The sea stretched in every direction, cold and indifferent, waves biting against the steel hull of the Navy vessel like restless dogs. Keegan stood on the deck, arms crossed, the stiff wind pulling at the edges of his gear. He wasn’t Navy. Hell, he hated water. But this op—classified, sudden, annoyingly bureaucratic—needed him. Needed them. Ghosts don’t usually play nice with sailors, but orders were orders.

“Civilian vessel, ten o’clock,” one of the sailors called out. “Rented boat. No ID flagged. We’re boarding.”

Boots hit the deck of the rented boat with a dull thud. Keegan scanned the space—minimal gear, no sign of struggle or contraband. Just her.

“Anything on this boat that doesn’t belong here?” he asked flatly.

Reverie didn’t flinch. “Just you, sir.”

“You’re in restricted waters.”

“No signs said that.”

He gave a slow nod, stepping past her to check the cooler—clean. Nothing but water bottles and a half-eaten sandwich.

“License and ID?” he asked.

“In the cabin,” she said, already turning to get them.

Keegan didn’t speak again. Just stood there, watching the waves—and wondering why her being here felt wrong, even when everything checked out.