Chapter 4
FOUR
DANIEL
The rumble of the Zodiac’s engines cut through the morning calm as we made our way down the Atlantic side of the Outer Banks to Hatterwick Island, the furthest Southern tip of the chain of barrier islands that ran along the North Carolina coast. At last. I wished the trip was for the personal reasons that had drawn me across the country to begin with, but if I wanted the opportunity to stay, my duty had to come first.
With the hurricane inbound, our official mission today was part patrol, part storm prep and evacuation assistance, but I was keeping my eyes peeled for any evidence of the drug runners hoofing it to move product before the storm hit.
The inevitable chaos that frequently surrounded evacuations could provide good cover.
But with less than forty-eight hours until Hannah was due to make landfall, the pressure was on, and that could likewise lead to mistakes.
I could only hope to be fortunate enough to be able to execute both pieces of my mission while I was down here.
It could never hurt to impress the brass.
“Skipper, I’ve got a flashing light at ten o’clock,” Vance called out over the din.
I looked to the left and spotted the distant flicker of a signaling lamp. “Let’s check it out.”
Angling toward the light, I bumped up our speed, cutting through the swells.
As we approached, the sleek lines of a stranded sailboat came into view, sails luffing uselessly.
A single sailor stood on the decks, waving at our approach.
Legitimate distress, or could this guy be waiting out here to make some kind of transfer of goods?
“Look alive, y’all. Be ready for anything.” I pulled the Zodiac alongside and throttled back the engines.
The sailor, a middle-aged man with a weather-worn face and silver at his temples, curled his hands around the rail. “Y’all are a sight for sore eyes. Engine gave out. I was trying to make it back before the storm, but I didn’t get far.”
“Headed to Hatterwick?” I asked.
“To the marina there, yeah.”
Courtesy of the surveillance photos we’d been studying in our task force meetings, I knew where that was. “We’ll give you a tow.”
Peterson helped secure the line, and we turned toward the marina on the southwest tip of the island.
After three weeks of studying charts and aerial photos from our task force meetings, I expected it to look more familiar than it did.
But two-dimensional tactical representations could never capture the soul of a place.
The island rose up from the waves, a long, low shape with the green of maritime forests as a backdrop to the mega-houses that marched along the coast like colorful jewels.
But on the otherwise empty beach just to the north, I saw a cluster of dark shapes moving along the shoreline.
The wild horses Hatterwick was known for, I assumed.
I’d seen them marked on our patrol maps as a local wildlife consideration, but seeing them in person was different.
I wished we had time for a closer inspection, but there was work to be done.
God and a good grovel willing, I’d be spending a lot more time down here in the future, and there’d be another opportunity. .
We delivered the sailboat to the harbor, getting it back to its slip and secured before we moored our own vessel.
Echo team gathered our gear, and we made our way into Sutter’s Ferry to check in at the fire station since it was our designated command post for the duration.
Despite being team lead, I hung back a bit, letting Vance take point.
No need to draw attention to myself just yet.
The village itself was laid out more or less in a grid, with a main thoroughfare following the curve of the harbor that faced Pamlico Sound and the distant mainland.
We kept to the sidewalk, walking past dive shops, fishing supply stores, restaurants, and a whole host of tourist shops with kitschy names like Tides and Trifles, Ocean Oddities, and Seas the Day.
Were any of these fronts for moving product other than tourist souvenirs?
Drop sites? That was the kind of thing we needed boots on the ground to uncover.
After the hurricane was past, I intended to make the recommendation that we embed a few men undercover to better make such an assessment.
I hoped like hell I’d be one of them, and that it would give me a chance to make things up to Gabi. But one thing at a time.
The streets and sidewalks were teeming with people, a chaotic mix of urgency and barely controlled panic.
Despite the fact that I wasn't a native to these waters, it was easy as breathing to tell the tourists from the locals based on the frenetic, almost manic energy surrounding the former as they made last-minute stops at every shop they passed, arms loaded with unnecessary purchases, and gathered up their belongings before heading to catch one of the last ferry runs off the island before Hannah made landfall.
The tourists moved with the jerky, inefficient movements of people who had no real plan beyond "get off this island right now.
" They clutched overstuffed bags, dragged wheeled suitcases that caught on every crack in the sidewalk, and kept checking their phones as if the weather apps might suddenly deliver better news.
Their faces held that particular brand of vacation-ruined panic—the appearance of people who'd paid good money for a beach getaway and were now fleeing for their lives.
The locals, by contrast, moved with purpose. They knew where they were going and what they needed to do. Their movements were economical, practiced. These were people who'd weathered storms before and understood the difference between prudent preparation and pointless panic.
I found myself hoping like hell that the ferry company had enough ships running and enough time remaining to get everyone off-island who wanted to leave.
The alternative of being trapped here with a bunch of panicked tourists during a Category 3 hurricane wasn't something any of us wanted to deal with on top of everything else.
Vance hooked a sharp left, leading us back toward the sound side of the village.
According to the detailed map I'd memorized during our briefing, the island clinic where Gabi worked was three blocks east of our current position.
Not that I was counting blocks or plotting routes in my head.
There'd be time to head in that direction once we'd established our command presence and coordinated with local emergency services.
Mission first, personal business second.
That was how it had to be, no matter how much every instinct I had was screaming at me to lay eyes on her.
The fire station stood on a prominent corner lot, a tidy clapboard building that spoke to the community's pride in their emergency services.
The main section rose a full two stories, with three equipment bays that marched across the front in perfect symmetry.
A taller wing that housed the living quarters and administrative offices sat at the far end, its multi-paned windows set at even intervals in the pale blue siding that had been recently painted.
The whole place was impeccably maintained and surprisingly inviting, as such municipal buildings went.
Even under normal circumstances, this would have been an impressive facility for a community of only two thousand souls.
A crew of firefighters was already hard at work installing heavy-duty hurricane shutters over the windows, their movements efficient and coordinated. The metallic clang of shutters being secured echoed across the street, punctuated by the occasional shout of instruction.
Good. That meant less preparatory work for my team, and more time to focus on our actual mission objectives—both the official ones and the decidedly unofficial one that had my stomach in knots.
We ducked inside through the first open bay, the familiar scent of diesel fuel, rubber, and cleaning chemicals hitting my nostrils.
The space buzzed with controlled activity.
It seemed like men were everywhere—checking over equipment with methodical precision, testing radio communications, reviewing emergency protocols.
Hurricane preparation was already in full swing around here, which would make squeezing in any covert surveillance work considerably more challenging.
But we'd adapt. We always did. And we'd see what opportunities presented themselves once the immediate crisis had passed.
A dark-haired guy in turnout pants and a department t-shirt broke away from a group examining a pump truck and headed toward us, his stride confident and purposeful. Something about his bearing marked him as someone in authority, even before he spoke.
"Can I help y'all?" His accent carried a distinctive Outer Banks flavor—not quite Southern, not quite Mid-Atlantic, but something uniquely coastal.
I stepped forward and extended my hand in a firm grip. "Petty Officer First Class Daniel LaRue of the United States Coast Guard. I'm here to meet with your fire chief about how my team can best assist with storm preparation and emergency response coordination."
"Chief Thompson's off-site for an emergency planning meeting with the chief of police and the mayor, but I'm Captain Hoyt McNamara. Good to have y'all here. The extra hands and expertise are much appreciated, especially with the timeline we're working under."
My gaze sharpened on McNamara as I introduced Peters, Vance, Rawlings, and Martinez, each man stepping forward with professional courtesy.
I recognized that name. This was Gabi's brother-in-law, married to her older sister.
Did he know about me? About what had happened between Gabi and me back in New Orleans?
About how spectacularly I'd managed to screw things up?