“The harbor master is on our payroll,” Aries said.

“Was on our payroll,” Killian corrected.

Suddenly, the lights in the boathouse flickered once, twice, and then died completely.

The room was plunged into pitch blackness, save for the faint red glow of the security monitor’s backup battery.

On the table, Aries’s burner phone began to vibrate, its screen illuminating the metal walls with a harsh, blue light.

The burner phone vibrated against the metal table, its harsh blue screen casting long, distorted shadows across Aries’s face.

Nobody moved.

The silence stretched, thick and cold, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof of the boathouse.

“Do not touch it,” Killian said, his voice a low, raspy whisper.

His hand remained resting on the grip of his holster.

Aries stared at the glowing screen.

The caller ID displayed a string of zeros.

“It is a satellite relay,” Aries said, his voice perfectly even despite the darkness.

“They want us to know they are watching.”

He did not pick up the phone.

Instead, he turned his gaze back to me.