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
He drank, and minded his business, and the bar was quiet, save the hushed voices of the three men in the back. There was a mirror along the back of the bar, and Mason used it to survey the room, found nothing worth writing home about. The old-timers beside him looked weathered and beaten, looked like they’d been here since the door opened, and would be until close, and back first thing tomorrow.
The men at the rear of the bar wore flannel shirts and work boots. They had beards, wore ball caps. Every now and then they looked over at Mason, not long looks, just checking. Mason recognized the behavior. He’d done the same thing in the yard, keeping tabs on his surroundings, anyone who didn’t like him, anyone he didn’t know. A survival instinct, safety mechanism. Mason figured the men weren’t looking for trouble, but they’d be ready if trouble found them. He left them alone, avoided eye contact.
He finished his beer, motioned the bartender for another. The bartender obliged, set his glass back in front of him. “You’re not from around here.”
“Back east,” Mason said. “Just finished a bid, thought I’d come out this way and maybe find a boat needed crew.”
“And you heard Ty was your man, did you?” The bartender laughed again, shaking his head. “Mister, Ty Winslow was a lot of things, but he sure wasn’t much of a fisherman.”
“Wasn’t looking for Ty to give me work, no,” Mason said. “I heard he was the man to talk to if a guy needed something sharp to get him through the day.”
The bartender lowered the glass he was polishing. Squinted at Mason, looked him up and down. Mason held his gaze. Finally the bartender turned around. Caught someone’s eye in the mirror, cocked his head, and Mason heard a chair push back behind him, one of the three men from the table in the corner.
He waited. Tensed, watching the mirror, ready for the fight, if that’s what was coming. But the man slipped beside him, pulled the stool out, and sat down. Found Mason’s eyes in the mirror. “You a cop?”
He was the youngest of the three. Late thirties, probably, though it was hard to tell behind his wiry, rust-colored beard and the sallow skin beneath. His gaze was direct, his tone no-bullshit. Mason shook his head. “Not a cop.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Whatever you’ve got,” Mason told him. “Something to pick me up, keep me going. Been on the road a long while already.”
“How much?”
“About a week’s worth, if you got it.”
“Not here. Got cash?”
Mason nodded. “I do.”
The guy stood. “Come on.”
The man’s friends remained inside the bar. Mason followed him out and around the side of the building, to a Ford F-150 the same color as the man’s beard.