Chapter 3

THE SIREN'S CALL

​Kirrily "Rindy" Cross pov

​My heart didn't just beat, it slammed against my ribs like an iron fist trying to break through bone."Toby"​The scream tore out of my throat, raw and ragged as.

 I jumped over the window sill into the freezing ocean rain. The wet grass made smooth beneath my bare feet, almost sending me spreading out  into the mud, but extreme fear gave me not normal balance.​The tall figure on the grass turned slowly. The flashing light of the red security light cut through the dark, catching the sharp outline of a jaw, broad shoulders wrapped in a rain-soaked leather vest, and the heavy skull, a symbol decorated with thread across his chest.​Before I could hurl myself at him, the man held up a massive, gloved hand.​"Easy, lass," a deep, rough voice called out not the cold gravel of Banjo Lawson, but a gruffer, older tone. "Your boy sounds asleep. Watched him crawl right out the window chasing a bloody frog in the dark."

​I froze three paces away, my chest heaving, rain plastering my hair to my face.​In the turning on and off red light, I saw Toby cradled gently against the giant’s chest. The man, Sergeant Darcy 'Guns' MacIntyre, though I didn't know his name then, was holding my son as if he were made of delicate glass. Toby’s little head was tucked safely under the heavy leather heavy part of his jacket of the biker vest, protected from the rain, his breath soft and undisturbed.​"Give him to me," I struggled to breathe, stepping forward, my voice trembling with a mix of strong maternal rage and very great relief. "Give me my son."

​The giant didn't fight me. He stooped down with surprising grace, letting me scoop Toby into my arms. The warmth of my boy’s body against my soaking shirt almost made my knees buckle. Toby stirred slightly, rubbing his tiny nose against my neck, completely not noticing the nightmare unfolding around us.​"You've got ten minutes, Kirrily," the man said quietly, wiping ocean spray from his upper lip hair. "Pack a bag. The boss said you wouldn't listen to reason on the wire, so he sent me to make sure you didn't do something foolish. Melbourne's already awake."​I'm not going anywhere with you," I hissed, backing away toward the porch steps, holding Toby tightly.

​"You don't have to come with me," the man replied, his pale eyes steady, devoid of malice but heavy with grim certainty. "But if you stay in this cottage past dawn, you won't be burying a sister. You'll be burying yourself."​He turned without another word, stepping into the dark eucalyptus trees. Seconds later, the low rumble of a heavy motorcycle engine started up down the track, fading into the sound of the crashing waves.

​I scrambled back inside, locking every deadbolt, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. I carried Toby to my bed, wrapping him in dry wool blankets, keeping him firmly against my side. I didn't sleep. I sat in the dark, staring at the door with the fire poker in my lap, listening to every creak of the timber cottage as the rain battered the roof.

​By 6:00 AM, the ocean rain had turned into a thick, gray mist near the sea that held on tightly to the tall rocks.The cottage was deathly quiet. Toby was finally awake, sitting on the small carpet in the living room playing quietly with his wooden blocks, unaware that my world was collapsing around his ears.​I sat at my study desk, staring at the suddenly dark screens. The red security alert had cleared, leaving behind only the cold, mechanical hum of my hard drives.

​Suddenly, a very high sound, made of metal in a low continuous, shattered the silence.​It wasn't my computer. It was the burned phone hidden inside the false lining of my old record set of tools, an encrypted Satellite phone I hadn't turned on in nearly two years.​My breath pulled upward suddenly. My hand hovered over the wooden toolkit box, cold sweat pricking my skin. Only one person on earth had the digital frequency to that phone.​I opened the box, pulled out the sleek black device, and pressed it to my ear. I didn't say a word. I barely dared to breathe.​"Kirrily?"​The voice on the other end was smooth, refined, and drenched in familiar, maternal warmth.

​Tahlia.

​A sob caught in the back of my throat, but I forced it down, gripping the phone until my knuckles turned soft white. Tahlia Lockyer, my former mentor at the Victorian Historical Repository, the woman who had held my hand at Evie’s symbolic funeral four years ago when there was no body to bury.​"Tahlia." I whispered, my voice was weak from the cold air. "What are you calling this line?"

​"Thank God," Tahlia exhaled, a difficult breathing escaping her over the satellite crackle. "Kirrily, listen to me very carefully. I don't have much time, and this line isn't safe for long. I know where you've been hiding."​Tahlia, what's going on?" I stood up from the desk, pacing toward the window, keeping one eye on Toby. "Someone traced my ledger last night. A man.he knew about Evie. He knew about my boy."​I know," Tahlia’s voice dropped into a tense, urgent whisper. "It’s Banjo Lawson. His people have been monitoring the repository’s digital traffic for weeks. Kirrily, something impossible happened yesterday."​My pulse hit something hard in my ears. "What do you mean?"

​"A courier delivered a sealed 19th-century maritime shipping manifest to the repository vault late last night," Tahlia said, her tone mixed with panicked energy. "It belongs to the original Lawson fleet from 1890. But when I opened the secondary old documents binding to catalog the ink." She paused, the static on the line rising like ocean noise. "Kirrily, the marginalia notes aren't from the 1800s. They're written in modern iron ink. And the handwriting is a secret code".​"Evie," I took a breath, I cried out loudly and painfully​"It’s Evie’s cipher, Kirrily," Tahlia urged, her voice desperate. "The exact notation system she used before she vanished in Sydney. I can't authenticate it alone. Lawson’s lawyers are already moving to seize the document under corporate maritime law. If they take it, whatever message Evie left behind will be buried forever."​Tears spilled over my lashes, burning my cheeks. Evie’s handwriting. Four years of agonizing, silent grief surged to the surface, drowning the cautious walls I had built around my life.​"I can't come to Melbourne, Tahlia," I pleaded, my voice cracking as I looked over at Toby building his tower of blocks. "I have my son. It’s not safe. Lawson’s men were here last night."

​"If you don't come, you will never know what happened to your sister," Tahlia pressed, her words sharp, precise, and cutting directly into my soul. "I've secured a private vault at the Port Phillip Docks for twenty-four hours. Bring your restoration kit. Authenticate the manifest, find Evie's message, and leave. I'll cover your tracks. I promise you, in Evie's memory, I won't let Lawson touch you."​The satellite line clicked, going dead with a sharp tone.​I stood frozen in the center of the study, the dead phone pressed to my ear, my heart tearing itself in two.​To stay in Byron Bay meant safety, but it meant living as a coward, drowning in the dark while my sister's ghosts called to me from the coast. To go to Melbourne meant walking straight into the lion's den into the territory of Banjo Lawson, a man who possessed the power to destroy everything I loved.

​I looked down at Toby. He looked up at me with his big, clear blue eyes, holding up a wooden block with a sweet, innocent smile.​"Mummy?" he asked softly. "Are we going on a train?"​I swallowed the lump in my throat, knelt beside him, and pulled him into a tight embrace, hiding my tears in his soft blonde curls.​"Yes, sweet boy," I whispered, my heart turning to ice. "We're going to find Auntie Evie."​Three hours later, I was standing in the busy terminal of the Melbourne regional train station, clutching Toby's tiny hand in mine. Rain was lashing against the massive glass dome overhead, mirroring the storm brewing inside my chest.

​I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the slip of paper where I had written Tahlia's vault instructions: Port Phillip Docks, Warehouse 9, Pier 4.​As we stepped out of the station into the damp Melbourne air, a long, sleek black sedan pulled up smoothly to the curb right in front of us.​The rear tinted window rolled down halfway.

​Inside the dark leather interior sat Banjo Lawson. His stormy gray eyes fixed on mine through the glass, cold, possessive, and very scary.​"You're late, Kirrily," he said softly.