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back.”
    “How carefully?”
    “How many backs do you have?”
    Emma closed her eyes. “Right.”
    “If research turns up anything useful, it will appear on your computer or as a text on your phone.”
    “Faroe…”
    “Yeah?”
    “I’d swear I was being followed when I left the Belltown Marina.”
    “Description?”
    “That’s the problem,” Emma said. “I never saw anyone. I just had this feeling I was being watched. I did all the standard things for dumping a tail, both on foot and after I got in my rental. Nothing popped.”
    “How are you feeling now?”
    “A little foolish for wasting time, but I’d do it all over again.”
    “The dumping tail thing?” Faroe asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Keep it up. Everyone who ever worked with you at the Agency mentioned your good instincts. Some folks didn’t like what you found with those instincts—”
    “I’m shocked,” she cut in.
    “But that’s why St. Kilda hired you,” he continued. “We’re not politicians. All we want are answers. Get them.”
    Faroe disconnected before Emma could say anything.
    She sat, staring at the phone, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.
    I left the Agency because I got tired of shadows within shadows within darkness. Every shade of black and gray.
    And now all my instincts are twitching like I’m in Baghdad.
    Bloody hell.
    She snapped the phone shut, started her rental Jeep, and headed north on Interstate 5.

7

DAY ONE
    BEYOND ROSARIO
    8:03 P.M.
    M ac Durand slid the black-hulled yacht through the narrow channel at dead idle. By dark or sunlight, Winchester Passage was beautiful, distracting, something he didn’t need while single-handing a complex new boat in the ever-changing waters of North Puget Sound. The long-lasting twilight made everything difficult—seemingly clear but actually not.
    Yet Stan Amanar had insisted that
Blackbird
be in Rosario tonight, even if it meant running after dark.
    Mac didn’t like it. Deadheads—logs that had been soaking in the saltwater so long they floated straight up and down, exposing only a few inches of themselves above the water—were a constant danger. More than one twin-prop boat had met a deadhead and limped into the nearest port on one prop. Unlucky single-prop boats were towed or came in very slowly on a small kicker engine.
    Some of the boats sank.
    Never underestimate the sea.
    Or a woman.
    Mac smiled slightly. He was looking forward to seeing Emma Cross sometime soon. It would be interesting to find out what her game was. Or to get her out of her clothes, depending.
    He didn’t get naked with crooks.
    He picked up a channel marker a half-mile ahead and checked the paper chart spread out on the helm station in front of him. He would turn to port when the marker was abeam on his starboard side. Then it was a straight shot in two miles of deep water to the lights that marked the channel into Rosario.
    Mac set aside the joystick controller and returned to the throttles, nudging them forward. Speed had its risks. So did going too slow and feeling his way in the dark. Without radar or an electronic chart plotter, he was cutting things close. Sight navigation in full darkness was a good way to be surprised to death.
    Mac made his turn at the markers and brought the speed up more. The diesels purred and the wake boiled out behind the transom, a pearl fan spreading over the black water. He headed for town at what he estimated was the most efficient rate for both speed and fuel use—about fourteen knots. Engines like the ones in
Blackbird
‘s belly could push the hull at more than twice that speed.
    Two hundred yards outside the breakwater, he cut the throttles back to reduce his own wake. The marker at the outside end of the alley was flashing red against night-black water.
    He picked up the hand-held VHF he had brought aboard.
Blackbird
wouldn’t have any proper electronics until after she was commissioned.
    “Blue Water Marine, Blue Water Marine, Blue Water