Silent Thunder

then goes away.'

'Goes where?'

'No idea. I don't think anyone around here knows him very well.'

And neither did Josh Sarks. She'd probably found out all she was going to get from him. 'Well, he doesn't sound like the man I was looking for. Thanks for your help.'

'Maybe we could go up to the Seagull, and I could buy you a drink?' he called after her. 'Someone there might be able to tell you something.'

'I wish I could. I don't have the time right now.' She smiled at him as she started up the pier. 'Give me a rain check?'

Ten minutes later, Hannah sat at a window table of the Coffee Dunk 'n' Dine across the street from the Seagull Saloon. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and glanced outside. She could see the trawler, so if the vessel's owner returned, he'd be easy to spot.

She sipped her coffee. What would she do when she saw him? From what she'd learned from Sarks, it was doubtful if he was connected with the men who'd attacked the sub. He'd been living here on a beat-up trawler for three years. He hadn't just shown up on the radar when the sub appeared. Maybe he was a submarine groupie after all.

Or maybe he wasn't.

She'd make a decision and cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she could think of worse places to catch up on her work.

Her cell phone rang; she checked the caller ID screen. Bradworth again. She thought about answering, but decided against it. To hell with him.

She turned off the ringer.

Shit!' Bradworth slammed down the receiver and walked across his office. Next time he'd block his name and number, in case Hannah was intentionally deep-sixing him to the voice-mail graveyard.

The red flag had gone up when Congressman Preston's office requested the Silent Thunder media clippings, and a few discreet inquiries confirmed that Hannah and her sister-in-law were behind it.

Bradworth rubbed his temple. Things needed to be handled delicately, with finesse. He couldn't allow a couple of grief-stricken family members to unravel years of effort.

Even more troublesome was the preliminary lab report on Hannah's would-be abductors. The Agency medical examiners had worked through the night over the charred remains, and their findings scared the shit out of him.

Hannah, answer your goddamned phone.

SEVEN

That had to be him.

Hannah stiffened in her chair at the coffeehouse window as she saw the tall, dark-haired man making his way down the pier.

There was something very familiar about that silhouette she'd stared at in those many photographs. He wore black jeans and a corded cream-colored sweater. Standard-issue Rugged Man of the Sea, she thought.

He boarded the trawler and disappeared inside.

After ten minutes, he reemerged and walked back up the pier. He moved with confidence and masculine grace. She tried to get a good look at his face, but it was getting dark. Damn.

He went inside the saloon.

What now? She could follow and get a good look at him in the bar.

She cast a glance back at his boat.

Or there might be one way to put an end to this. If he was a journalist or submarine buff, she'd probably know after a quick glance inside the trawler.

She packed up her laptop and walked out of the coffee shop. The night had brought even more mist, and the pier's wood planks shimmered from the peach-colored overhead lights. A lone buoy rang in the distance.

She was shivering. Nerves? It wasn't every night that she indulged in criminal trespassing. Or it could be the cold; the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees since she'd been inside. She stopped in front of the trawler and stared at it for a long moment.

Don't think. Just do it.

She climbed over the transom and pulled open the hatch.

Inside.

Dark, smelling of lemon wax and coffee.

She raised her key ring xenon flashlight and shined it around the cramped living quarters. The area was used efficiently, with almost every inch of wall space covered with shelving and corkboards.

Cotton sheets were stretched tightly over a narrow mattress. A military bedroll, she noted. She could have bounced quarters off it.

She turned toward a series of navigational charts plastered across the front bulkhead. Typical Eastern Seaboard charts, available for sale at any bait and tackle shop in town. She moved closer to look for any indication of the boat's recent travels.

She went rigid. 'My God.'

The charts were far from typical. They were filled with the same odd symbols she'd seen on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder that night Conner had been killed. Only these navigational symbols were written with a variety of colored grease pencils. They could be other symbols or copies of the ones taken from the submarine. Which meant-

Holy shit.

It meant she was in bad trouble. She had to get the hell out of here.

The hatch flew open!

She caught only a glimpse of cream-colored sweater stretched over broad shoulders before she instinctively barreled forward and tried to get past the man standing in the doorway.

'What the hell are-' He didn't finish the question as his arm flew out to stop her. 'Stop struggling. You don't-'

He grunted as her fist connected with his stomach. 'Damn you.' He knocked her down, dove on top, and straddled her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them to the floor. 'I've no compunction about beating up on women when they exhibit lethal tendencies. Just give me an excuse.'

God, he was strong. She could feel the muscles of his thighs rock hard against her hips. She was a strong woman herself, and he was holding her still with no real effort. 'Let me go.' Jesus, that sounded as futile as that panicky rush she'd made at him. Stupid. Use your brains, dammit. 'You won't hurt me. It would be dumb. Do you think I'd come here without letting someone know I was going to do it?'

'Indeed? And did they know you were going to try to burgle my poor vessel? Very poor judgment. I'd be within my rights to shoot an intruder.'

He did have a slight accent, but it wasn't Irish or Scottish. The accent was the same as the Russian naval officers she'd worked with. 'I wasn't going to rob you. I just wanted to have a look around.' Christ, she felt helpless. She couldn't stand being held down like this. Go on the attack. 'And I think you know that, Captain Danforth. I think you know who I am and why I'm here. Either call the police and have me arrested for trespassing, or get the hell off me so we can talk.'

He was silent and then chuckled. 'May I point out you probably wouldn't be in this position if you'd indicated you wanted conversation earlier, Ms. Bryson? I'm the one who was assaulted. I was only defending myself.'

He did know who she was and was making no attempt to hide it. 'And how was I to know what you'd do? I've been attacked every time I've turned around lately. Maybe you had something to do with that too.'

'And maybe I didn't.'