The population of the island, which has steadily lost its land mass due to erosion and other factors, was now less than seven hundred. With the shoreline receding, it was estimated the entire island might have to be evacuated within fifty years. When this information was disclosed to Gunner by the real estate agent, he simply shrugged. In his line of work, he might not be alive in fifty minutes, much less fifty years.
Gunner had fallen in love with the island the moment he stepped off the boat at the County Dock. Tangier Harbor was dotted with idyllic crab shanties of all colors, with weathered wood being the norm. They were essentially detached sheds sitting on pilings in the water. Some appeared decrepit, but all had functioning utilities and were often lived in during the spring through fall months.
The watermen were active that day, bringing in another large catch of soft-shell crabs. They woke up every morning at three, gathered with their friends for a smoke and coffee, and then checked the pens holding the live crabs. Those who’d grown too large for their hard shells shed them. Once they did, the now soft-shell crabs were scooped out of the pens and shipped around the world.
The entire town of Tangier revolved around the watermen’s schedules and the ferries connecting the island with the mainland. The local shops opened when the visitors arrived by ferry and closed immediately thereafter. The only restaurant and bar closed at eight.
Gunner had enjoyed eating oysters when he lived near Apalachicola, and after having lunch with the Realtor, he gained an affinity for Chesapeake Bay blue crabs. After he closed on the property and began packing for the move, he learned a second bar was announced. It was to be called the Broken Hart Raw Bar.
Gunner found the name amusing, but the Realtor explained it might be a play on words. From the sky, during high tide, the bay waters encroach deeper onto the island, lending the appearance Tangier Island was shaped like a broken heart. As Gunner sat on his empty bed and stared at the photo of Heather smiling back at him, he realized he’d come to the right place.
Bear entered the bedroom, with Cam close behind. “Okay, big guy. The boat’s emptied, and the pilot headed back to Norfolk.”
Gunner stood and wiped his face with his right hand. He hadn’t been sweating, but it was more of a habit to erase his melancholy mood when he missed his wife.
He exchanged fist bumps with Bear and Cam. “You know what that means, right?”
“It’s beer thirty, mon!” shouted Cam in her best Caribbean accent. She immediately looked down to her watch. “Dammit. It’s past eight.”
“No worries, sistah,” said Bear in his baritone islander voice. “I picked up a case of a local craft beer at the bait shop on the way in. It’s on ice, ice, baby.” He sang the last line as if he were a black version of the rapper-turned-house-flipper, Vanilla Ice.
“Really? Ice, ice, baby? How old are you?”
“Old enough for you to call me daddy,” said the flirtatious Bear.
Cam stood with her hands on her hips and stared at her teasing nemesis. “I’d break you, pal. Get me a beer before I show you how bad it will hurt.” She turned her body into a martial arts attack stance, something Bear had seen before. He quickly scampered out of the bedroom toward the kitchen.
Gunner laughed. “You should really give him a break, you know.”
Cam shook her head defiantly. “No way. Not after bustin’ his balls all these years. He might get the wrong idea.”
“He’s got a girlfriend, right?”
“Hell, Gunner. You know that doesn’t mean jack. He burns through them in weeks. Or they grow tired of him.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?”
“You know. Have you scoped out any of the locals near your place?”
Can shook her head and gestured for him to follow her to the kitchen. “I’ll find a toy at some point, but nothing serious. It’s a distraction, you know.”
Gunner nodded. It probably was.
“Hey, guys!” bellowed Bear. “Check out the news.”
Cam and Gunner picked up the pace. CNN was reporting a cruise ship had been hijacked and possibly boarded by pirates. Cam found the remote and was about to turn up the volume when all three of their cell phones rang simultaneously.
It was Ghost. They’d been called to the Den.
Chapter Ten
The Den
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
The US Coast Guard amphibious helicopter made a gentle landing on the glass-like waters of Chesapeake Bay. The pilot expertly floated up to the end of Gunner’s dock, leaving plenty of clearance between the aircraft’s hull and Gunner’s Donzi 41GT sport boat. The transportation of the boat to Tangier Island had proved far more difficult than the logistical difficulties of moving a household of furniture from one island to another. The boat transport company came through and didn’t allow a scratch on her.
It only took a couple of minutes for them to load into the plane and race up the Potomac River to Fort Belvoir. The U.S. Army installation housed more than thirty government agencies, both on and off the books. Gray Fox was the newest of its tenants. Although it was included within the Department of Defense’s black-ops budget, and therefore fell under the overall purview of the Activity, Gray Fox was given its own operation center that the team dubbed the Den.
Gunner led Cam and Bear into the Den, where Ghost immediately acknowledged their arrival. He lifted his index finger to his lips before pointing to the eight-foot-wide monitors mounted on the wall in front of the Gray
