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low in his groin. Jacob’s blood-drained face snapped him out of it. She was a suspect, not a pickup. He needed to get close to her without crossing the line, needed to gain her confidence without compromising himself or tipping her off.
    Thick blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail and she looked sweet and innocent. But he didn’t think so. Too many circumstances tied her to the clandestine smuggling. Crushing the can slightly between clenched fingers, he took a swig.
    Someone in this town ran enough cocaine to supply most of Scotland and northeast England. Scottish DEA suspected that traffickers used trawlers to bring the coke ashore, although nobody knew exactly who was involved or when the drugs were being unloaded.
    He’d spoken to Detective Sergeant Ewan McKnight on the phone that morning. Last time they’d done a raid, the boat they’d searched had been clean. So clean they could have fed newborn babies off the bare wooden planks. And before him stood the owner of that boat, Sorcha Logan, a girl who regularly dragged dead bodies out of the sea.
    There’d been a leak. Had to have been. And he was on his own.
    Sorcha glanced up as his plate of fish and chips arrived. Eyes widening, she recognized him and her smile faltered.
    His stare was a hard probe that chased her secrets. And there were secrets there; they scattered for cover in the depths of her eyes. She looked away, concentrated on her feet and then on her friend’s face.
    Doubt made him frown. Was she a drug smuggler? Part of the cartel that had got Jacob killed in Magangue?
    Sorcha didn’t look in his direction again, even as she left the building. But once she crossed the road, she turned and met his gaze with a scowl, tugging her friend away from the benches that overlooked the harbor.
    His food sat cold and sour in his stomach. If he found proof, Sorcha Logan was going to jail for a very long time.
    ***
    The American screamed danger.
    Unease rippled along his senses He couldn’t read the man, but he trusted his intuition more than he trusted death.
    Onshore winds buffeted the trailer as he nursed a glass of Guinness. The curtains were drawn against prying eyes on a dark night. This was his secret place. His haven. The one place in the world he could relax. He eased back against a foam cushion and drew out his amulet. Red topaz glowed brilliantly and the gem grew hot against his skin.
    He pictured the black-eyed stranger.
    Who is the American?
    He concentrated on the question, focused all his energy and waited for the images to come. He held his breath in anticipation, but there was nothing. Anger boiled inside.
    Who is he? He tried harder.
    Shadows whirled, but no pictures. No answers. The guy was a vacuum. He didn’t even have an aura. Rage flashed through him. He launched his glass across the room where it shattered against the cooker. A layer of perspiration made his shirt stick to his back, but his fury burned out as fast as it had come. A couple of long deep breaths helped.
    He tried something different.
    Is Sorcha ignorant?
    A vision of her smiling appeared inside his mind. Her aura glimmered bright, light pink. Innocent, pure.
    He laughed.
    She was glaikit. Clueless. She’d blocked her abilities, and the best thing was she didn’t even know it. In his dreams they died together, but fate wasn’t a sure thing. One tweak and you could twist it on its ass. His guides had shown him that. And he wasn’t afraid to give it a damn good tweak to get what he wanted.
    He wiped his brow on the cuff of his shirt, the smell of beer ripe and pungent in the enclosed space. Finally he asked the most important question.
    Where are Iain Logan’s journals?
    To disappear without fear that the cops would one day discover what he’d done, he needed to destroy those journals. Visions whirled frantically through his mind—as though watching fifteen different movies on fast-forward all at the same time.
    He swore. Anger and frustration worked against him. He