Page 79 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“Any sign of Walsh?”

“Negative,” Lucas replies. “We’ve got eyes on all the exits.”

“How about the foot bridge?” I grimace. In this rain, the disembarking passengers will no doubt be using umbrellas and wearing foul weather gear. Spotting Walsh will be like finding a needle in a haystack.

“They’re just starting to unload,” Hunter says. “Wait! I got him.”

My hackles prickle. I give Brian the hold signal with my fist. We stand still, waiting. Breathing.

“Black parka. Work jeans. He’s on foot, heading north.”

Between the ferry terminal and our position are a handful of waterfront businesses. I don’t want this to go down inside a restaurant. We need to take him in the open.

“He turned into the arcade on the pier,” Hunter says, his voice tense.

“You and Lucas take the west exit,” I say, threading through the last layer of parked cars. Ahead, the entrance to the arcade—a collection of tourist shops and an old-fashioned carousel that overlooks the bay—yawns like the mouth of a giant. This time of year, most of the shops are only open on weekends or holidays. What is Walsh’s purpose? Does he know we’re pursuing him, and this a ruse to draw us in, or does he have business here?

Brian and I trot to the entrance, dodging puddles. The pedestrians leaving the ferry have either reached their waiting car or ride, or headed into town, making this area of the bay feel deserted. Rain pounds on the wooden boardwalk, filling the air with the sharp scent of creosote and salt.

Brian and I duck beneath the overhang, our backs to the building. I update Hunter and Lucas that we’re heading in, then turn down my radio.

I lock eyes with Brian, then nod. Go.

Moving swiftly, we enter the dark arcade. Being out of the weather brings sudden awareness to the quiet. I pause to listen. Recalibrate. Finding Walsh in here means tuning into any discrepancy—a noise, a flash of movement, an intuition that something isn’t right.

The candy shop is closed, the windows dark. We keep moving, the wooden boards under our feet flexing, the sound drowned out by the steady pulsing of the waves hitting the shore beneath us.

The breakfast café is closed. We move deeper, the darkness enveloping us, passing shuttered and dark storefronts to the enclave housing the carousel and a handful of kid’s games. Brian and I pause. I strain my ears for any scrap of sound, but there’s only the pouring rain and the waves.

I slip along the interior wall, my pulse thudding in my temples. Brian moves to the other side of the entryway.

We both hear the murmur of conversation at the same time, and our eyes lock in the darkness.

Someone is here. Maybe it’s a meeting, or a private phone call.

The floorboards creak, but I can’t tell where the sound is coming from.

The voice gets more forceful—I detect anger. Or frustration.

We need to get closer. The enclave has an exit out the other side to the patio that overlooks the bay, popular with tourists in the summer. Hunter and Lucas are staged at the west entrance in case Walsh flees back toward the ferry terminal.

Inching to the opening, my weapon ready, I peek into the enclave. The carousel is dark, the brightly painted horses frozen in space, looking garish and ancient. A yellow glow from one of the kid’s games is the only source of light, casting scraggly shadows on the wall behind the carousel.

I give Brian a quick shake of my head. No visual.

A floorboard creaks. It’s coming from the other side of the carousel. The conversation is two-sided, but I can’t make out the words.

My heart patters inside my chest. Who is Walsh meeting?

Brian signs for me to cover him, then crouches low and pivots around the corner, into the enclave. Simultaneously, we hurry forward, staying low, the carousel our cover. Once there, we split. I follow the left curve of the carousel while Brian slips along the right.

I try to stay inside the oddly shaped shadows, but this close to Walsh and his companion, it’s impossible to be invisible. At the moment the two figures framed by the exit’s dim light are in my sight, their conversation stops mid-sentence.

I race forward. “Police! Get down on the ground!”

One of the figures sprints for the exit. The other figure swings something dark at my head.

I dodge, but the object cracks my left side. Pain bursts hot and bright in my bicep. My shotgun skitters to the floor. Fueled by adrenaline, I whip around and lunge for the figure. He shoves me into the wall, but I get a fist up in time to use his momentum to spin us around.

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