6. Daniel
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 burger 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 breakthough. 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, and Tank waved to the bartender. “Jimmy! Two of your famous burgers. And whatever’s cold and nonalcoholic.”
Jimmy slid two sweet teas our way while Tank launched into a story about the current standings of the prank war that evidently was a staple around the fire station. I sipped the cool, refreshing drink and let the conversations wash over me, picking out threads of worried voices beneath the music.
“...gonna be worse than Isabel, mark my words.”
“Them folks up at Corolla already heading inland...”
“...best get the boat up on blocks before...”
A gruff voice two stools down caught my attention. “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. Running dark meant no navigation lights—illegal and dangerous, especially with a storm brewing. Could be nothing. Could be everything. Down in the Gulf, cartels loved using hurricane chaos as cover. Less Coast Guard presence, easier to slip past while everyone focused on evacuation and rescue ops.
I shifted slightly to better hear their conversation without being obvious about it. Tank was still going on about planned retaliation for the—had he really said mayo in his socks?—which gave me perfect cover to eavesdrop.
“Where’d you spot them?” the man’s drinking buddy asked.
“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. Most fishing boats had noisy diesel engines you could hear from a mile away.
I wanted to turn around and ask more questions, but that would blow my cover. Better to let the locals talk freely. Sometimes the best intelligence came from just sitting quietly in the right place at the right time.
Our burgers arrived, perfectly greasy and piled high with onions. I took a big bite, my mind already racing through the implications. Were these operations new or established? Either way, it seemed someone had elected to try to shift product before the storm hit. I cursed myself for not pressing to send the team last night. I’d need to alert the task force, increase surveillance. But first, I needed more concrete evidence than bar talk.
“Probably just some rich idiots who don’t know better,” his companion said.
“Ain’t no yachts,” the original speaker insisted. “Too small, too fast.”
Tank nudged me as Jimmy refilled our tea. “Gonna be a rough one. Chief’s got us all bunking at the station starting tomorrow.”
My attention jerked toward my partner and my food, and I lost the thread for a bit as I forced myself to make conversation.
“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 hear the two men down the bar.
Tank wolfed down the other half of his burger in two bites. “Rec room’s not bad. Got a TV, couple couches. Better than that time we had to sleep in the truck bay during a cat 4.”
I made appropriate noises of agreement while picking up the thread of conversation I’d been following earlier. The two men had switched to discussing specific coordinates, and I focused hard to catch the details.
“...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.”
“Exactly. Perfect spot if you don’t want company.” The first man’s voice dropped lower. “Saw them again this morning, same place. Definitely two boats this time.”
His companion whistled low. “You tell anyone?”
“Who’m I gonna tell? Harbor patrol’s too busy with storm prep. Besides, could be nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Two boats, running dark, using local knowledge of dangerous channels—it fit the pattern. Smugglers often recruited local fishermen as pilots, using their expertise to navigate tricky waters.
Tank’s voice broke through my concentration. “You gonna finish those fries?”
I glanced at the half-eaten pile of french fries still in the basket. “You know what? You take them. I’m gonna 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 installed. More locals poured in, their voices adding to the growing anxiety about the approaching storm.
I slipped out of the bar and around the side of the building, out of earshot of any eavesdroppers. Then I put in a call to Lieutenant Commander Hayes. The wind had picked up, whipping my t-shirt against my chest.
“Hayes.” His voice crackled through the static.
“LaRue here, sir. Got something from Home Port bar. Two vessels reported running dark north of Miller’s wreck, using the deep channel through the shoals. Local spotted them last night and again this morning.”
“Coordinates?”
“Not exact, sir. Based on the maps, I can make an educated guess.” I relayed where I believed them to be discussing. “It’s a tricky passage—lots of shifting sandbars. Perfect spot if you’re trying to avoid attention.”
Hayes grunted. “Matches our intelligence on previous patterns. Any visual confirmation?”
“Negative. Just overheard two locals discussing it. I’d say one’s a credible witness—knew his waters well enough to spot something off.”
“Noted. Keep your cover, LaRue. Focus on the storm prep we sent you there for. But...”
“Eyes and ears open. Yes, sir.”
“And LaRue?” Hayes paused. “No heroics. You’re there to gather intel. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
I hung up and leaned against the wall, letting the salt air fill my lungs. Through the window, I could see Tank demolishing my abandoned fries. We still had six windows to board up, and the sky was darkening faster than I liked. Time to get back to work.