Though he knew it was a risk, he swung by MacBain’s desk, picking it out by the nameplate seated haphazardly at the edge, and gave the mouse a shake. A map stood open on the screen, a red pin over an island in the Dormach Firth. Alec took a mental picture and straightened, tugging at his uniform sleeves as he set off across the floor again as nonchalantly as he could.
Then, miraculously, Alec was pushing the glass door open and stepping out into the windy day. He almost laughed but clapped a hand over his mouth before the sound could escape. He hurried across the parking lot, and as soon as he was safely hidden among the cars, he began to shuck the uniform off, leaving pieces of it strewn in his wake. He kept the flashlight, handcuffs, and incapacitant spray, just in case. He needed a car, but he wasn’t about to steal one from the station since police vehicles all had trackers in them.
Once he was a few streets away, he hunted around until he spotted a nondescript, silver sedan parked right at the edge of the road, away from the buildings. It was an older model, so no alarms went off when he smashed the driver’s side window with a rock. He glanced around, making sure no one had noticed the sound of breaking glass, and then reached through and unlocked the car. He carefully brushed the shards of the seat before he got inside, flipping the sun visors open just in case there was an extra set of keys.
There wasn’t, but that was okay. There were other ways to start a car.
Alec pried the plastic panel off the steering column, exposing the tangle of wires beneath. It only took him a few minutes to slice through the wires and twist them back together in a different configuration. The lights on the dash came on as he did, and then he sparked the starter wire against the twisted battery lines a couple of times, and the car rumbled to life beneath him. Alec grinned fiercely; there was nothing quite like the thrill of a successful theft. He cranked on the wheel to break the steering lock and pulled into the street, leaving a sprinkle of broken glass behind.
I’m on my way, Finn.
Twenty
Sunset Charters was a rundown little business. It had its own private dock, though the wooden slats sat low in the water, sighing tiredly in the waves. The fleet consisted of four fishing boats, two-speed boats, and a battered pontoon. Most of them looked like they had seen better days. The building itself had once been painted orange and yellow to match its name, but it had faded and peeled away over the years until the wood showed through in patches, the colours turned pale and wan. The sign, proclaiming the business’s name in letters more apt for somewhere in Florida rather than Inverness, hung, lopsided, over the door.
The other members of our team were already there, clustered around one of their cars while they waited for us. They all wore warm, dark clothing, hair tucked under hats, coats flapping in the wind.
I lifted a hand in greeting as Fletcher and I climbed out of her car. “We’ve worked with this place before?” Fletcher asked. “It’s a dump.”
“So the insurance is cheap if we break one of the boats,” I explained. I hadn’t worked with Sunset Charter before, but before we were partners, Reilly was part of an op stopping some whalers, and rather than come up with any kind of reasonable plan, he decided to crash his boat right into the one he was chasing. From the way he told it, Sunset Charter didn’t seem to care very much.
“Wait here,” I said to our team. “Fletcher and I will get the boats sorted out.”
A bell chimed as I pushed the door open and stepped into the cluttered shop. Yellowed maps hung from the walls in between black and white photos of the coast, draped in old bits of netting. Knickknacks lined the shelves and tables placed randomly around the floor: bottle openers and magnets, snowglobes and rather monstrous stuffed animals for the kids, miniatures of the photos on the wall, and a half a dozen different shot glasses. The other half of the room was filled with fishing supplies, the flies sorted by colour, the accessories growing ever more expensive. A man with a bushy, white beard sat behind the desk, watching a football match on a tiny, grainy television. He wore bracers over his checkered shirt and a grey, wide-brimmed hat on his head.
He didn’t look up at the chime of the bell or the tread of our boots across the creaky floor, but he jumped when I placed my hand on the counter and said hello. His blue eyes had faded the colour of the sky after rain, his face marked with liver spots. “Can I help ye?” he asked in the thick accent of the rural Highlands.
“DCI MacBain,” I said, flashing my badge. “Chief Inspector Dunnel called ahead about some boats?”
“Aye.” The man ducked beneath his counter, muttering indistinctly as he hunted around for something. He emerged with a stack of papers two fingers high. “I’ll just need yer signature on these.”
I stared at the stack. We’d be there all night if I had to read every page. “I assume this is just a standard contract?” I asked, lifting the corner of the top paper.
The man’s head bobbed. “Same as I always give yer department.”
“Great.” It took me five minutes to hunt through the document for each place I needed to sign or initial. The old man turned his attention back to the television, pulling a bag of crisps seemingly out of nowhere. Fletcher went
