Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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“I’m going. Even if it’s just a monkey surviving the storms around here,”—he zipped the duffle and straightened—” I need to know.”
She nodded and didn’t press. She had a habit of mothering her staff, but honestly, some of these men needed guidance. When the vessel came around the most southern point, she recognized the shoreline formation she’d brought up earlier on satellite. She radioed the captain to stop. They would go ashore on the rubber skiff.
A little tingle of excitement danced on her skin as she went to properly suit up. She walked the passageway, cornering toward their room when her radio hit the bulkhead. It fell, spinning across the deck, and she dove to catch it before it slid under the rail and into the sea. She barely nabbed it and crawled her fingers over it to get a better grip. Then it crackled and clicked. No one spoke. She stood, checking the setting. The frequency was off by a couple degrees. The channel was open.
She looked at the island, and for a second, wished her brother was here.
Because she swore she heard breathing.
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