Storm Warning by Toni Anderson Page A

stand at the edge of the wharf and look into the depths below. This was the least he could do for his dead partner. The grief was still raw and aching. No way was he going to screw up this investigation, not even for a phobia that had dogged his whole life. But his fear of water, combined with this darkly suspicious town, made him edgy. He was a damn good undercover operative, but the potential to panic, the magnitude of his reaction to the sea, undermined his expertise.
    He’d already screwed up one investigation. He wasn’t going to fuck up another.
    The sea clamored on the far side of the outer quay and it took all his concentration not to throw up, especially with the smell of rotten kelp pungent in the air. To get through DEA training, he’d had to jump into a pool wearing a flotation vest. If he could do that, he could stand here and look.
    Hands shoved him in the back.
    Suddenly he was falling, his arms and legs cycling as if to reverse the force that rocketed him over the edge.
    “Oh, shiiiiiit!” Water closed over his head and he sank into the oily abyss, tasted salt, fish and dirt in that first mouthful. Clamped his lips shut. Held his breath.
    The current sucked him down. Jesus!
    His pulse hammered through his veins in the otherwise silent void. Palpitations shook his ribcage. Heart racing, lungs bursting, he thrashed his arms and got nowhere.
    Mud and silt grabbed his feet. Frantically he kicked against the softness that held him, like the hands that had held him all those years ago.
    He was going to die. The drug runners were going to win and no one would give a damn about avenging Jacob’s death.
    His hands clawed through the water, the pressure in his chest tightening to crushing force. The burning in his lungs, the desperate pounding of his heart, sent emergency flares to his brain that told him to open his mouth and breathe!
    He didn’t want to die.
    The vague outline of a woman appeared, blond hair streaming around pale shoulders. She grabbed his arms and propelled him upward, and he followed the rush of bubbles breaking through the surface with a huge gasp.
    “Damn.” He coughed. Spluttered. Grabbed his savior with desperate fingers.
    “I’ve got you.” Her voice was calm and soothing. Sorcha Logan. Prime suspect. She pushed away from him, treading water to keep them both afloat.
    He took in another ragged breath. Forced himself to relax. It was trust her or die, and he’d have roasted small children over a fire pit if it meant getting out of the water. The strength was gone from his limbs, but he kicked, trying to help drag his sorry ass to the nearest ladder.
    Once he reached the rusted metal, his grip was unbreakable. He leaned his forehead against the back of his hands. Thank God. He raised his head. Sorcha Logan was floating beside him. She pushed dirt-streaked hair back off her face to reveal a cheeky grin.
    “You think this is funny? ” He lowered his brows, fixing her with a hard stare. “I nearly drowned!”
    “What? No.” Her eyes lost their sparkle. She raised her hand out of the oily blackness and reached into his hair. “You have this—” bobbing in the water, she dangled a piece of twisted kelp from her fingers before letting it glide away, “—in your hair.”
    He swallowed, his mouth rancid, his throat raw, yet the hint of hurt in her eyes penetrated his guard. What the hell was he thinking? Drug trafficker or not, he should be down on his knees thanking her. Unclenching one hand from the rung, he reached out and touched her cheek.
    “Sorry. I…thanks.” How did you deal with a prime suspect who saved your life?
    Innocent until proven guilty. The doctrine of judges and lawyers, but not law enforcement. Cops went after the bad guys with everything they had and tried not to get killed in the process.
    Jacob’s image flashed through his mind.
    “No problem.” She smiled, appearing more relaxed in this hellish environment than he’d ever seen her.
    It made no