Page 35 of Ford

But Ford knew someone who would.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Please.

Which was why Ford had Knox fly him to the Helena airport that night. Why he hopped a plane at the crack of dawn for San Diego, took an Uber to his apartment, picked up the keys to his bike, grabbed a second helmet, and took off for Logan Heights.

Scarlett owned a small but cute 1968 pink stucco house on a tiny square of grass that she’d purchased for a deal and remodeled herself, including installing the fancy tile, painting the cupboards, and even updating the bathroom.

He liked her place. Reminded him of Scarlett. Down to earth, a hard worker, unflappable on the inside.

Pink on the outside.

Truth was, she could have lived in a high-rise condo and he would have liked it, as long as she was there.

She wasn’t home.

He stood on the stoop and pressed the bell much longer than social customs should allow. Then did it again just in case she might still be sleeping at the late hour of 10 hundred.

No answer.

Her car was gone from the drive. Which meant she hadn’t biked the 2.3 miles to the San Diego base but was using the car to go farther.

Like her favorite stretch of beach in Coronado, where they trained together before she took her PRT to qualify to be a Rescue Swimmer.

Ford got on his bike, and the cool breezes off the ocean scraped the sweat from his skin.

He loved San Diego. The towering palm trees, the briny scent of the ocean, and the tang of suntan oil. The seagulls that cried overhead. The feel of the surf on his skin, cool and bracing.

He’d become a man here. At eighteen, he’d shown up for BUD/S, scared out of his mind that he’d fail, that he’d end up swabbing decks on some obscure ship.

That he’d never be the man he envisioned for himself.

He’d nearly drowned twice. Once during the combat swim.

Once later during the drownproofing test, when they bound his hands and feet. He’d lost so much body fat by then he sank to the bottom, had to fight his way to the surface for a slip of air.

The strategy was to teach the recruits how to live without oxygen. Deprived, yet fully functional. To tamp down the natural panic that rose as their air slipped away, stay calm and give everything they had to succeed, even if it cost them, well, everything.

He’d had to sacrifice his very breath for the thing he wanted most.

Ford had woken on the deck, gasping for air, when his master chief instructor sent his knuckles into his sternum.

But he’d lived. Refused to ring the bell that week and every week thereafter until they put a trident on his chest.

Of course by then, he’d run out of time to return home and show off the Budweiser to the old man.

Ford pulled up to the boardwalk, parked, and secured his helmet in the seat box. He hung his keys around his neck on the lanyard he used when swimming. The beach was already full, sunbathers lying out on rented loungers, children digging in the surf, the sand covered with towels, umbrellas, and coolers.

He wound his way out to the surf, standing in the sinking sand as the water lapped at his feet. Putting his hand over his eyes, he shielded them and stared out into the horizon. She liked to cross between the buoys, about two hundred yards out.

No swimmers that far out.

His hopes fell a little, but he shouldn’t have expected to find her. She’d probably left for Rescue Swimmer training. Still, he’d texted Sonny from Montana, and he said he’d seen her just a few days ago, so he was taking the wild chance she was still around.

“Ford?”