Sun warmed her skin, a gentle caress on her arms and legs. Cath inhaled deeply, the salt air a sweet counterpoint to the faint scent of coconut oil. Fine white sand, warm as bathwater, sifted between her toes. This was paradise, a perfect escape from the grey British winter, a dream holiday finally realized with Michael. They had planned this trip for years. A soft wave lapped at the shore a few feet away, its rhythmic sigh a lullaby. Gulls cried overhead, their calls distant and peaceful. She adjusted her sunglasses, watching a pair of children chase a crab near the water's edge, their laughter light and free. Everything felt right, utterly serene. Michael was still at the hotel, probably checking emails or making one of his endless calls. She didn't mind. These quiet moments alone, soaking up the sun, were exactly what she needed. A cool drink, condensation beading on the glass, rested on the small table beside her lounger. She reached for it, her fingers tingling slightly from the heat. Shadows fell across her legs. Cath blinked, a little annoyed at the interruption. She expected a hotel staff member, perhaps offering another drink. Two men stood over her. Not hotel staff. Uniforms. Dark, heavy fabric, stark against the bright beach. Their faces were grim, unreadable, hardened by something she couldn't place. Their eyes, dark and piercing, swept over her, then the lounger, then the sand. Fear, cold and sudden, squeezed her chest. One man spoke, a rapid burst of words in a language she didn't understand. His voice was low, authoritative, leaving no room for question. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a greeting. Cath sat up, her brow furrowed. "Excuse me?" she managed, her voice thin. "I don't understand." He repeated himself, pointing a thick finger at her. His gaze remained unblinking. The second man, equally imposing, moved to her side, blocking the sun. What was happening? Her mind raced, grasping for an explanation. A misunderstanding, surely. Maybe a lost item? She hadn't done anything wrong. "Is there a problem?" she asked, trying to keep her tone calm, even as her heart began to thump against her ribs. "I think you have the wrong person." The first man produced a small, laminated card. It wasn't in English. He flashed it quickly, then tucked it away. He said another word, this one sounding sharper, more insistent. His hand reached out, not gently. Cath recoiled. "Don't touch me!" Her voice cracked. He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. Steel-hard fingers clamped around her bicep, pulling her up from the lounger with brutal efficiency. The move was so sudden, so forceful, her drink toppled, spilling ice and liquid onto the hot sand. A gasp escaped her lips. The second man was already behind her, moving with practiced speed. Before she could process what was happening, her wrists were yanked together. A cold, metallic click echoed in the sudden silence. Handcuffs. They were tight, biting into her skin. Cath stared at the gleaming steel, then at her captors, her mind a blank slate of shock. This couldn't be real. This was a nightmare. "What are you doing?" she cried, twisting her arms, but the cuffs held fast. "Let me go! I haven't done anything!" Her protests were met with stony silence. The first man pulled her forward, away from the water, away from the scattered belongings on her lounger. The sun, once a comforting warmth, now felt oppressive, beating down on her exposed head. Sand grated under her bare feet as they dragged her. She stumbled, nearly falling, but their grips were unyielding. Her knees threatened to buckle. Panic clawed at her throat, a desperate, choking sensation. Other beachgoers had noticed. Heads turned. Conversations died. A ripple of whispers, a few pointing fingers. Cath felt their eyes on her, a humiliating spotlight. Her cheeks burned, not from the sun, but from shame and terror. "Michael!" she screamed, hoping, praying he might hear her, might appear from the hotel and make sense of this insanity. "Michael!" Her voice was lost in the vastness of the beach, swallowed by the distant roar of the ocean. The men ignored her pleas, their faces impassive. They were relentless, propelling her toward a path leading to the road. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs. Every step was a struggle, her feet sinking in the loose sand, the cuffs chafing her wrists. Her eyes darted around, searching for a familiar face, a friendly gesture, anything to indicate this was a mistake. Nobody intervened. Nobody even looked like they wanted to. They just watched. She saw a flicker of concern in an elderly woman's eyes, then it was gone, replaced by a wary avoidance. People averted their gazes as she passed, as if her terror was contagious. Her stomach churned. They reached the paved path. The change in surface was jarring, rough against her tender soles. She stumbled again, tears pricking at her eyes. This was not a dream. This was happening. Where were they taking her? What did they want? Her mind conjured images of dark cells, of harsh interrogations, of everything she had ever read about foreign justice systems. The thought made her tremble. She was Cath Williamson, a librarian from Surrey. Not a criminal. Suddenly, she felt a profound sense of isolation. Michael wasn't here. Her friends weren't here. She was alone, utterly alone, in a country where she barely spoke the language. A dark van waited at the end of the path, its engine idling. Tinted windows offered no glimpse inside. It looked menacing, official, a stark contrast to the vibrant, colourful resort. One of the men opened the rear door. It was heavy, a metallic groan echoing as it swung open. The interior was dark, a void. Her blood ran cold. They pushed her, roughly, toward the opening. She dug her heels in, resisted with all her strength, but it was futile. Two against one, and they were stronger, more determined. A final desperate glance over her shoulder. The beach, once her sanctuary, now felt impossibly far away. The blue sky, the sparkling ocean, the palm trees swaying gently in the breeze – all seemed to mock her, a beautiful backdrop to her unfolding horror. Just as she was shoved into the oppressive darkness of the van, her eyes caught a fleeting movement. High above, on their hotel balcony, a figure stood. Michael. He was facing away from her, staring out at the ocean, his back to the scene unfolding below. He seemed oblivious, or perhaps, deliberately so.

Chapter 1: A Crimson Tide Swells