“Got a plan if Davies doesn’t show up, Wyte?”

Wyte didn’t answer.

A bald man appeared at the edge of the empty docks, weapon holstered. Just appeared. Finch couldn’t tell where he’d come from. Wyte drew his gun for both of them.

Face like a boxer’s, the nose wide from repeated blows. Scar over the left eye, under the right eye. Same knife stroke? Barrel chest. Thick arms. Wearing a blood-red vest over a dark-green shirt. Black pants, blacker boots.

The man came forward with hands held in front of him. Like he wanted to be handcuffed. Something was in his hands, though. An offering?

He dropped what he’d been holding onto the ground. A wooden carving of a lizard caught in some kind of trap.

The man said, in some misbegotten blend of accents, “I’m Bosun. Davies couldn’t make it.”

Close enough now that his face was like a carved oval bone. Scrubbed clean of anything except directness. Some sort of spice on his breath. A smirk Finch didn’t like any more than the name.

Wyte gave Finch a glance. Knew Wyte was thinking the same thing. Bliss had named Bosun as Stark’s right-hand man. Someone who didn’t flinch from torture. Who seemed to enjoy it. Who’d helped wipe out Bliss’s whole team.

“What happened to Davies?” Wyte asked, stepping back to create a little space. Finch faded to the right, so he’d be out of Wyte’s line of fire. Kept his hand on his belt. Near his holster.

“Davies couldn’t make it,” Bosun repeated. “Stark’s waiting. Come. Now.”

Bosun started walking back toward the maze of gathered boats. Didn’t seem to care about Wyte’s gun. Finch wondered who might be watching from the row of dark glass windows that formed the first wall of boats.

“What guarantees do we have?” Finch called after Bosun. Wanted to ask, “What’s with the lizard, you fucking lunatic?”

Bosun, without looking back: “None, beyond this: We won’t hurt you unless you try to hurt us. And we won’t try to fuck you, either. Unless you try to fuck us.” A deep rasp similar to laughter. Him receding farther toward the maze while the two detectives stood there.

Finch stared at Wyte. Wyte stared at Finch.

“Are we really going to go in there?” Wyte asked.

Finch looked back across the bay, saw how far they’d come. Who on the Spit would risk angering the gray caps? Thought about the skery. About how easy it would’ve been for them both to go down in a hail of bullets if someone waited behind the windows of the first line of boats.

Shrugged. “Just think of him as Davies if it makes you feel better.” Hiding his own unease.