“Grab the head in one hand and the body in the other and twist, like wringing a washrag,” Mac said. “But be careful. Spot prawns have pointy parts that draw blood.”
“So does Joe.”
Mac remembered Faroe’s relaxed yet fully balanced moves as he boarded the boat. “That’s why I’m cleaning prawns instead of him.”
“Good choice.”
Faroe looked from one to the other and shook his head. “Grace was right about you.”
“Who?” they said simultaneously.
“Move over,” was all Faroe said. “I’ll help rip heads.”
“Keep your hands clean and open one of the New Zealand whites I have in the fridge,” Mac said. “Glasses are in the cupboard next to the sink.” To Emma he said, “Put the tails in the blue plastic bowl to your right.”
“This is going to be interesting,” Faroe said, opening the tiny fridge.
“What?” Mac asked.
“You like to give orders. So do I. Could be interesting when we work together.”
“If, not when.”
Faroe ignored him.
Before they had cleaned half the prawns, Faroe had the wine opened, poured, and was rummaging through the galley for a big pot to heat water in. While the water came to a boil, the men finished cleaning dinner and talked about the joys and drawbacks of boat ownership.
No one mentioned
Emma left the men to sizing each other up, took her wounded fingers to the head, and washed them thoroughly. The flesh of the prawns looked like translucent pearl, but the “sharp bits” protecting the succulent flesh drew blood and stung like the devil. She dried her hands and rejoined the men.
They both cleaned prawns with an efficiency she could only admire.
After a bare taste of the crisp white wine, she set the table and tore up the salad makings she had found in the fridge. A loaf of fresh bread with butter rounded out the meal.
When they sat down to the very fresh, just-barely-cooked prawns, she looked at her fingers ruefully.
“I’m still oozing,” she said.
“Told you they were sharp,” Mac said.
“Don’t hire him,” she said to Faroe. “I hate the ‘told you so’ kind of man.”
Faroe ignored both of them. He savored the succulent delicacy. When he took a break to breathe, he praised the lines and workmanship of
Despite himself, Mac began to relax. There was little that he liked better than sharing his love of his boat.
Making small, throaty sounds of pleasure, Emma went through the prawns like a quick-fingered lawn mower, leaving nothing but small pieces of shell behind. Then she wiped her hands, took her plate to the galley sink, and drank her fifth sip of wine while she finished her salad.
“It’s getting too dark to watch
“We’re on vacation,” Faroe said. “But if you need it, I’ll get it. So far they’ve kept the dock lit up like opening night.”
Mac said, “Don’t worry about
“How do you know?” Faroe asked.
“Common sense. And her transit captain told me.”
Faroe didn’t move, didn’t shift his expression, but suddenly Mac was the sole focus of the other man’s attention.
“Why?” Faroe asked.
“I’ve known him since first grade,” Mac said. “The common sense took a lot longer.” He wiped his hands as he met Faroe’s hard green eyes. “And I pushed.”
“Are transit jobs usually secret?” Emma asked.
Both men said, “No.”
Emma waited.
Faroe asked, “Is he smuggling?”
“Why would I tell you?” Mac said. “I’ve barely known you for an hour.”
She watched them exchange level looks and wondered how badly this “interview” was about to end.
“If it’s weed or cigarettes,” Faroe said, “I’ll kiss your friend on all four cheeks and wish him bon voyage.”
Mac looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Tommy didn’t mention smuggling to me. That doesn’t mean he isn’t carrying hot cargo. It just means he didn’t talk about it with me.”
“Would he?” Emma asked.
Mac shrugged and looked at her. “Usually, yes. He always talks about his next run like it will be the answer to all his problems.”
“It never is,” Faroe said. Not a guess.
“No, it never is.” Mac sighed and ran his hand over his short hair. “Damn, I don’t want to get Tommy into any more trouble than he’s found all by himself.”
“St. Kilda isn’t looking to hang the errand boy,” Faroe said. “We don’t fish for minnows.”
“Not even to use as live bait for bigger fish?” Emma asked, thinking of her own childhood.
Mac looked at Faroe and waited. “We work very hard to limit any collateral damage,” Faroe said. “But we’re not perfect.”
“Nothing human is,” Mac said. “But some things sure are more imperfect than others.”
“You want to investigate St. Kilda before you sign up?” Faroe asked. “If we talk long enough, we’ll find people who know people who know other people.”
“I already did. ‘Merry’ Marty Jones sends you this.” Slowly Mac raised the middle finger of his right hand.
Faroe almost fell off his chair laughing. “Good to know the son of a bitch is as mean as ever. If he wasn’t pushing eighty, I’d harass his ass into signing on with St. Kilda.” Then Faroe’s smile vanished. “You in or out?”
“I’ve got a few more calls that I’m waiting to be returned.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Faroe said bluntly. “This op has a real short clock on it. Call the instant you decide.”
Mac gave Faroe a long look before he nodded curtly.
Faroe headed for the door, with Emma right behind him. She paused at the open door.
“What if we have to contact you?” she asked Mac.
“I have your cell phone number.”
Emma bit back what she thought of Mac’s response, turned on her heel, and followed Faroe. They had a lot of intel to go over together and damn little time.
There was never enough time.
18
DAY THREE
ON THE REZ
1:35 A.M.
A stiff breeze blew through the mixed forest, making needles whisper and leaves rattle. Demidov was just another shadow moving among shadows, sliding between the scrubby trees with an eerie kind of grace. It had taken him an hour to discover the overgrown dirt lane leading into the forest. The “address” he’d found in the Blue Water Marine Group’s office was more of a general direction than any specific guide.
The reservation reminded him of the farthest fringes of Vladivostok, where cart roads became footpaths that unraveled into the wild, ragged land, places where somebody’s location was a matter of spirited discussion among natives.
