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
A beat. “Good morning, deputy.” This was Okafor, his voice soft and smooth and lethal. “Have you recovered my merchandise?”
Harwood turned, slow. Took a couple of steps out into the lot. Wet his lips. “Ah, we’re working on it, Mr. Okafor. Getting close. I got a real solid lead.”
Okafor chuckled. “Ah,” he said. “A solid lead.”
“That’s right. We’ll track it down soon, sir. I can promise you that.”
“I certainly believe you,” Okafor replied. “But just in case you do not, I will need to meet with you and your men this evening. Say, five o’clock?”
Harwood felt suddenly sick. “It isn’t the end of the month yet. We still have two days to keep working on this.”
“I understand, Deputy, but I’m losing confidence in your ability to handle my business. Perhaps the search will go smoother if I provide some assistance.”
Harwood said nothing. His mouth was dry again.
“Five o’clock,” Okafor repeated. “I’ll come to you, Deputy.”
Okafor ended the call before Harwood could reply. He stood there in the center of the lot for a while, his phone to his ear. Stood there until Dale came out of the room behind him, walked up, circled him, looked at him funny. “You all right?”
Harwood lowered the phone. “No, I’m not all right, Dale,” he said. “And neither are you. We’re all of us in some really deep shit.”
* * *
Bryce Whitmer set down his phone and stared across the front porch at the highway beyond. He’d been up all night, Kirby’s orders, keeping himself upright on Red Bulls and strong coffee, a gram of crank for when his eyelids got really heavy. He’d sat on his front porch with his guns close at hand, a Colt Python .357 revolver on the little table with the crank and the coffee beside him, a Bushmaster XM-15 across his lap. Wasn’t much going past on that highway out there, hadn’t been much the whole night. A few cars, an SUV or two, a couple of newer pickups, and a Shell tanker truck. Nothing that rang any alarms in Bryce’s head, nothing that even remotely resembled the Winslow bitch and her boyfriend.
Bryce had been looking. Now he just wanted to crash for a while.
But Harwood and Dale hadn’t flushed them out of Neah Bay yet, and that meant the bitch was still at large. Whitmer downed the last of his coffee. Stood up and gathered the Python and the crank, holstered the revolver and hoovered the last of the good stuff. Shouldered his rifle and walked down to the driveway, where his own Ram Heavy Duty sat parked.
Flag ’em down and search ’em.
Shit.