DockRats: The Red Siren Ruby

1. Back Where the Water Breaks

The sun over Cape Town hit different when you had money in your pocket. The salty breeze still whipped across the docks, but now it carried the scent of possibility, maybe even peace. Wyatt stood in front of his brand-new surf shop—The DockRat Surf Shop & Fishing—squinting at the hand-painted sign like he couldn’t believe it was real. Beside him, Beck tossed a rag over his shoulder, already covered in surfboard wax.

"We actually did it," Beck said, flashing a crooked grin. "We turned stolen treasure into a business."

Hunter leaned against the front counter inside, trying and failing to fix the coffee machine. With that soft, mischievous Owen Joyner-like charm, he wore a grin that said he knew he looked ridiculous. "Yeah, but why does the espresso taste like seawater?"

"Because it adds character," Wyatt replied, sipping his own cup with a grimace.

Down the pier, Junie crouched next to a bright blue truck, her fingers smeared in oil. Noah was under the hood, holding a flashlight and swearing quietly every time she barked a new order. She’d used her cut to buy the rusted shell of a 1978 Ford F-150 and was rebuilding it piece by piece.

Talie sat nearby on the tailgate, aiming her brand-new camcorder at the chaos. "Noah, if that wrench hits you in the head, can I keep filming?"

"Only if you add slow-mo and sad music," he grumbled.

Knox, surprisingly, hadn’t spent a dime on himself. His share sat untouched in a high-interest account, labeled College or Spontaneous Crisis Fund. He worked part-time at a bookstore and part-time at the local gym for boxing.

For a while, life was calm. They were just teens again. Sunburned, laughing, finally free.

Until the ruby rumor.

It started with a whisper in the harbor. A tall, weathered man with sharp eyes and a dusty coat approached Hunter one afternoon while he was sketching in the surf shop’s back patio. The man’s voice was low, his Southern accent thick with gravel.

"You Wyatt’s crew?"

Hunter blinked. "Depends who’s asking."

"Name’s Boone. I’ve spent years chasin' stories. One of 'em led me here—about a ruby the size of a fist, once belonging to Wyatt's grandmother. Sunken with a riverboat in the Louisiana swamps. No map. Just a name: The Red Siren."

Hunter arched a brow. "Sounds fake."

"Maybe," Boone said, smiling just enough to spark curiosity. "But most real things start that way."

Boone shared what little he knew with the whole group later that evening. Wyatt listened in silence, arms crossed, nodding slowly.

"Could be nothing," Knox said, cautious as always.

"Or it could be something," Junie argued. "People don’t whisper about nothing."

Beck was already half-sold. Talie started talking about waterproof cases for her camcorder.

Only Noah looked uncertain. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "We just got our lives back. A sketchy guy shows up with a swamp tale, and we’re diving back into the deep end?"

"You don’t have to come," Hunter said gently, that easy charm softening the tension. "But you know we do things together."

Noah looked away, unconvinced.

That night, as they locked up the surf shop, a shadow lingered across the street. Carter stood hidden just beyond the light of a flickering lamppost, eavesdropping with arms crossed and jaw clenched. He’d been listening. Always listening.

He didn’t make his move. Not yet.

Back in the shop, the group voted. Louisiana was calling. One more hunt. One more mystery.

They started prepping boats, gear, cameras, and snacks. Talie wouldn’t shut up about gator spray.

And while laughter and excitement grew louder inside the DockRat Surf Shop, outside in the shadows, Carter wasn’t the only one watching.

Because the ruby wasn’t just a rumor.

And the real danger hadn’t even begun.