Chapters (78)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Also by Owen Laukkanen
She was still making like she was annoyed with him, but there was something playful in her eyes, and a warmth besides that Mason hadn’t seen before. She tilted her head up toward him, and this time he knew that she wanted to be kissed. He kissed her, slow, rolled over and pulled her closer to him.
Beside the settee, Lucy grumbled, stood up, and retreated down into the fo’c’sle—but at that point neither Mason nor Jess had any inclination to care.
Forty-Six
Forty-Six
Kirby Harwood stared at the helicopter and wondered yet again how he’d taken so many wrong turns in his life.
Okafor’s man, Joy, had been waiting when Harwood and his men had finished filling out the paperwork for the Shelby Walker shooting. There was a shit ton of it too, took Harwood until dawn to get things squared away. And then Joy was waiting outside the detachment in that Suburban of his, spinning some yarn about Jess and her boyfriend had escaped on a boat.
There was no good way to spin what had happened last night. Harwood had sent a statement to Sheriff Kirk Wheeler in Neah Bay, and he knew there was a better-than-good chance that the state police would get involved, investigate the whole deal. Harwood had talked to the neighborhood, run through the official account—Shelby shooting first and all—and the neighborhood, by and large, had taken his word as gospel. Harwood had decent dirt on just about everyone on the block, and he knew for a fact there were a couple of households with outstanding warrants in Clallam County next door.
Nobody would cross the sheriff’s chief deputy, not to stick up for some tramp and her invalid mom. But if they did, Harwood knew he was screwed. And just that thought alone was giving him a bad case of situational acid reflux.
And now the goddamn helicopter.
They were standing on an airfield near Port Angeles—Harwood, Joy, Cole Sweeney, and the pilot, a stocky man in a leather jacket and a big, bushy mustache who looked more like a cop than anything else. They’d left Dale behind in Deception Cove to keep order, though if a Whitmer boy ever kept order in his life, Kirby had yet to hear about it.
Mostly, Harwood figured it was because Joy had spattered Bryce Whitmer’s brains all over the family kitchen. The shooter probably didn’t trust Dale not to do something silly in the aftermath, and justifiably so. If Kirby knew his deputy, Dale would find a way to make things right—even if it fucked the whole lot of them with the Nigerians.
“They sailed west,” Joy was saying. “I watched them go. You and your men were occupied, but no matter. We’ll find them.”