Page 47 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
“I know how hard this is. If there were any way I could bring Torres back, I’d be the same way, but I can’t let you risk yourself to find the answers you’re so desperate for. Your father gave you this to save you, not put you in more harm. I don’t agree with how he did it, but I believe he thought he was doing the right thing.”
She slid away before she found herself believing he had her the way no other man ever did. “This isn’t Torres. This is myfather, and I should be the one to decide if we risk my life to save his.”
Rone’s jaw flexed, then stilled. The boat rocked, gentler now that the tide had turned, a cradle motion that made everything feel like it might be a dream if she let it. She didn’t let it. Not with her father’s voice still alive in the coils of her memory.
“Turning over the drive,” he brushed her hair behind her shoulders and softened his tone, “doesn’t save him. It buries him again. We need leverage. Evidence buys time.” His gaze tracked to the USB, a sliver of metal on the table.
Energy coursed through her veins, burning with the need to make him listen to her, but she knew only facts and plans would sway him, not emotions. “Evidence gets people killed when the chain of custody is corrupt. We don’t give them custody. We use it to force a trade. Echo for information. My father for silence—whatever it takes.”
The corner of his mouth did something that wasn’t a smile, wasn’t even close. “You can’t bargain with men who don’t need anything from you.”
“They need quiet,” she said, and was surprised at how steady she sounded, because inside she felt like a winter sea, choppy and cold. “They need me not to talk. I won’t.”
“That’s not how they do their math.”
She knew he was right. But she also knew that standing still while other people calculated your life was a kind of death, too. She lifted Echo’s collar and her chin because it was the only thing keeping the fear from sliding her down to the floor. Her thumb rubbed over his tag, but she didn’t see a chip of any sort. “Track Echo.”
Rone shook his head. “I told you?—”
“Where’s the chip?” She asked.
His rough hands tugged the collar from her, and he studiedit, flipping, lifting the tag. “It’s gone.” A smile wider than the opening to the bay spread across his lips.
“Do it. Check it.”
“No, Echo wouldn’t be able to carry the chip with him. He doesn’t have opposable thumbs. And if I turn on my cell, they can find us.”
“The tide’s changed. We’re heading out; leave your cell in the mangroves for them to find while we head out to meet Blake. Then we can give him the location to find Echo and my father.”
“The tracker probably fell off when they cut the collar.”
“It’s worth the risk. Can you access the information from another device if we leave your cell behind?”
He nodded, swallowed and eyed the alcove. “Tide’s high enough for us to get out of here. I’ll start the engine; be ready to go. At max speed of eight knots, we’re going to need some time to get out of here.”
Isobel raced up to the deck and used the windlass to bring up the anchor while Rone turned the boat around. She joined him in the pilot house. They reached the edge of the alcove, and he turned on his cell.
It lit up, so she took the helm while he thumbed the menu open, then navigated to the microchip app. The map panned north with his command, the red blink re-centering.
“You were right. Tags not pinging here or at the docks. Echo… you sly dog you.”
A giggle slipped out, more as a relief than real humor at his cliché.
He zoomed. The coastline resolved: mangrove hems, the scratched-out calligraphy of inlets and channels. And an island. Gray-shaded, stippled with ruin marks. A label popped in tiny text when he tapped it—Coya Costa—then the rest of the name, cut off by the map tile. Another tap brought up a notesomebody had entered months ago. CLOSED TO PUBLIC. HURRICANE DAMAGE. INFRASTRUCTURE UNSAFE.
Rone stared. “You have to be kidding me.”
“What?”
“It’s a park island,” he said. “Used to be. Boardwalks, ranger station, kayak landings. The last big storm shredded it. It was locked down until they can figure out what’s salvageable.”
“Which means no people,” she said.
He shook his head. “It means nolegalpeople. You want to move product, or people, you like a place with busted docks and a federal sign to keep do-gooders away.”
The red blink kept its pace. “We’ve got a location. Old ranger station.” He raced out the side door and threw the phone into the passing mangroves as they reached the mouth of the cove and swung north.
“If the ranger station is standing?—”
