Story code: ST-000462
Part 3: Burying the Truth
The blinding beam of the tactical flashlight swept over the wet sand, slicing through the salt spray as the heavy boots descended the wooden stairs. Thomas didn’t hesitate. He seized the bleeding worker by the collar of his high-visibility jacket and hauled him backward into the freezing surf.
The ocean water soaked instantly through Thomas’s trousers, an icy shock that stole the breath from his lungs. He dragged the man behind the thickest concrete piling beneath the pier, sinking down until the surging tide washed over their waists.
Beside him, the worker-who had barely managed to whisper that his name was Mateo-let out a muffled, agonizing groan. The saltwater had reached his gunshot wound. Mateo bit down hard on his own wrist to muffle his screams, his eyes rolling back in his head as he trembled violently against the barnacle-encrusted concrete.
Ten feet away, the heavy boots stepped off the bottom stair and crunched onto the wet sand.
Thomas held his breath, his hands gripping Mateo’s shoulders to keep the man from slipping under the black water. The harsh white circle of the flashlight bounced around the concrete pillars, missing their hiding spot by mere inches.
“Hey!” Inspector Aris’s voice echoed faintly from the restaurant balcony high above. “Did you find the Mayor?”
The mercenary paused. He aimed his flashlight out toward the rolling breakers, deliberately away from the pier. “Nothing down here but driftwood, sir!” he shouted back. “Tide’s coming in fast. I wouldn’t wait up.”
Thomas heard the distant screech of the restaurant’s glass patio door sliding shut. Aris was gone. They were entirely alone with a killer.
The mercenary turned his back to the ocean, standing just feet from Thomas’s piling. He reached up and pressed a button on his shoulder-mounted radio. In the hollow silence between the crashing waves, the audio receiver clicked loudly.
“Command, perimeter is secure. Blood trail washed out into the surf. The runner is gone.”
A sharp burst of static hissed from the radio, followed by a crisp, authoritative voice.
“Are you certain? FEMA is eating oysters fifty yards away. If that worker talks, the entire operation is dead.”
The blood drained from Thomas’s face, leaving him colder than the rising ocean. He knew that voice. It was the same calm, measured baritone that had reassured the town council for the past six months. It was the voice of the man who had promised to save Sapphire Dunes from washing into the sea.
It was Developer Richard Vance. His own brother.
“He took a round to the gut, Mr. Vance,” the mercenary replied, keeping his voice low. “He’s in the water. He’ll drown or bleed out in ten minutes.”
“Fine. Leave him,” Richard’s voice crackled through the small speaker. “What is the status of the excavation site?”
“It’s a mess, sir. The automated dredge activated on a timer just like you programmed, but the vibrations were too strong. It completely destabilized the illegal retaining walls we poured last week. The entire western trench collapsed. The metal is exposed.”
Thomas stared into the darkness, his mind reeling. The horrific truth clicked into place with sickening clarity. Richard wasn’t just using the massive suction dredge to artificially cause the erosion and secure endless emergency funding. He was double-dipping. He was secretly building cheap, illegal retaining walls at night, knowing they would fail, just to bill the city for the endless, catastrophic repairs.
Suddenly, Mateo thrashed in the water. The bleeding worker gripped Thomas’s soaked lapels, his eyes wide with a sudden, absolute terror that completely eclipsed his physical pain.
“Julian,” Mateo gasped, a wet, bubbly sound in the dark.
Thomas tried to shush him, terrified the mercenary would hear, but Mateo wouldn’t stop pulling at his coat.
“My brother,” Mateo wept, his voice cracking. “He was in the western trench. When the dredge turned on… the walls gave way. Julian is down there.”
The radio on the mercenary’s shoulder clicked again. “Mr. Vance, we have a situation at the collapse site. The surviving crew members are refusing to work. They’re saying one of the concrete layers fell in when the walls came down. He’s trapped at the bottom of the trench.”
There was a long, agonizing pause over the radio frequency. Thomas listened to the rhythmic crash of the waves, praying to hear a shred of humanity in his brother’s voice. He waited for Richard to call for an evacuation, to order a rescue team, to do anything but what came next.
“Inspector Aris is finishing his dessert,” Richard said, his tone utterly devoid of emotion. “If he walks down to that beach and sees those illegal walls, we both go to federal prison. Move the excavators into position.”
“Sir?” the mercenary asked, hesitating for a fraction of a second.
“Backfill the trench with sand,” Richard ordered. “Right now. Bury the dredge. Bury the retaining walls. And bury the worker. I want it looking like a natural beachfront collapse by sunrise. No loose ends.”
Mateo let out a strangled, broken sob, trying to lunge out from behind the pillar. Thomas caught him, wrapping both arms tightly around the dying man to hold him back, feeling the frantic, hopeless pounding of Mateo’s heart against his own chest.
His brother was burying a man alive. Richard was ordering an execution under tons of wet sand just to keep the FEMA money flowing.
Thomas looked down at his ruined wool coat, stained with Mateo’s blood. He thought about the speech he had just given Aris, begging for millions of dollars to hand directly to Richard’s company. He had been the perfect, unwitting accomplice.
The mercenary unclipped his radio. “Copy that, Mr. Vance. Backfilling the trench now.”
Thomas couldn’t stay in the shadows. He released Mateo, letting the exhausted worker slump against the concrete piling, and waded out of the freezing water.
He stepped directly into the beam of the flashlight.
The mercenary jumped, instantly dropping his hand from the radio and bringing his tactical rifle up to his shoulder. The blinding light pinned Thomas against the darkness.
“Hold your fire,” Thomas said, his voice cutting through the roar of the ocean. He didn’t look at the gun. He stared directly at the glowing green light of the shoulder radio.
“I said hold your fire!” Thomas roared, the authority of the Mayor echoing under the wooden planks. “Richard! I know you can hear me!”
Silence hung over the beach, heavy and absolute, save for the rush of the tide.
Then, a slow, sharp intake of breath hissed over the open radio frequency.
“Thomas?” Richard whispered, the carefully maintained facade of the brilliant developer instantly shattering into panicked disbelief. “What… what are you doing under the pier?”
“I’m listening to you dig your own grave,” Thomas said, taking a step toward the rifle. “Call off the excavators, Richard. Now.”