The Crushing Depths (Coastal Guardians Book #2)

By Dani Pettrey

When an accident claims the life of an oil-rig worker on the first drilling platform off the North Carolina coast, Coast Guard investigators Rissi Dawson and Mason Rogers are sent to take the case. Tensions surrounding the oil rig are high and the death has everyone on edge. Environmental activists are threatening to do whatever it takes to stop the structure from being completed, while rumors are being whispered about ancient curses surrounding this part of the ocean.

Mounting evidence shows the death may not have been an accident at all. Was he killed by one of the activists or, perhaps more frighteningly, a member of his own crew? Rissi and Mason have to sort through not only a plethora of suspects, but also their own past and attraction to each other.

Just as the case seems like it'll break open, worse news arrives. A tropical storm has turned their way and soon they're cut off from any rescue--and right where the killer wants them. It's a race to discover his identity before he eliminates the threat they pose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Jun 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781493425075

Dani Pettrey

Dani Pettrey (DaniPettrey.com) is the bestselling author of the Coastal Guardians, Chesapeake Valor, and Alaskan Courage series. A two-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers' Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing's Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home in the Washington, DC, metro area.

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© 2020 by Grace & Johnny, Inc.

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-2507-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by LOOK Design Studio

Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Management.

To Dee Henderson

I’m so blessed by your friendship, guidance, and support over all these years. But I am most grateful for your example of living a life of devotion to and in relationship with God. May I walk daily with our Father as you do. Love you, friend!

Contents

Cover

Half Title Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

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Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Ads

Cover Flaps

Back Cover

The silence of the abyss engulfed her.

ONE

LATE SEPTEMBER

THIRTY-EIGHT MILES OFF NORTH CAROLINA’S COAST

Greg Barnes clinked along the grated metal steps, his boot heels rasping with each shuffle as he headed topside for a much-needed breath of smoke.

Thrusting the door open with a resounding creak, he stepped out into the night air. A litany of protestors’ chants mimicked the shrill whining of cicadas.

He glanced at his watch. 1930. Didn’t those eco-nuts ever give it a rest?

As if the cursed rig wasn’t enough—they had the dang relentless protestors going practically day and night.

Exhaling, he rubbed his thumb along the smooth surface of the tarnished gold lighter in his pocket. His tight muscles seized, making his movements stiff. He shook his head. Those people needed to get a life.

Edging around the far corner of the main separator facility, he pressed his back against the structure’s cool outer wall. Generators whirred across from him, finally drowning out the clatter. He scanned his surroundings and exhaled in relief. Finally, alone.

His leg twitched. Just one drag . . . maybe two. It’d been an awful day, and that was the gentleman’s way of putting it.

With unsteady hands, he pulled the plastic-wrapped pack from his shirt pocket.

It crinkled beneath his hold and the sweet scent of tobacco wafted beneath his nose. He tamped the cigarette in his palm and slid it between his cracked lips. Just one drag.

Tugging the lighter from his pocket, he flipped it open, then rolled the pad of his thumb across the ignitor.

A spark flashed and fire roared, hissing over him in a sizzling cascade of torment.

TWO

WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH, NORTH CAROLINA

Rissi Dawson sat at the long table on Dockside’s waterfront deck, gaping at Mason Rogers. He turned to look at her, his green eyes illuminated in the bright pole lights lining the wooden structural beams. She averted her eyes as heat rushed up her throat, spreading across her cheeks. He’d caught her staring again. Embarrassment drenched her. It’d been three days since his arrival, and she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact he was actually sitting next to her.

The boy she’d had the biggest crush on as a teen was back in her life. And on her Coast Guard Investigative Service team.

He handed her the basket of hush puppies the restaurant served instead of bread to start everyone off. His hand brushed hers with the movement, and her heart fluttered. Thanks, she said, keeping her gaze fixed on the red basket as she pulled two balls of fried cornmeal from it. She plopped the still-warm puppies onto the round plate to the right of her Coke. Get it together, girl!

The whir of a boat’s motor dropping to an idle sounded over the deck’s edge. A teen jumped out of the white outboard and onto the pier, tying her up to the cleat. Rissi loved living in a place with a boat drive-thru.

Noah raised his glass of iced tea. Everyone . . . The team lifted their glasses in response to their boss’s prompting.

Noah dipped his chin. Welcome, Mason. Happy to have you on board.

The team clinked their glasses together, even Caleb, who sat brooding to her left. Observant as he was, there was no chance he missed the way she looked at Mason. In recent months, he’d developed feelings for her, so it wasn’t surprising he’d bristled at Mason’s arrival—especially after learning she and Mason shared a past, though he didn’t know the half of it. Only that they spent time in a children’s home together for a handful of months as teens.

The opening riff of Sweet Home Alabama emanated from Noah’s jean pocket. He hitched up as he extracted his phone. Rowley, he answered. Yes? Standing, he headed down the ramp toward the restaurant’s pier.

Rockfish tacos, the waitress said, placing the plate in front of Rissi. The sweet, tropical scent of the mango slaw swirled in the air.

The waitress handed out plate after plate to each of them, setting Noah’s burger at his spot while he continued to pace the pier.

Caleb bit into his Carolina BBQ pork sandwich, the scent of vinegar wafting in the night’s gentle breeze.

Finn Walker did the same with his crab cake sandwich. He and Noah, who was from Maryland, had argued for months over which state had the best crab cake. Finn had been convinced it was North Carolina, right up until Noah had crab cakes flown in fresh from Jimmy’s Famous Seafood in Baltimore. It took two bites for Finn to concede the win.

Sorry about that, folks, Noah said, retaking his seat.

Everything okay? Emmy Thorton asked. Rissi looked forward to seeing the quirky angel every day at the station.

Rissi, Mason. Noah lifted his chin in their direction. I’ve got an assignment for you.

Her and Mason? They’d worked a case his first day on the team, but Finn had joined them for most of the investigation. This would be the two of them . . . alone. A mixture of elation and fear sifted through her.

Great. Mason set down his lemonade.

"We’ve got a death out on the Dauntless."

The offshore oil platform? Mason asked, swiping a drop of lemonade from his bottom lip.

Stop staring, girl. So he’s jaw-dropping gorgeous. So you share a past. Still, staring is plain rude. Despite not having a mother to teach her, Rissi knew, or at least had come to learn, her manners.

Noah laid his napkin across his lap. You two need to determine if the death was an accident or if foul play was involved. Helo is leaving from Textra Oil’s copter hub in forty-five. I need you both on it.

Mason pushed back from the table. No problem.

Great, Noah said. You’ll be joining the head of operations, a commercial diver, and the deceased’s replacement on the company copter.

Rissi took one last bite of her taco before setting it down. She dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin. They aren’t wasting any time in replacing the deceased.

The deceased’s name is Greg Barnes. I talked to the head of operations, Bob Stanton, and he said they needed to replace him ASAP.

Must be an important position. She reached for her glass and took a final sip.

You’d think, Noah said. But Bob said the main reason they need to replace him fast is they’ve been working with a skeleton crew.

Mason’s brows pinched as he stood. Why?

Several guys didn’t show up for their three-week rotation transport out, Noah said, popping a fry in his mouth.

I know why they didn’t show up for that copter ride out there. Tom Murphy leaned toward them from his table situated to their right.

Why? Mason asked, moving around to the back of Rissi’s chair. He held it out for her as she stood.

She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled. Thanks.

He nodded.

Tom, one of Wrightsville’s most colorful fishermen, crooked his index finger, drawing them in. That rig’s cursed.

Cursed? Caleb chuckled. You can’t be serious?

Tom waggled his finger. It’s no laughing matter, young man.

I’m sure it’s a good story, Tom, Rissi said. No reason not to be polite. But I’m afraid we’ve got to catch a copter ride.

Tom shrugged and turned back to his food. It’s your lives at stake.

What do you mean? she asked before they passed his table, unable to stem her curiosity.

You’ll see. He smiled, his right incisor missing. Henry’s curse is real.

Henry? Why was she letting herself get sucked into this?

Tom let out a high-pitched chuckle. Oh, you’ll learn all about Henry.

Shall we? Mason said, gesturing to the wooden ramp leading down to the gravel parking lot.

Excusing themselves, they moved down the ramp. Mason leaned in. He smelled of the ocean and warm spice. He whispered, Did that guy seriously just cackle?

She nodded, strangely curious about the old man’s ghost story.

"I thought people only did that on Scooby-Doo."

She let out a slip of laughter.

I wouldn’t be laughing, Tom called after them as they rounded the ramp on his side of the deck. You two be careful out there, you hear? It’s a dangerous place to be. Just ask the men on board.

THREE

Well, that was interesting, Mason said, walking on Rissi’s left into the parking lot. Almost as interesting as the fact he was headed for his first assignment alone with Rissi.

I carpooled with Emmy today, she said, so I guess you’ll be driving.

No problem.

She glanced around the lot. Where’s your car?

He lifted his chin at his Triumph Bonneville parked less than three feet away.

She angled her head, her gaze flitting over his motorcycle. Nice ride.

Thanks.

I can give you a ride, Caleb said, sidling down the ramp and stopping less than a foot away. "No need for you to ride on that."

Mason dipped his chin. "That?"

On the back of a bike, Caleb said, his broad shoulders square. It’s gotta be more comfortable for Rissi in a car.

Rissi looked up at Caleb, who if Mason gauged right was six-three or possibly six-four. Either way, he towered over her.

I’ll be fine, but thanks, she said with a soft smile. It makes more sense to head with Mason to the helipad.

The muscle in Caleb’s jaw flickered in the restaurant’s front floodlight. He shuffled, his boots scattering a few pebbles. Okay. Be careful.

Always, she said.

Caleb’s gaze shifted to Mason. Take good care of her.

Always, Mason said.

Caleb nodded and headed back up the ramp for the restaurant’s deck seating.

Mason opened the right saddlebag and pulled out a yellow-and-orange helmet. He handed it to Rissi. For you.

Thanks. She flipped her hair over her shoulders and slid the helmet on.

Let me take a quick look. He stepped closer to inspect the helmet. It needed to fit right. Just a small adjustment. He pulled the straps taut, his fingers grazing the supple skin along her neck.

Is it okay? she asked, blinking up at him.

Ye— He cleared his throat. Yes. You’re good.

Great.

He grabbed his helmet off the gas tank, slid it on, and straddled the bike. Rissi followed suit and adjusted to fit around him. His throat constricted, every nerve ending in his body sparking.

Focus, man. Precious cargo.

Ever been on a bike? he asked.

Definitely. I’ve ridden with Logan. No one can be as crazy as him. He drives like he’s a MotoGP rider.

Mason laughed. Good description.

You’ve already ridden with him?

He showed me the best back roads in the area last night. We had a blast.

She chuckled. I hate to imagine.

Mason turned the ignition, and the bike rumbled beneath them.

Revving the engine, he eased out of the gravel lot. Reaching the pavement, he rolled on the throttle, and the bike flew.

Rissi clasped hold of him, her hands hugging his waist. He took a sharp inhale, praying she didn’t feel him quiver beneath her touch.

They crossed the bridge connecting Wrightsville Beach to Wilmington, and he fully twisted the throttle. Wind pressed against his visor. Salt infused the air circulating around them.

Twenty minutes to meet the helicopter. They were cutting it close. Thankfully, his ride with Logan had shown him a good number of shortcuts around town. Ridgely Way, in particular, held some wicked turns and would shave a good five minutes off their drive.

Signaling, he made the turn. Hang on! he hollered over his shoulder.

She shifted, securing her arms about his waist, resting her elbows atop his hip bones.

He swallowed. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. He needed to focus on the corkscrew ahead. Praying for focus and pure thoughts, he pressed the left handgrip and shot through it.

Rissi’s hold remained firm, but her sweet, unbridled laughter lit up the night.

Now, if he could just shake the weight lodged in his gut—the one telling him they were headed for a completely different kind of danger.

FOUR

A rush of wind whistled through Rissi’s hair, fluttering it about her helmet. Her arms snug around Mason, she leaned into the last turn, wishing the ride would never end. This was what being fully alive felt like.

The tarry scent of asphalt on the warm night seeped through her helmet as they pulled into the transport lot. Their time together was about to shift.

Anticipation surged through her.

What were they heading into? And why had Tom’s silly curse story spooked her? She didn’t spook.

Mason killed the engine, flipped down the side stand, and climbed off the bike. Rissi followed suit.

He removed his helmet, his spiky hair flattened and mussed.

She bit back a smile and removed her own, wondering what her helmet hair looked like.

Her gaze fixed on the helicopter. The floodlights beaming down on the helipad illuminated a man standing in the copter’s open bay door. He cupped a hand to his mouth. Over here. His words sounded more like a whisper than the shout his contorted face suggested. It fell nearly silent under the pulse of the copter’s whirring blades.

Mason rested his hand on the small of Rissi’s back as they ducked beneath what were essentially razor-sharp machetes spinning overhead.

The man extended his hand.

Rissi gripped hold, and he helped her into the helicopter. Mason climbed in behind her.

A faint holler of Wait! reached her ears. Turning, she spotted a man racing across the tarmac. Out of breath, he darted into the front passenger seat, landing with an oomph. Clutching his briefcase on his lap, he pulled his door closed. Let’s go.

The pilot turned back. I’m Max.

Rissi.

Mason. He lifted his chin in greeting.

Can one of you close the bay door, then grab an open seat?

Sure. Mason moved for the door and slid it shut. A reverberating shudder rumbled through Rissi’s chest.

Let’s get this thing going, the man up front snapped, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose.

As soon as they’re buckled in, Max said, flipping switches.

Rissi sat down and slid the black strap across her chest, clicking it into the silver buckle.

Mason sat beside her. As he shifted to adjust his buckle, his muscular thigh brushed hers.

She bit her bottom lip at the warmth of his inadvertent touch. It was so strange seeing him as a grown man. He was the same . . . but different. His shoulders broader, his jaw more chiseled, a dusting of hair on his forearms, and his handspan nearly double hers.

"It’s about a half hour ride out to Dauntless, Max said, so sit back and enjoy the lack of view." The moon slid behind wispy clouds, shrouding them in darkness.

Rissi relaxed into her seat and assessed the men riding with them.

I’m Bob Stanton, the latecomer said from the front seat. Head of operations for Textra Oil.

Nice to meet you, she said.

Mason leaned forward and shook the man’s hand.

Chase Calhoun, the man who’d been beckoning them to the copter chimed in. He was tall, with curly blond hair and deep blue eyes. He reminded her of a young Paul Newman.

What do you do on the platform? Mason asked Chase.

I’m an underwater welder. Apparently, they are having some trouble with the risers, so I’m heading back out yet again to inspect them all.

Risers? Rissi asked, unfamiliar with oil production platforms.

"The risers are pipes that connect Dauntless to the subsea system the drilling rig put in place for them to come in and start production."

You must hit some pretty good depths, Mason said.

Chase lifted his chin with a smile. My deepest without a diving bell is just over four hundred feet.

Mason whistled. That’s impressive.

You dive? Chase asked.

Some, Mason said.

Some? Rissi shook her head. He was a master diver with the Guard, she said, having just learned that yesterday, but it fit with the man he’d become. She was learning who he was now, but somehow, she already knew him. It was strange how time worked, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

Nice, Chase said, resting his hands behind his head. I’ve heard the training in the Guard can be brutal.

Mason chuckled. It definitely has its moments.

Chase tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. I was told two CGIS agents were joining us.

I’m CGIS now, Mason said.

Chase’s smile thinned. You gave up diving?

I specialize in dive investigations.

Hmm . . . I imagine you see some interesting things on that job.

Mason shook his head on an exhaled whistle. I could tell you some stories.

I wouldn’t mind hearing them myself, the dark-haired man across from Rissi said. Joel Waters. He leaned as far forward as his strap would allow and extended his hand. Rissi and Mason each shook it in turn.

He’s the man who’s going to fix my problem, Bob said from the front passenger seat.

Joel’s jaw tightened. "You can’t fix a dead man."

Bob shifted to half face them, his clasped knuckles white on the edge of his briefcase. Mr. Barnes’s death was unfortunate, but we have a production platform to run. I need you to determine what happened and ensure we are ready to continue production.

Joel shook his head with an exhale. Right. Can’t let a man’s death prevent production, now can we?

Rissi studied the man. If he was so offended, and it appeared he had every right to be, why agree to come along?

Mr. Stanton slid his glasses off and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his tan overcoat. I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Mr. Waters. I’ve already said that Mr. Barnes’s death was unfortunate, and, believe me, I intend to find out what happened, but . . . He exhaled, slid his glasses back on, and popped his handkerchief back in his top jacket pocket. You need to step back and look at the big picture.

He shifted his attention to Rissi and Mason. In case you didn’t know, Joel here is, and Greg was, a safety engineer. I suppose it is rather ironic he died from a lapse in safety. Bob snorted, then cleared his throat. I’m sorry. Very inappropriate of me. He lifted his hand in apology but continued his hushed laughter under his breath.

Rissi stared at Bob. A man was dead, and he was cracking jokes?

Joel reclined, linking his arms over his chest. "It wasn’t a safety overlook by Greg that got him killed. Dauntless is cursed, and Henry’s wrath is just getting started."

Ah, come on. Chase swiped his hand through the air. Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense too?

You’re a fool for not paying heed to Henry’s curse, Joel countered.

Not the curse again. That’s the second time we’ve heard something about a—

A ferocious roar cut Rissi off. An ear-piercing alarm shrieked, blistering her ears.

What happ—? Joel hollered.

The copter pitched into a nosedive.

Rissi lashed forward, but her restraints halted her free fall, knocking the wind from her lungs. She grappled for a breath.

Mason’s arm braced across her, trying to shield her. But she didn’t think anything could prevent what was coming.

FIVE

Mayday! Mayday! We’re going down, Max called over the headset as he wrestled with the stick between his legs, trying to level the plunging copter. I can’t get her back.

Rissi drew a sharp breath, but her panic eased when Mason lowered his hand to hers, clutching it as they spiraled for the sea.

Dear God, Bob shrieked.

I’ve got you, Mason said, his grip tightening on her hand. Don’t let go.

She nodded, pressure pinning her head back.

Twenty feet.

Ten.

Five.

Metal collided with water.

A bone-jarring jolt thrust Rissi forward, then snapped her back—her head ramming into a metal panel. Pain whirred in her ears, sparks flitting before her eyes.

A wicked crack zigzagged down the side window. She clutched Mason’s hand tighter. He was her grounding.

A splintering explosion burst through the cavity.

Mason lunged across her. Cover your face!

Water gushed in feverishly, rushing over her ankles and up her knees and torso.

Her throat constricted. Please, Jesus.

Deep breath, Mason said, his voice an anchor of sanity in the cold, dark void.

She jerked in a last gulp of air before swirling water swallowed her whole.

Mason gripped her wrist, tugging her to follow him. Something held her down, pinning her to her seat.

Think. You’re trained for the extreme.

Her mind settled.

Weight pressed across her shoulder and thighs—constraining her.

Seat belt.

She fumbled in the dark for the buckle, her chest tight.

Please, Jesus, where is it?

She fixed her right hand around the belt and traced it down to the buckle. Mason’s hand was already there, jerking the clasp, but it wouldn’t budge.

Stretching her arm and fingers as far down as they would go, she retrieved the knife strapped to her calf.

Mason held by her side.

Sliding the blade between her body and the belt, she jerked outward, and the restraint pressing into her chest released.

Lowering the blade to her waist, she slid it beneath the belt and flinched as a razor-sharp sting lanced her skin. Biting back a grunt of pain, she squirmed her way out of whatever was tangled around her legs.

Mason tugged her in front of him. She swam toward the shattered window, but the black abyss shoved back. A faint light flickered on the control panel. They paused, scanning the copter. The light was so dim she didn’t know how they’d see anyone, but they had to try.

A moment later, not seeing anyone, they swam through the jagged window opening. A burning sting pierced down the inside of her shoulder blade as they passed through. Intense pain radiated down her side, but she pressed forward.

Once free of the wreckage, she and Mason swam in the direction she prayed was up.

Bursting through the ocean’s surface, she swallowed a gasp of air, coughing and sputtering as it seared her lungs.

Anyone there? Bob’s pained voice echoed above the thundering sea.

We’re here, Mason called, treading at Rissi’s side.

So am I, Chase said. Joel’s here, too, but he’s knocked out.

Max? Mason shouted.

No answer from the pilot.

Max! Mason hollered.

Something swooshed past Rissi’s calf, and she stilled.

There it was again.

Her breath hitched, her gaze shooting to the water.

What’s wrong? Mason asked, his husky voice deep.

I don’t— Another swish, this time by her hand. Something coarse and . . . slimy.

Her throat constricted.

What was in the water with them?

SIX

Falling rain spattered Brooke Kesler’s cheeks as she raced across the tarmac for the orange MH-65 Dolphin medevac helicopter.

Climbing inside, she hopped into her seat, buckling in as the rotary blades sliced through the air.

Jason and Brad, two of the Coast Guard’s best rescue swimmers, aka aviation survival technicians, rushed across the tarmac. The open hangar’s floodlights silhouetted their broad shoulders and rescue gear: snorkel, helmet, face mask, harness—everything needed to help them hold to the USCG’s motto So others may live.

Good team tonight, Harvey, the pilot, said as the men climbed aboard and buckled in.

Brooke agreed. She couldn’t have handpicked a better team.

Kesler? What are you still doing here? Jason asked, folding a piece of gum into his mouth.

Busy night. I offered to extend my watch a couple hours.

Again? Brad tipped his chin up as a smirk curled on his ridiculously handsome face. You need to get a man.

Jason shook his head with a chuckle. Oh, you did not go there.

Brad leaned forward as the copter hovered up in the air. I’d be glad to help you with that.

Oh. Do you know a real man? she shot back in jest.

Dang. Jason whistled, laughing at Brad as he sat back with a chagrined smile. You just got burned.

It’s all right, Brad said as they soared out over the ocean, one of these days, she’ll come around to me.

Don’t hold your breath. Brooke chuckled. Brad teased, but he was just messing with her. She didn’t take it personally. It was part of the brotherhood.

That’s right, princess. Jason laughed, elbowing Brad in the ribs. Man, next time you come to a battle of wits, you might want to come armed.

Is that right? Brad pinched Jason’s shoulder.

Jason shrugged him off, jabbing him in the shoulder.

Brooke just shook her head at boys being boys and stared out at the thrashing sea below as the gravity of their mission fastened back in her mind.

What do we have? Jason asked Harvey.

A Textra Oil company copter went down four minutes ago. The pilot called in a Mayday. Radio silence within seconds.

How far out? Brad asked.

"Twenty-two miles. They were en route to Dauntless."

Rain pinged off the copter’s windshield—slow at first then increasing in intensity.

All right, folks, Jerry, head of Air Station, Wilmington’s air traffic control, cut into the comm, we’ve got a manifest. Pilot Max Schaffer and five passengers. Oh no . . .

Brooke stiffened. What’s wrong?

There are two CGIS agents on board.

Brooke lurched forward. Who?