Something cold dragged him awake.

Not light — light would have been mercy.

Cold.

Salt water in his mouth, his lungs, the cut on his shoulder.

Hale coughed until he saw stars. When the spasms stopped, he lay still, listening. The world above was muffled — the creak of the dock, the slap of waves. He was wedged against a support beam under the pier, half-submerged, half-alive.

He tried to move and felt the fire in his shoulder bloom. The bullet had gone clean through, but the blood loss was ...