Chapter 6
SIX
DANIEL
The hammer’s rhythm matched the thud of country music spilling from Home Port’s open door. We’d been boarding up windows for the past three hours, and my shoulders burned from the repetitive motion. The dive bar was our last stop before a much-needed break.
“Ain’t gonna be much view left when we’re done.” Tank, the aptly nicknamed big bruiser of a firefighter I’d been paired with, drove another nail into the plywood. “Though most folks come here for the beer, not the scenery.”
A burst of laughter erupted from inside. The place was packed wall-to-wall with fishermen and dock workers, their voices a constant rumble beneath Merle Haggard’s twang.
“Busy for lunch hour, considering the circumstances,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.
“Hurricane’s coming. Not like anybody’s gonna be out on the water fishing in this weather. Everyone’s getting their drinking in early.” Tank grinned. “Plus, Jimmy makes the best burgers on the island. Better grab one while you can—place’ll be closed once the storm hits.”
My stomach growled on cue. We’d covered half the commercial district since morning, and all I’d had since I’d left Nag’s Head at o’dark thirty was a single cup of firehouse coffee. The smell of grilled meat and fried food drifted out, making my mouth water.
“How many windows left?”
Tank counted under his breath. “Four on this side, two round back. Could probably use a breakthrough. These boards ain’t going anywhere.”
I set down my hammer and flexed my fingers. The skin on my palms was red and raw despite my work gloves.
“Lead the way.” I followed Tank inside, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
The place had that lived-in feel of a real local joint—fishing nets on the walls, dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, initials carved into the wooden tables.
A few heads turned our way, but most folks were focused on their plates or conversations.
This was exactly the kind of place I’d hoped to land to pick up some prospective intel.
We found two empty stools at the bar, wedging ourselves between a weathered fisherman nursing a beer and a dock worker still in his oil-stained coveralls.
Tank waved to the bartender with the easy familiarity of someone who'd spent plenty of time on this barstool.
"Jimmy! Two of your famous burgers. And whatever's cold and nonalcoholic. "
Jimmy, a grizzled man with arms like tree trunks and a gray beard that had seen better days, slid two sweet teas our way without missing a beat.
The glasses were already sweating in the humid air, condensation pooling on the scarred wooden bar top.
Tank launched into an animated story about the current standings of the prank war that evidently was a staple around the fire station—something involving shaving cream in boots and plastic wrap over toilet seats.
I sipped the cool, refreshing drink and let the conversations wash over me, picking out threads of worried voices beneath the twang of country music.
The sweet tea was perfectly brewed, with just enough sugar to cut through the heat and humidity that seemed to seep through even the boarded-up windows.
"—gonna be worse than Isabel, mark my words."
"Them folks up at Corolla are already heading inland..."
"—best get the boat up on blocks before..."
The conversations layered over each other like waves, creating a constant murmur of anxiety beneath Tank's increasingly elaborate tale of revenge plots.
Everyone in the place vibrated with the restless energy that came before a big storm—the kind of nervous tension that made people drink a little faster and talk a little louder.
A gruff voice two stools down caught my attention, cutting through Tank's story like a knife. "Told you I saw lights out there last night. No reason for anybody to be running dark this close to shore."
My ears perked up at those words, but I kept my eyes on my drink, watching the ice cubes shift and melt.
Running dark meant no navigation lights—illegal and dangerous, especially with a storm brewing.
Could be nothing. Probably was nothing. But it could be everything.
Down in the Gulf, cartels loved using hurricane chaos as cover.
Less Coast Guard presence, fewer patrol boats, easier to slip past while everyone focused on evacuation and rescue ops.
I shifted slightly on my stool to better eavesdrop on their conversation without being obvious about it.
Tank was still going on about the elaborate retaliation planned for whoever had filled Chief Morrison's coffee cup with salt—had he really said they were considering mayo in socks as payback?
—which gave me perfect cover to eavesdrop on the more interesting conversation happening down the bar.
"Where'd you spot them?" the man's drinking buddy asked, his voice carrying the slow cadence of someone who'd spent his whole life on these waters.
"Out past the shoals. One, maybe two boats. Thought they might be part of that fishing fleet from Ocracoke at first, but they were running too close together. And silent."
Silent running. Another red flag waving in my mental periphery. Most fishing boats ran on noisy diesel engines you could hear from a mile away, especially the older workboats these guys would be familiar with. Modern speedboats could run quiet when they needed to.
I wanted to turn around and ask more questions, maybe buy the guy a beer and see what else he'd noticed.
But that would blow my cover faster than a hurricane-force gust. Better to let the locals talk freely, let them think I was just another emergency worker grabbing lunch between boarding up windows.
Sometimes the best intelligence came from just sitting quietly in the right place at the right time, letting people forget you were there.
Our burgers arrived, perfectly greasy and piled high with onions, lettuce, and tomatoes that looked like they'd been grown fresh on the island.
Jimmy had a reputation for a reason—the meat was thick and juicy, the bun toasted just enough to hold together under the weight of toppings.
I took a big bite, my mind already racing through the implications of what I'd heard.
Were these operations new or established?
Had someone been using this area as a route for months, or were they just now trying to take advantage of the hurricane chaos?
Either way, it seemed someone wanted to try to shift product before the storm hit.
I cursed myself for not pressing to send the team last night when the weather window was still open.
I'd need to alert the task force, increase surveillance if possible. But first, I needed more concrete evidence than bar talk and suspicious boat sightings. Hayes would want details, coordinates, something actionable.
"Probably just some rich idiots who don't know better," his companion said, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. "You know how them summer people are. Think they can ride out anything in their fancy boats."
"Ain't no yachts," the original speaker insisted, his voice carrying the authority of someone who knew the difference. "Too small, too fast. And running that tight formation? Nah, that's deliberate."
Tank nudged me with his elbow as Jimmy refilled our sweet tea glasses, the ice clinking against the sides. "Gonna be a rough one. Chief's got us all bunking at the station starting tonight."
My attention jerked toward my partner and my food, and I lost the thread of the other conversation for a moment as I forced myself to make appropriate small talk. Couldn't blow cover by looking too interested in what the locals were saying.
"Yeah, we'll be bunking there too. Chief McNamara cleared space in the rec room." I took another bite of my burger, letting the conversation flow naturally while straining to catch more from the two men down the bar. "Hope the generator holds up if we lose power."
Tank wolfed down the other half of his burger in two massive bites, barely pausing to chew. "Rec room's not bad. Got a TV, couple couches. Better than that time we had to sleep in the truck bay during that cat 4 that came through several years back."
I made appropriate noises of agreement while picking up the thread of conversation I'd been following earlier. The two men were discussing location now, and I focused hard to catch the details over the growing noise in the bar.
"—just north of that wreck, you know the one. Where Miller lost his boat last spring."
"That deep channel? Hell, even the local boys don't like running through there at night. Too many sandbars shift around after every storm."
"Exactly. Perfect spot if you don't want company." The first man's voice dropped lower, forcing me to lean slightly in his direction. "Saw them again this morning, same place. Definitely two boats this time."
His companion whistled low under his breath. "You tell anyone?"
"Who'm I gonna tell? Harbor patrol's too busy with storm prep. Coast Guard's got their hands full with evacuations. Besides, could be nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. I could feel it in my gut.
Two boats running dark, using local knowledge of dangerous channels—it fit the pattern we'd been tracking up and down the coast. Smugglers often recruited local fishermen as pilots, using their expertise to navigate tricky waters that would ground or destroy Coast Guard cutters.
Tank's voice broke through my concentration like a foghorn. "You gonna finish those fries?"
I glanced down at the half-eaten pile of golden fries still sitting in the red plastic basket, completely forgotten while I'd been eavesdropping. "You know what? You take them. I'm gonna step outside and make a quick phone call."
As I slid off my stool, the door banged open, letting in a gust of wind that rattled the plywood we'd just spent the morning installing. More locals poured in, shaking rain from their hair and adding their voices to the growing chorus of concern about the approaching storm.
I slipped out of the bar and around the side of the building, finding a spot between a dumpster and a stack of crab traps where I'd be out of earshot of any eavesdroppers.
The wind had picked up significantly, whipping my t-shirt against my chest and carrying the sharp scent of salt and approaching rain.
Dark clouds were building on the horizon like an approaching army.
I pulled out my phone and put in a call to Commander Hayes. The signal was already getting weaker as the storm approached, and I had to cup my hand around the phone to hear clearly.
"Hayes." His voice crackled through the static, all business as usual.
"LaRue here, sir. Got something from Home Port bar. Two vessels reported running dark, using the deep channel through the shoals. Local spotted them last night and again this morning."
"Coordinates?"
"Not exact, sir. Based on the charts I studied and what these locals are describing, I can make an educated guess.
" I relayed the approximate position where I believed they were discussing, factoring in local landmarks and navigation hazards.
"It's a tricky passage—lots of shifting sandbars, dangerous even for locals.
Perfect spot if you're trying to avoid attention. "
Hayes grunted his acknowledgment. "Matches our intelligence on previous patterns. Any visual confirmation?"
"Negative, sir. Just overheard two locals discussing it. One seemed like a credible witness—knew his waters well enough to spot something off. Talked like he'd been fishing these waters for decades."
"Noted. Keep your cover, LaRue. Focus on the storm prep mission we sent you there for. But..."
"Eyes and ears open. Yes, sir."
"And LaRue?" Hayes paused. "No heroics. You're there to gather intel, not to make arrests. Clear?"
"Crystal, sir."
I hung up and leaned against the weathered siding of the building, letting the salt air fill my lungs.
Through the window, I could see Tank demolishing my abandoned fries with the same enthusiasm he'd shown for his burger.
We still had six windows to board up, and the sky was darkening faster than I liked.
The storm was coming whether we were ready or not.
Time to get back to work.