romantic Suspense
2018 Maggie Award for Excellence Finalist
2018 Silver Falchion Finalist
2018 Beverley Finalist
2018 Passionate Plume Honorable Mention Recipient
THE FOG
Winner of the 2019 Golden Quill for Romantic Suspense
2019 Maggie Award of Excellence Finalist
2019 Stiletto Award Finalist
2019 I Heart Indie Finalist
Chapter 1
She was beautiful. Alluring, magical. A commanding force who had a way of reminding you how little and vulnerable human life was. How she could chew you up and spit you out without so much as a happy ending. She was powerful, relentless, unforgiving, and tonight, she was in one hell of a mood.
Owen knew her well. He loved her, respected her, and had found a home with her even though she’d take everything from him in a moment’s notice, then build him back up, only to destroy him again. She was addictive, an adrenaline rush second only to jumping out of a MH-60 Jayhawk at a hundred feet, then getting pelted with a 120-knot rotor blast. He’d seen the bodies she’d devoured in her wake, watched the friends and families cry. But the truth was, he’d be nothing without her. She’d made him into the man he was today. For better or worse.
She was a bitch of a mistress, and Owen’s gut told him they were in for a helluva fight tonight.
Owen buckled the waist belt, giving it a quick tug before moving onto the chest straps. The helicopter dipped, dropped, then lifted again causing him to glance up at the pilot, Lieutenant Potts, who was laser focused on the controls glowing through the dark night. A flash of lightning streaked the sky in the distance, sparkling off the rain-streaked windshield. Up ahead, the lights of a capsized sailboat—the only light in the black, swirling water—swaying back and forth on its side, at the mercy of her angry waves.
Yeah, she was in one hell of a mood tonight.
Petty Officer Williams handed him a dive mask, and Owen pretended not to notice the tremble in the rookie’s hand.
From the flight deck, Potts’s voice crackled through the radio. “We’ve got a second round of storms coming in at one-hundred twenty kilos. Need to get a move on this, boss.”
“Almost ready. What’ve we got?” Owen strapped on his gloves.
“Surface winds of fifty-two, nine foot swells. I’m as low as I can go in this wind.”
Owen cast a side-long glance at the rookie’s rounded eyes. “Another walk in the park, kid.” He winked as the prominent Adam’s apple in the rook’s throat bobbed.
Lieutenant Foster, a two-thirty tank of muscle with an attitude to match, pushed past the rook, shoving him to the side. His steely eyes met Owen’s, and after a quick shake of his head, he checked Owen’s gear one last time. The helo dipped again, sending the rookie stumbling. Owen caught him by the arm and yanked the kid to him.
“I need you to pull it together, Williams. You’ve trained for this, kid. We’re search and rescue swimmers. This is it, this is what we do. Grab your fucking balls. You’ve got this.”
Williams blinked, then steeled himself and nodded. “Sorry, boss.”
Owen turned toward Foster, who was in charge of operating the hoist. “I’ll bring the kid up first, then the mom, then the dad.”
Foster nodded—I’m ready.
“When you are, Potts.”
“10-4. Target is directly below us. Remember, names, Gary, Beverly, Timmy McCarver. One yellow lifejacket in the water, next to the boat.”
“One?”
“One.”
One lifejacket for a family of three didn’t bode well.
Owen removed his radio, pulled the wet suit over his head, and secured his mask. The door opened, sending a freight train of whirling wind and rain inside.
It was go time.
Owen looked down at the black water swirling twenty-five feet below, only visible by the white caps of the crashing waves. He scanned the water, looking for the family who’d been tossed overboard. The spotlight from the helicopter illuminated a wide circle over the water but through the slanted rain, visibility was shit. He’d just have to trust his team.
Just another walk in the park, his own words echoed in his head as Foster counted off on his fingers—one, two, three.
Owen shimmied to the edge, and after a quick inhale, dropped off the platform, plunging into the water below. The wind was strong, relentless, the bitch of all bitches. After a thumbs-up to the crew, the helo rose, taking most of the rotor spray with it.
Owen zeroed in on the capsized sailboat circled with a yellow spotlight. A four-year-old boy, his mother, and father had made the poor decision to ignore weather warnings and take the boat out for the evening. They’d drifted further than expected, and, to no one’s surprise, got caught in the storm. The Coast Guard received a mayday twenty minutes earlier, before the boat had capsized. Owen wondered if this would still be a rescue mission, or body retrieval at this point… assuming the other bodies were even found.
A massive wave roared toward him, and he dove under, waiting for it to pass as it crashed down on him, tossing him like he was nothing—a small speck in the middle of an endless black sea. After years of training, years of leading rescue missions, the force of the ocean never ceased to amaze Owen. And for a man who liked control, the irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d fallen in love with a force stronger than him, bigger than him. The only thing he could count on was that she was unpredictable. Like most women in his life.
Like this mission.
Owen came up for air, fighting the churning water around him, then dove again pushing through water that felt like thick molasses, twisting and turning him with each stroke. Finally, he reached the boat.
“Help!” The shrill scream carried though the howling wind like a beacon.
Through the sheets of rain, a man waved wildly from his death-grip on the mast, his bright yellow life jacket reflecting in the spotlight. Owen dipped under again, careful to stay away from floating debris.
“Mr. McCarver, I’m US Coast Guard Search and Rescue,” Owen shouted over the crashing waves once he reached the mast. “Where is your wife and son?”
Eye’s wide with shock, McCarver’s face was pale, panicked, wild. The man opened his mouth, but shut it when they rose with a wave and were splashed by buckets of water. But, by the look on the man’s face, Owen knew what was coming before he even said it.
“She’s…” he spat out ocean water. “He… Timmy, my boy, he slipped off, into the water… she dove in after him. I tried to stop her! I tried—”
Shit.
Owen turned and scanned the dark water, catching a glint of reflective material a few yards out.
Child first.
“I’m going to get your wife and boy, first. I’ll be back for you. Keep the life jacket on, stay on the mast. I’ll be back.”
As he turned to go under, a wave crashed over them, a Mack truck barreling across the sea. Owen breached—McCarver was gone.
Shit, shit, shit.
He dove under, gripped the man under the shoulders and pulled him up. Coughing, spitting, gasping for air, McCarver swatted, grabbed and pulled at Owen. “I’m drowning,” he gasped. “I’m drowning.”
McCarver had at least thirty pounds on Owen but when survival instinct mixed with adrenaline, it felt more like an eight-hundred pound grizzly bear wrapping around him.
“You’re not drowning. Gary, I’ve got you.”
With every second that ticked by with Gary McCarver trying to crawl onto him like a damn life boat, the storm was getting worse and Owen was losing time searching for the rest of the family. So, he made the snap decision to save the father first, then go after the family.
“Sir,” he slipped behind and wrapped his arm around the writhing panic attack, “I’ve got you.”
He looked up at another wave about to barrel onto them. Owen clenched his jaw as he gripped the yellow life jacket a split-second before the wave hit. They both went under, then bobbed back up.
“I’m going to take you to the basket and pull you up.” He yelled as he turned, kicking his fins wildly against the whipping current. The rain had picked up, reminding him of Potts’s warning about the lightning. The helo hovered above, swaying in the storm as the ocean swayed in the opposite direction. McCarver continued to pull him under despite Owen’s repeated warnings not to. It took three tries to get ahold of the rescue basket, before Owen could even secure the man into it. Water pelted them like shards of glass hurling through the darkness. Owen gave the signal moments before the basket began to rise.
One down, two to go.
As he started to turn away, a light from the helicopter cabin caught his attention—a bright red light waving back and forth.
Kill the mission.
His gaze shifted to a flash of lightning piercing the sky, closer now.
Kill the mission.
Just then—a distant scream.
All or none, he thought as he turned and dove back under allowing his instinct, his sixth sense, to guide him knowing that every second longer he spent in the water put his crew’s life on the line.
A mother and child.
Adrenaline flooded his veins as he fought through the storm, the waves, and the fatigue numbing his legs.
“US Coast Guard. Where are you?” He yelled over the wind, the helo spotlight scanning the water, nowhere close to his location. The lights from the sailboat barely illuminated the radius of the boat itself.
A second passed…
“Over here!”
Owen would never forget the sound of the woman’s scream for the rest of his life. It wasn’t only panic… it was a wild, primal tone, a terror he’d never heard before…
And then he found out why.
With one arm wrapped around a life preserver, a mother gripped her four-year-old boy, dangling lifelessly over her other arm.
“He’s dead!” Her eyes met his across the black churning water. “He’s dead!”
The boy’s skin was pale, lips blue, eyes closed as his head bobbed against the water.
And then… the world went black. A pitch-black inky dark. A darkness only being out in the middle of the ocean could provide. The capsized boat had finally lost electricity, and with no light to guide him, he had a nice little problem on his hands. One shift of location, one big wave, and that boat could crash down on top of them, killing them in seconds flat. He looked up at the spotlight shooting out of the helo, scanning the ocean for him.
They were a good twenty yards off.
Fuck.
Owen swam toward the hysterical screams.
“Ma’am! I’m here, I’m going to get you out of here.” Kicking, he reached forward until—finally—he made contact.
Frantic arms swatted at him. “He’s dead! He’s dead! My boy is dead.”
Eclipsing the father’s panic, this woman was hysterical, which was obstacle number one. The second obstacle was that if the child was dead, there was no way in hell she was leaving the boy’s body. Obstacle three—about ten more minutes and they’d all be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Keep hold onto the life preserver, and onto me, Mrs. McCarver,” he said as he felt the thin arm of the limp body next to him. “I need you to let go of your son. I’ve got him.”
“He’s dead!” She continued to scream, but a well-timed wave knocked her grip just enough for Owen to pull the boy to him. Owen wrapped his arms around the little, cold body, fisted his hands and shoved them into the child’s sternum. Again, again, using each kick under the water as leverage with each thrust of his fist.
Another wave, another force under the water.
He shifted the boy and blew five rescue breaths into his mouth, then turned him again.
His brain was screaming at him to get back to the helo and out of the path of the sailboat.
One more, Owen. One more fucking try.
As his fist bored into the tiny chest, the spotlight found them just as water spewed from the child’s lips.
“My baby!” She screamed as the child wailed like an infant.
For a split-second the world froze around him as he looked into the boy’s eyes, now full of life. A wave pulled him back to the moment and his determination switched to tactical—he had to get the fuck out of there.
“I’ve got your son—”
“Is he alive?” She squeaked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he yelled over the rain and screaming child. “I’ve got him. You have to trust me.”
“I have to—”
He locked eyes on her. “You have to trust me. Do you trust me?”
She stared at him with round eyes, helpless, exhausted, fatigued… but hopeful—another moment he would never forget.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Owen looked in the direction of the sailboat—total blackness—called a Hail Mary and with one arm hooked around the child and gripping the life preserver with the mother, they swam
to the rescue basket dangling a few yards away.
Two more waves crashed over them until he finally gripped the basket. Thankfully, the mom was a tiny thing and Owen was able to allow her and her son to ride up together. He watched from the churning water as the mother gripped onto her baby boy, swaying in the wind.
Alive.
Once they were safely inside the helo, Owen was hoisted inside. It took both Williams and Foster to get him into the cabin.
Owen ripped off his mask, his gaze darting around the cabin until he spotted the boy—he was okay.
He looked around at his team, tending to the family—they were okay.
Okay, Owen, okay.
Extreme exhaustion waved over him like an unstoppable force. He fell to the cabin floor, chest heaving.
Williams kneeled down beside him with a grin the size of Texas. “Holy shit, man,” he yelled as the door closed and the helicopter lifted.
Holy shit was right.
“Hell of a way to go out, man. A fucking legendary last mission.” He patted Owen’s forehead before taking his seat in the front.
Legendary last mission.
His last mission.
Owen’s gut clenched—not because of the near-death experience he’d just had, or because of the adrenaline crash, but because he was about to walk away from the only thing he’d ever loved.
Owen rolled down the windows as he bumped along the pitted dirt road. The mild, autumn breeze whipped around the cab of the truck, the spicy scent of fall triggering memories—some good, some bad. He mindlessly swerved around a pothole—the same one that had given him multiple flat tires growing up. He looked around the dense woods that surrounded him, the last of the day’s sun spearing through the thick canopy of trees. The Ozark Mountains were a canvas of yellow, orange, and red leaves, each desperately hanging on to the past, before their time was up.
Like his was.
He turned up the radio in an attempt to distract the nerves threatening to grab ahold of him. Nerves make you messy, and if there was anything Owen wasn’t, it was messy.
He inhaled deeply—what a cluster fuck.