Page 76 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“An hour ago. The ferry is approaching the dock.”

“Shit.” Part of me wants to order the boat to a halt so we can keep him from escaping, but that would jeopardize the safety of the other passengers and the crew.

“I sent you his file,” Brian shouts over the grind of the rotors. “You can skim it on the way.”

At the roof, I crash through the door. Hard rain slaps my face and the rotor wash blasts me with flying grit. Ducking low, I crouch-trot to the navy-blue chopper and climb in. Brian is in the front seat next to the pilot, a woman in a navy-blue jumpsuit with the patches of an FBI aviator.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful for the interagency collaboration we’ve built. Without it, I’d be standing on the corner of Fourth and Willow with my thumb up my ass. Meanwhile Kalle Jensen—or whoever he is—would be long gone.

As soon as I’m inside the chopper, Brian hands me a tactical vest and a radio. I slide on the vest, then buckle in as we take flight.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say to the pilot, who stays focused on steering us toward the coast. The hard rain makes visibility marginal. If it doesn’t ease up, flying will become extremely dangerous.

“Guy’s name is Russel Walsh,” Brian says into his headset.

This doesn’t ring any bells, but that’s no surprise. “History?”

“Former military. EOD. He was kicked out seven years ago. Guess why.”

“Stealing weapons?”

“Bingo,” Brian replies. “Not enough evidence for a court martial, but it led to a dishonorable discharge.”

EOD stands for Explosive Ordinance Disposal. These are the guys who disable explosives. They also have advanced training in robotics and hazardous materials.

Where would this guy be headed? From the ferry he has access to the Storm Harbor marina and the intercoastal highway, which connects to Alaska’s interior and the oil fields up north.

“Coast Guard?”

“An hour out.”

I curse. This is why we need a marine unit. I could have a team in position already.

“Madison’s team?”

“Not much Homeland can do, but he’s on standby.”

While Brian chatters with the pilot about our approach, I radio Hunter.

“Lucas and I are two minutes from the terminal. Want to tell me who we’re chasing?”

“Russel Walsh, former EOD and using the stolen ID of Kalle Jensen.”

Hunter hoots. “How’d we find him?”

“Concessions cashier.”

“Hot damn,” he replies.

I lay out my plan and what part I need him and Lucas to play, including sending a heads-up to the engineer and lead officer on the ferry.

“Affirmative.”

“I’m sending you his picture now,” I say, already tapping SEND on my phone. “White male, thirty-one years old. Brown eyes. Dirty blond hair in a ponytail.”

“Build?” His sirens fill the void.

“On the lean side. Five -eleven.”

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