I shook my head immediately. “With that ankle?”
“I’ll manage.”
“You sure?” Jeff studied him.
“It’s cranking a handle. I can do it sitting down if I have to.”
“But that leaves you completely exposed,” I said, quieter now.
Callan didn’t argue.
“No shit.”
The boat rocked gently beneath us. Nobody spoke for a long moment, each of us turning the plan over, looking for something better and not finding it.
Jeff broke the silence. “So, what’s the plan to get this done?”
Callan glanced at me again. Something passed between us—not quite an apology, closer to trust.
Then he looked back at Jeff.
“You three guard me while I crank the pump.”
Ethan blinked. “Guard?”
“With whatever we’ve got.”
I sighed. “Which is?”
Jeff gestured toward the gear crate behind him. “Heavy gaff hooks. For hauling fish. Long handles, sharp points.”
“Good for keeping distance,” Callan added.
Jeff reached down and tapped the small pistol at his belt. “And I’ve got this. Limited ammo, though.”
“Last resort,” Callan said, firm.
“Last resort,” Jeff agreed.
I sat with it for a second, the picture building in my head: the three of us standing guard on a dock with gaff hooks and a half-loaded pistol while Callan cranked fuel ten minutes in the open.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Jeff and I take the front line.”
Jeff glanced at me. “Are you sure about that?”
I gave him a look. “I’ve wrestled sharks.”
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. “That’s somehow not comforting.”
Callan squeezed my hand again, and when I turned toward him, his expression had changed. The tactical edge had turned more vulnerable.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
I held his gaze. “Yes. I do.”
He searched my face for a moment, as if he wanted to argue but knew better; his thumb traced a slow line across my fingers. Then he let out a breath and nodded, just barely.
Ethan leaned forward. “What about the boat?”