Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DANIEL
The rain stung my bare skin like a thousand angry wasps as I chased the shadow ahead through sheets of wind-driven water that seemed to come from every direction at once.
My feet scraped against rough, debris-strewn pavement, each step sending jolts of pain up my legs, but adrenaline dulled everything except the burning need to catch this bastard.
That face—I'd stared at his mugshot for hours during briefings back at the station.
Mickey Doyle. Street dealer with a rap sheet longer than my arm.
According to intel, he usually worked the pier bars all along the Outer Banks, slinging whatever poison would make him a quick buck.
Suspicion was that he had connections higher up the chain that we hadn't mapped yet, connections that might lead us to the real players in this operation.
A branch whipped past my head, close enough that bark scraped my cheek. The wind howled like something alive and furious, drowning out everything except the blood roaring in my ears.
My mind raced faster than my feet, questions tumbling over each other in rapid succession.
What the hell was he doing at the clinic?
Our intelligence suggested the operation moved product through fishing boats and waterfront bars, not medical facilities.
And the product they moved was generally cocaine or fentanyl—street drugs with high profit margins.
Had they started branching out, looking for prescription drugs?
Oxy, morphine, anything they could get their hands on?
Or was this simply a crime of opportunity?
A piece of debris—looked like part of a fence post—slammed into my shoulder with enough force to spin me halfway around.
I stumbled, nearly going down on one knee, but kept moving.
Mickey was fading into the darkness ahead, his form barely visible through the curtain of rain.
The storm made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.
Thunder cracked overhead like the world splitting open, and a sudden gust all but knocked me sideways into a parked car.
This was insane. No shoes, no shirt, no weapon, chasing a suspect through the outer bands of a Category 3 hurricane.
But Mickey could be our break. I hadn't been here for the months of dead ends and careful surveillance already conducted by the task force.
They'd brought me in as fresh eyes, someone who might spot what the locals had missed.
This could crack things open. Give us new avenues to pursue, new leads to follow. If I just managed to keep him in sight.
Another flash of lightning illuminated Mickey ducking behind a weathered bait shop, its hand-painted sign swinging wildly in the wind.
I adjusted course, ignoring the bite of broken shells and God knew what else beneath my feet.
The wind was picking up even more, blasting my skin with stinging sand and salt spray.
But I couldn't lose him. Not now. Not when we were this close.
I rounded the corner of a bait shop at full sprint, my shoulder scraping against the rough wooden siding.
Mickey's rigid arm caught me across the chest, clothes-lining me like something out of a wrestling match.
My breath exploded out of me as I staggered back, stars dancing in my vision, but training kicked in.
I dropped low, finding my balance again and dodging his next wild swing as I drove my shoulder into his midsection with everything I had.
We crashed into a towering stack of crab pots with a sound like a car wreck.
The metal cages clattered around us as we grappled, their wire mesh scraping against my bare skin.
Mickey fought like a cornered animal, all elbows and knees and desperate fury.
One sharp elbow caught me square in the ribs, and I tasted copper in my mouth where I'd bitten my tongue.
A flash of lightning showed his face inches from mine, twisted in desperation and something that might have been panic.
I managed to get an arm around his neck, trying for a chokehold, but the rain made everything slick.
He slammed an elbow back into my gut, and I felt my picnic dinner try to make a reappearance.
My grip loosened just enough. Mickey twisted free with the desperation of a man facing prison time and scrambled up, kicking at my hands as I tried to grab his ankles.
I lunged for his legs but only caught air and a face full of sandy water.
He kicked out toward my face, and I jerked back, only barely avoiding a boot to the teeth.
As my quarry bolted toward the marina, I pushed to my feet, spitting blood and seawater.
The wind howled between the buildings like a banshee, creating a wind tunnel effect that nearly knocked me over again.
But I couldn't lose him. Not when he was this close.
Whether he was the break that the task force needed or not, I was taking this bastard down to find out whether Gabi was in any further danger.
I sprinted after his retreating form, my feet finding purchase on the wet pavement through sheer determination.
We'd left the main road of the village and made it all the way to the marina, where the real danger began.
Deck boards creaked ominously under our feet as we raced past the covered slips, the sound barely audible over the storm.
Waves crashed against the pilings with increasing violence, sending spray across the walkway that made every step treacherous.
Mickey was fast, I had to give him that, but I was gaining ground with each stride.
He glanced back over his shoulder, and another lightning flash illuminated the fear on his face—real terror now, not just the panic of being caught.
Then he vaulted over the railing toward one of the boats, a move born of desperation rather than strategy.
I followed without hesitation, my body moving on instinct, hitting the deck of the vessel hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Mickey scrambled past the cabin like a man possessed, and I launched myself after him without thinking about what I'd do when I caught him.
My shoulder slammed into Mickey's legs as he tried to climb onto the bow, and I didn't know where the fuck he thought he was going in this storm.
The ocean was a churning mass of whitecaps and fury that would swallow us both without a second thought.
We crashed onto the deck, sliding across the rain-slicked surface as the boat pitched beneath us like a wild horse.
The boat rocked violently as waves battered its hull, each impact sending shudders through the fiberglass.
Mickey's elbow caught me on the side of the head, stars exploding behind my eyes, but I managed to keep my grip around his waist.
He thrashed like a hooked fish, trying to break free with every ounce of strength he had left.
My fingers found purchase on his soaked jacket, the cheap material already starting to tear under the strain.
The fabric only bunched around his arms as he tried to twist out of it like some kind of escape artist. I yanked him back as he attempted to crawl away, using his own momentum to flip him over.
His head cracked against the deck with a sound that made me wince.
"Stay down!" I rolled him over, pressing my knee into his back to pin him while I caught my breath.
Mickey bucked and twisted beneath me like a bronco. "Get off me, you fucking psycho!"
Ignoring the assortment of bruises no doubt blooming everywhere from our fight, I grabbed his wrist, wrenching it behind his back hard enough to make him yelp.
My free hand searched the deck frantically, finding a coil of rope secured to a cleat.
I yanked it free, the rough fibers burning my palms as I wrapped it around his wrists.
The wet line bit into my hands as I pulled it tight, making sure the knots would hold even if he dislocated his shoulders trying to get free.
"You're under arrest," I growled, securing the knots despite his continued struggles.
"For breaking and entering, attempted theft, assault on a federal officer—" The wail of the wind carried away the rest of my litany of charges, but it didn't matter.
I was technically on the water, which meant I had jurisdiction until I transferred him to local law enforcement.
"I want a lawyer," Mickey gasped, his voice muffled by the deck.
"Smart choice." I made what amounted to a leash out of the remaining rope, testing the knots one more time. "Though running into a hurricane wasn't your brightest move. What were you thinking?"
Mickey went limp beneath me, finally accepting defeat as the reality of his situation sank in.
The wind screamed around us as I caught my breath, rain hammering against my back like bullets.
I needed to get him back to the clinic before the storm got any worse.
And I had some questions that couldn't wait for the weather to clear.
The boat pitched hard to starboard, tilting at an angle that made my stomach lurch.
I grabbed the railing with one hand, keeping Mickey pinned with the other as water sloshed across the deck.
We needed off this death trap before the storm ripped it loose from its moorings and sent us both to the bottom of the sound.
"Up," I ordered, hauling Mickey to his feet with more force than was probably necessary. He swayed, unsteady with his arms bound behind his back and his balance shot from the head impact.
I half-dragged him toward the pier, timing our move between wave surges that threatened to wash us both overboard.
The gap between boat and dock looked wider with each passing second as the vessel strained against its mooring lines.
Mickey stumbled at the edge, nearly taking us both down into the churning water below.