It was a bluff, but Wade didn’t know that.

He looked at the floor, his chest rising and falling quickly.

“Give me the phone, Daniel,” Wade said, but the demand was empty.

“No,” I said.

I backed toward the rear door of the kitchen, keeping my eyes on him.

Wade did not move to stop me.

He stood in the center of the room, looking down at his old friend on the floor.

I turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the cool night air.

The coastal fog was thick, smelling of salt and damp pine.

I walked quickly to my truck, my boots crunching on the wet gravel.

My hands were shaking, but my head was clear.

I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, the headlights cutting through the gray mist.

I needed someone who could bypass the entire county sheriff’s department.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number I had kept memorized since my deployment in the Sandbox.

Marcus Vance.

He was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, operating out of the Boston field office.