“You’re done, Wade,” she whispered.

Wade did not flinch or raise his hand.

He turned his back on her and looked at Caleb.

“Get her cleaned up,” Wade said. “We can’t leave her here.”

“Where are we taking her?” Caleb asked, his hands still trembling.

“Just do what I told you,” Wade said. “I have to check the perimeter.”

Wade turned and began walking back toward the door where I was standing.

I slid backward into the darkness of the boatyard, my boots making no sound on the wet grass.

I ducked behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets.

The cold wind whipped off the water, stinging my face.

Wade walked out of the building, his flashlight beam cutting through the fog.

He paused near his cruiser, lit a cigarette, and looked toward the water.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my burner phone.

My fingers were stiff from the freezing cold.

I dialed a number I had memorized years ago during my time in the service.

It was the direct line to Marcus Sterling, a federal investigator who had helped me in the past.