Tatum was just coming into the command center when Austin arrived. Claudia was packing up some of her equipment.

“Any new developments?” Austin said.

“Good news and bad,” Tatum said, but for the first time, his expression was slightly less than sour.

“Progress?” They were about at the eleventh hour, but at this point, Austin would take any scrap of good news.

“We got the fucking leak isolated, and Reddy thinks his boys can plug it just above, slowing it down to a manageable trickle until we can get the remotes down there to patch it.”

Austin frowned. “The remotes won’t function in these kinds of seas.”

“You’re fucking right about that,” Tatum said. “So we need to buy some time.”

“That puts us about where we’ve been all along,” Austin said, the bubble of optimism shrinking.

“Not exactly,” Tatum said. “Reddy thinks he can get a container shaft down the outside and funnel the oil up the shaft.”

“They tried that on Deepwater Horizon,” Austin said.

“Yeah, and it didn’t work,” Tatum said, “but that was then and this is now. We’re way ahead of the game.” He grinned. “And we’re better.”

“How long?”

“Too long. We’ll have to feed the exterior shaft down in sections and hook them together, which wouldn’t take all that long if we had a full crew under perfect conditions, but we fucking don’t have any of those things working for us. A couple of days, at least.”

Claudia moved over to join the conversation. “But if you can do it, you can contain the leak?”

“That’s the idea, and keep the well functioning.” Tatum’s eyes sparkled as he spoke.

“What about the oil that’s leaking now?” Claudia asked, looking from Austin to Tatum.

“We’ll burn it,” Austin said. “If and when it surfaces.”

“We’ll start sliding the sheath down now, but it will be slow going with a small crew,” Tatum said. “Given a day or two and if the creek don’t rise, we got a chance.”

Claudia sighed. “I hate to tell you this, but the creek’s about to rise. The latest projections have the storm making landfall by midday tomorrow.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Austin murmured. Her phone rang and she grimaced. She really didn’t want to have to tell Eloise they’d have to abandon the rig, ride out the storm, and hope the spill didn’t get worse before it was over. “Germaine.”

“Linda Kane and NBC News are headed your way.”

“How did that happen so quickly? We don’t even have oil on the surface yet,” Austin said.

“I think she slept with everyone at FEMA down in New Orleans,” Eloise snarled. “Someone tipped her off.”

“Okay.” Austin grabbed her jacket. “I’ll head her off before she finds someone to fly her out here.”

“That’s all we need is her on the rig. Don’t let that happen.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

❖

Gem’s phone rang just as Emily was uncovering the third and next to the last clutch. The readout indicated an unknown caller. “This is Gillian Martin.”

“Bill Peabody with FEMA. We got ten people in your parking lot right now, and a half dozen trucks of sand coming in behind us pretty quick. Where do you want us?”

“Stay right there. I’m ten minutes away.” She disconnected and turned to Emily. “I’ll get a couple of interns out here to help you finish up. FEMA is here.”

“Time to start sandbagging. Oh, what fun.” Emily grinned. “Keep the interns. I can handle this myself. If you see Joe, send him out and he can help me carry the clutches back.”

“I’ll find him for you.”

As Gem jogged back, she called Joe’s number and gave him Emily’s location. “As soon as you’re done securing the buildings, can you give her a hand?”

“Sure. You know there’s a bunch of people out front, right?”

“I’m on it.”

“All right then,” he said, sounding a little skeptical. “Good luck.”

Gem tucked her phone back into her pants pocket. She came around the back of the center and realized she had more company than she expected. A news van with antennae bristling and a satellite dish mounted to the rear sat idling in the middle of the parking lot. A gaggle of people with equipment surrounded another group with microphones out thrust. Great, the press had arrived.

As Gem strode toward the congregation, Austin pulled in, hopped out of her SUV, and cut into their midst ahead of her. Gem edged up to the group, close enough to hear.

“Linda,” Austin said with a friendly smile as she extended her hand. “Austin Germaine. We met in Port Arthur after the last big blow down there.”

The busty redhead smiled and tilted her head at what Gem figured was a perfect camera-worthy angle. She practically preened, and Gem had an urge to ruffle her own feathers more than a little bit. She pushed a little closer.

“Austin, yes,” the reporter purred, “how can I possibly forget? You certainly got here in a hurry, or have you been here for a while?”

Gem tensed. She didn’t like the redhead one little bit, a snap judgment totally unlike her. It couldn’t possibly be because the redhead was both flirtatious and baiting Austin at the same time. As if Austin could be trapped so easily. All the same, Gem’s skin prickled uneasily.

“I just flew in from the rig,” Austin said. “I’m afraid we don’t have much of a story for you at this point. Unless you’re here to cover the hurricane. I can’t tell you much about that you don’t already know.”

“I understand you’ve got a spill, and it’s headed this way.” Smiling, Linda waved a hand toward the trucks that were boldly marked with FEMA. “Really, why else?”

Gem stepped forward. “I can answer that, since I called them.”

Linda Kane swiveled toward Gem, a boldly arched auburn eyebrow rising. “Really. And who would you be?”

“Gillian Martin. I’m head of the research team here at the sanctuary. This is a protected area and with the storm coming, we need to secure the coastline.” She nodded toward the FEMA trucks. “Standard procedure under these conditions.”

“And of course, with the oil spill—”

“At this point,” Gem said, “we’re a lot more worried about the storm than something that might happen. The hurricane is not theoretical.”

“I guess we’ll all find out about that together, then,” Linda said jauntily, as if they were all going to the same cocktail party that evening.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Gem said, “I need to get these people organized.” She turned her back on the reporter and headed toward the lead FEMA van. “Bill?”

A slender, handsome young African American stepped forward, hand outstretched. “That would be me. Our command vehicles are setting up in town. Where do you want the sand?”

“There’s an access road behind the building,” Gem said, returning his handshake. “Take that down toward the beach. I’ll meet you there and we can get started.”

“Good enough.” He herded his people back to their trucks. “Saddle up, everybody.”

Within a minute, the parking lot was empty except for the news van. Gem ignored them as she strode after the FEMA vehicles.

Austin caught up with her on the path. “Thanks for having my back.”

“I wasn’t. I just wanted to keep the record straight.”

“Well, I appreciate it, all the same.”

“You’re welcome,” Gem said, cutting her a glance. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d make myself useful and fill some sandbags.”

“I think that’s a little below your pay grade, isn’t it?”

“I want to help, and right now it’s a waiting game out on the rig. There’s nothing I can do out there. So if it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay.”

Gem let out a breath. “All right, as long as you promise to keep those news people out of our hair.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“Actually,” Gem said, thinking back on all the things she’d once wanted from a lover and never thought to have, “I think I’m finally beginning to.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Gem dragged a bag of sand to the barricade and heaved it on top. Pressing a hand to the small of her back and stretching her shoulders, she squinted down the beach to survey their progress. The mountain of sand dumped from the FEMA truck still looked like a mountain, but it must be smaller, because the line of sandbags stretching along the high-tide line was higher. She couldn’t fool herself into thinking it would be enough if the surge came ashore ten feet high, but even then the wall would be a deterrent to the coastal washout and the overwhelming flooding in the marshes. A quick look at her watch told her they’d been at it much longer than she’d realized—in another hour they’d be working under floodlights. Some of the FEMA crew were rigging them now. As long as they had power, they’d be able to keep erecting their puny physical barrier in the face of one of nature’s most violent ambassadors.

She grabbed another empty bag, hefted her shovel, and started back to the sand hill. Halfway there she made the mistake of looking where she had been trying not to look for the past few hours, and a glimpse was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Fifteen feet away, Austin stared out to sea as she talked on her phone. She’d shed her jacket and stood, legs spread, in rolled-up shirtsleeves, dark hair blowing in the wind, one arm resting on the handle of her upright shovel. She might’ve been standing on the quarterdeck of a three-masted sailing ship, for she looked like nothing less than a pirate captain, with an aura of loosely chained power warning she could spring into action at any moment. She certainly didn’t look like anyone’s mouthpiece or any of the slick talking heads who so often handled PR at times like this.

Austin didn’t have to be out here in the driving winds with a shovel, bagging sand. There were no cameras, at least not this close, and none of the dozen volunteers filling bags paid any attention to her beyond an appreciative glance now and then from a woman or man. She wasn’t bending her back for good PR, but she was earning it from Gem all the same. Just watching her made Gem want to touch her, and a whole hell of a lot of other things she couldn’t think about now.