Chapter One: The Whispering Buoy
The salt-crusted air of Seabrook Island always smelled like a memory Wallace had lost—something about iodine, brine, and rust. It was a smell that clawed at the back of his throat the moment he stepped onto the dock. Tonight, the scent was laced with something metallic, something that didn't belong to the rhythmic shush of the Atlantic waves.
Wallace, a man whose life had been anchored by the reliable predictability of numbers and data streams, preferred the clean, sterile environment of his home lab to this damp, creaking pier. But a distress signal had come in through his unofficial, highly illegal receiver array two hours ago, a broadcast so fragmented and strange he couldn’t ignore it. It was a numbers sequence, not standard S.O.S., broadcast on a frequency used by a defunct government listening post that had been shut down a decade prior. A ghost frequency.
He pulled the collar of his oilskin coat tighter against the biting wind. The old lighthouse, a sentinel of chipped white paint, swept its beam across the water every thirty seconds, illuminating the choppy black expanse for a fleeting moment before plunging the world back into darkness.
His target was a flashing green light, bobbing lazily about fifty yards out: a navigational buoy on the edge of the shipping lane. The signal source triangulated precisely to that spot. It made no sense. Buoys didn't send out complex numerical ciphers.
He keyed his handheld scanner. The chirp of the frequency was louder now, a sharp, insistent rattle in his ears. 4-1-9-dash-7-7-2-dash-8-9-9-dash-ALPHA-BRAVO-NINE. It repeated in a tight loop.
"Stupid," he muttered to himself, stepping carefully into the rusty, flat-bottomed skiff he’d rented from a half-asleep dockmaster with too many teeth and not enough sense to ask for ID. The small engine turned over with a cough and a plume of oily smoke.
The journey out was rougher than it looked from the shore. The skiff slapped against the rising tide, spray hitting his face. Wallace wiped his glasses on his sleeve, keeping his eyes fixed on the green flicker.
When he reached the buoy, he killed the engine. The silence that followed was profound, save for the sloshing of the waves and the distant sweep of the lighthouse beam. The buoy was a standard issue, green plastic and metal, covered in barnacles and seaweed. He circled it, the scanner in his hand screaming now. The signal was originating from inside the buoy’s metal
casing.
It took him ten minutes of maneuvering and cursing to hook the gaff over the buoy’s railing and haul the heavy object close enough to the skiff’s side to inspect it. Using the light of a small pen torch, he found the maintenance panel, sealed shut with a rusted, official-looking bolt.
He used his multitool to jimmy it open. The metal screeched in protest.
Inside, among the standard marine battery and wiring, was something else entirely: a small, waterproof Pelican case, magnetic-mounted to the interior wall. It had the same symbol on it that Wallace had seen in archived documents from the old listening post—a stylized ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail.
That's when the air changed. The subtle metallic tang he'd noticed on the dock was stronger now, closer. It smelled like high-octane diesel.
He looked over his shoulder. Two large, dark shapes cut through the water, running without navigation lights, silent as ghosts. They were faster rigid inflatables, the kind used by special ops or serious smugglers. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
He didn't hesitate. He crammed the Pelican case inside his coat, started the skiff with a violent yank of the cord, and pointed the bow toward the distant, welcoming sweep of the lighthouse. He was no longer just an observer deciphering ghosts; he was now the target, and the chase had begun.
The skiff shrieked as Wallace pushed the throttle to its limit. The little engine, built for utility, not speed, vibrated violently. The two dark shapes behind him closed the gap with terrifying efficiency.
A piercing white spotlight flared on the lead boat, pinning Wallace to the dark water. The light was blinding, erasing his peripheral vision and making the waves ahead impossible to read. A voice, electronically altered and tinny over a loudspeaker, cut through the engine noise:
“Stop the vessel and power down the engine. Do not attempt to flee.”
Wallace ignored the command. The voice was calm, professional, and utterly devoid of mercy. These were not local cops or the Coast Guard. The people chasing him knew about the ouroboros symbol. They knew what was in the case.
He fought the urge to look down at the Pelican case tucked awkwardly beneath his armpit inside his coat. His fingers brushed the cold plastic, a solid weight against his ribs.
He steered erratically, cutting sharp turns in an attempt to break the spotlight's lock or, better yet, throw them off balance in the rising chop. The skiff slapped down hard after a wave crest, rattling his teeth. A sharp sound, not the engine, echoed over the water—a gunshot.
A bright green tracer round zipped past his bow, skipping across the water like a malevolent stone. They weren't just trying to scare him anymore. They were aiming to disable.
He had to get to the main channel marker, where the heavy traffic lanes converged. There were always fishermen out there, even at this hour. Witnesses.
"Damn it," he muttered, bracing himself as the second boat drew alongside his port side, dangerously close. He could make out two figures: one driving, the other kneeling, lifting something that looked like a grappling hook launcher.
He reacted on instinct. He cut the engine completely, wrenching the rudder hard over. The sudden maneuver made the skiff slide sideways in the water, wallowing in the wake of the passing pursuit boats. They shot past him, caught off guard by his sudden stillness.
The silence returned for a moment, punctuated only by his own ragged breathing and the sound of the ocean. He used the cover of darkness while their spotlights were aimed out in front of them. He fumbled with the starter cord again. It took three agonizing pulls for the engine to catch. The pursuit boats were already turning in wide, fast arcs, coming back for him.
He was closer to the island now, but he couldn't aim for the dock he left from; they'd have it blocked in minutes. He needed the reclusive side of the island, the salt marshes, where the water grew shallow and the channels narrowed. His skiff had a shallow draft; their heavy inflatables might run aground. It was a risk, but it was his only option.
He aimed for the darkness where the treeline began to blur into the marshes. The chase resumed, the men in the pursuit boats now shouting at each other over their radios, their professional calm gone. They knew where he was going.
The water under the skiff grew muddy and turbulent. He started seeing the spindly silhouettes of the marsh grasses. The first boat hit a sandbar with a violent thud and spun out, passengers shouting curses.
The world went silent again. He sank up to his thighs immediately, the marsh bottom fighting to keep him captive. He pulled himself forward, scrambling on hands and knees through the rank mud, the salt smell of the ocean replaced by the heavy, sulfuric scent of the swamp.
Behind him, the powerful engine of the second boat cut out, replaced by the heavy splash of someone entering the water. The crunch of marsh grass under heavy boots was loud in the night air.
Wallace, heart hammering against his chest, managed to pull himself onto a slightly firmer patch of muddy bank, collapsing behind a thick cluster of cattails. He held his breath, the Pelican case clutched to his chest like a lifeline. The beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the air ten feet from his hiding spot, sweeping methodically across the marshland just inches from his face.
The first chapter ends here, with Wallace trapped, soaked, and cornered, the mysterious case the only barrier between him and the shadowy organization that wants him dead.
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