Eric waited until full dark before setting off for the Polaris.

Dammit, he'd known something wasn't right. He'd felt it when he'd cast his first line today and hadn't gotten immediate interest. Even earlier, when the porpoises hadn't been there to greet him, he'd wondered what was up. Now, seeing the strange aura in the night sky just past San Elias Island, he knew things weren't as they should be.

But like the jerk he was, he hadn't warned Zoe.

Not a jerk—an idiot. Because though the fishing was decent in this spot, that wasn't what dragged him out here day after day. He was honest enough with himself to admit that what brought him to this isolated place was the possibility of catching a glimpse of her. He wasn't even sure what it was about her that got to him. The obvious answer was her long-limbed, easy grace, coupled with that insanely wild, flyaway hair—brown, originally, but tinted blond in places—or those dark eyes, somehow sunny and smoldering at the same time. A Southern California siren. Add to that the way she handled a boat, like she'd been born on the water, and the passion she showed for marine life. The whole package was appealing. More than that—magnetic.

Of course, even after all this time, he couldn't actually bring himself to speak to her beyond a couple words. She was so young and energetic and alive, and he was a dried- up husk of what he'd once been—retired at the ripe old age of forty-one. Every single time she appeared, his interest perked up, but all systems shut down. Useless.

Rather than let himself wallow in self-disgust, he pushed the engine to full capacity.

For some stupid reason, this woman who was probably half his age tied up his tongue and turned his body into a minefield of teenage sense memories. Girls he couldn't talk to, stupid shit coming out of his mouth, a body he could no more control than the waves beneath him.

Christ. Anything could have happened to her out there, and he'd held back because he didn't know how to deal with his crush?

He'd just begun to circle the island when the lights from the platform blinded him. He pulled back on the throttle, beyond wary now. Squinting against the glare, he scanned the darkness beneath the rig, expecting to see the silhouette of her boat.

Nothing.

He spun in a full circle, checking the island and the horizon beyond it. Had she taken a different route home today? No. He'd have seen her either way.

The angry knot in his gut told him she was still out there, somewhere. And though the sky was low and the wind had picked up, the water was too calm to give her any trouble. So where was her boat? And where the hell was she?

That left the platform.

A platform that shouldn't be occupied, much less lit up like a Christmas tree.

Even from this distance, he could hear that something was going on out there—and he was pretty sure Zoe had nothing to do with it. But what the hell was it? Whoever it was couldn't be drilling. Cali-Power had tapped the damn oil field out. That well was dry.

Slant drilling, maybe...but no, the platform just wasn't big enough to merit that. Which meant Zoe was there with whatever pirate crew had taken over.

Cussing like the roughneck he'd once been, Eric pushed his boat toward the rig as fast as it would go. As he got closer, familiar scents assailed him so hard he had to shut his eyes against the memories. Diesel fuel. Probably from a power-generation module providing juice for whatever the hell they were up to. His heartbeat picked up. Smells were funny that way, sending him straight back into the thick of some of the toughest moments of his life. Spices and dust slapped him right back to the Middle East. Diesel exhaust could be any airfield in the world, but mix it with salt water and he'd be back on the rig, drilling for oil.

Yeah, well, different rig, different time, different man. Caution made him stop a couple hundred yards out, kill the engine, and pull off his shoes, wishing for a wet suit. For a few seconds, he stood there, swaying with the water, while emotions—or were they flashbacks?—slapped him, hard as bullets.

Even after all these years, he felt the adrenaline, the pull of the hunt, the thrill of the unknown. He still missed it. Life on the rig had been one thing, but once a SEAL, always a SEAL.

He yanked off his T-shirt, sucked in a lungful of memory-laced air, and dropped into the frigid water in just shorts. Without tactical gear and a plan, this was more like BUD/S training than any mission he could recall, but it didn't matter. He'd been here before. His body knew what to do.

His long limbs ate up the distance from boat to plat- form, where he did some quick recon around the plat- form's legs. The noise this thing was emitting had scared off every creature with a brain in its head, leaving nothing but sponges, starfish, and empty shells coating concrete and metal. Well, and him. Although the brain was debatable.

He mounted the ladder to the lower deck, cringing at the sharp edges that bit into his feet. Staying low, he scanned the space for people or cameras—neither of which were apparent.

The Polaris was significantly smaller than the rig he'd called home for much of his thirties. It didn't take long to investigate the first deck, along with the two long arms that extended out over the water. Above, he counted three additional levels full of hiding places, not to mention the living quarters he knew had to be in there someplace.

Beneath his feet, the hull abruptly stopped trembling. As the noise died down, he found himself holding his breath, waiting.

Whatever was going on, it was wrong. He could sense it in little ways. If they were pumping, where was the fresh oil smell? Where was the goddamned crew? There'd be two dozen guys if this was a rig in full production.

For the first time since he'd climbed up here, Eric felt the cold. Ignoring his body's needs was another skill he'd gained through training and necessity. Now that he noticed it, though, the chill crawled over his skin, rousing goose bumps like something alive. He ignored it and moved toward a ladder. Best to check the exterior before facing whatever lay inside.

For some reason, the quiet was worse than the noise had been. Maybe because he could meld into a ruckus. This silence, though, had the makings of the calm before a storm...and he didn't trust it.

When his instinct told him to duck beneath a steel beam, he listened.

Seconds later, voices sounded from above.

Unconcerned, they floated loud on the clear night air. "Sampson's pissed."

"She just appeared out of thin air, man." The second voice was nasal and high.

Two men. Their hollow footsteps told him they were directly above. He swallowed back the urge to blindly attack, and waited. If he could just figure out who the hell he was up against, he'd know what steps to take.

"It's that nonprofit. I told you they'd be a problem." "Fuckin' hippies." Eric wanted to choke the laugh out of Nasal Man's voice. "You know how Sampson feels about tree huggers."

"What're we supposed to do with her?"

Nasal Man didn't give an audible response, and Eric had the urge to swing up there and kick the answer out of him. When he blinked, he could see the man's answer etched into the back of his eyelids. A slicing-across-the-throat

movement. Or maybe a gun to the head. Whatever it was, that silence didn't bode well.

At the same time, at least the conversation told him that she was alive...for the time being.

He waited for the footsteps to recede before slipping up the ladder. No more silent exploration. Whatever Zoe had walked into, he had to find her. Now.