Everyone piled back into the same vehicles and left.
She watched her mirrors and told herself to stop being paranoid. Herself didnât listen.
She blew out an impatient breath and punched two on her speed dial. The outgoing call to St. Kilda was automatically scrambled, just as incoming calls from St. Kilda were automatically decoded by her phone, which could use either satellite or cell connections. All of St. Kildaâs field agents carried the special phone. In a pinch, it could double as a camera, still or video, with or without sound.
âFaroeâs phone,â said a womanâs voice. âGrace speaking.â
âEmma Cross. Is he around?â
âAnnalise has her daddy in a chokehold. Anything I can do for you?â
Emma laughed. âIâd like to see that.â
There was a brushing sound, then Faroeâs voice said, âWhere are you andââ
âIâm north of Seattle, heading for a Puget Sound waterfront town called Rosario,â Emma cut in. âThe captain is about six foot two inches, rangy, stronger than he looks, unusual coordination, maybe thirty-five, very dark brown eyes, short black hair and beard, no visible scars or missing digits or teeth.â
âName?â
âMacKenzie Durand, called Mac, no âk,â according to his card.â
âImpression?â Faroe asked.
âWarm smile, cold eyes. Very smart. In the right situation, I bet heâd be damned dangerous.â
Faroe grunted. âSomebody wasnât happy to find out that Blackbird is the same vessel that left Shanghai.â
âSomebody will have to be happy with the radiation patch and business card I passed off in Seattle.â
âSomebody is never happy.â
âYeah, I get that. The Blackbird is either owned or brokered by Blue Water Marine Group in Rosario,â she continued. âIâd like a fast run on them from research. Mac is a transit captain. Is the research in on him yet?â
âStill pulling threads. Stay on him and watch your back.â
âHow carefully?â
âHow many backs do you have?â
Emma closed her eyes. âRight.â
âIf research turns up anything useful, it will appear on your computer or as a text on your phone.â
âFaroeâ¦â
âYeah?â
âIâd swear I was being followed when I left the Belltown Marina.â
âDescription?â
âThatâs the problem,â Emma said. âI 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.â
âHow are you feeling now?â
âA little foolish for wasting time, but Iâd do it all over again.â
âThe dumping tail thing?â Faroe asked.
âYes.â
âKeep it up. Everyone who ever worked with you at the Agency mentioned your good instincts. Some folks didnât like what you found with those instinctsââ
âIâm shocked,â she cut in.
âBut thatâs why St. Kilda hired you,â he continued. âWeâre not politicians. All we want are answers. Get them.â
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 Iâm 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 didnât need while single-handing a complex new boat in the ever-changing waters of North Puget Sound. The long-lasting twilight made everything