Previously:

In a time months before the formation of the 21st century Forte team, Jared Banks, head of corporate security for Seattle’s Tether Corp, had begun operating as the armored solo hero named Seahawk by night. After a tumultuous time in his life that ended both his Seattle P.D. career and his marriage, his new employment had brought him prosperity, and his new mission, as Seahawk, had returned purpose to his life.

Returning to his boat, on which he lived, one night, he received a radio call from someone code-named “Mr. North”, and using the coded language they shared, “North” let him know that something was up that Seahawk had a definite interest in. Whatever this was, the lead caused Jared to quickly suit up in his Seahawk armor, leave his boat through the secret exit beneath it, and jet out across (below) the Seattle Sound as a large storm began brewing, in search of “Mr. North’s” boat and whatever this apparently long-anticipated lead was.

But before we return to that stormy night, we journey, first, back to a time a year and a half before it, when the life of Jared Banks was not yet what it would become…

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March 11, 1998
3:47 PM
Ballard, Washington

Bob Seger’s “Hollywood Nights” was midway through its second chorus when Jared killed the engine on his rusting Mustang, and Seger’s passion was replaced by the grind of the emergency brake getting pushed in by Jared’s left foot. That, and the passing of traffic on Seaview Avenue and train rolling lazily by on the tracks that went past nearby Golden Gardens Park, which drowned out any pleasing sound the ocean might be making.

He went ahead and just left the CD in the stereo, pulled his keys from the ignition, and reached for the paper grocery bag on the floor of the passenger side. That had become his usual spot for storing such things, as he had become a man with no passengers in his life. He winced as he reached, something that was now an unnecessary reflex, since his shoulder had done most all of its healing by now. That particular wound had somehow become the least of his concerns. Funny how time changed perspective on things.

He pulled it to him – the bag with a six pack of ale, a good (but not great) steak, a bag of potatoes and assorted condiments and toiletries he’d needed to stock up on – and opened his car door with his other hand. He stepped out into the chill afternoon, pausing to reach into the inside pocket of his worn leather blazer, and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter in one move. He opened the box with one flick of his finger, slid one Winston upward, and lifted the box to his face and pulled the smoke out with his lips. Dropping the pack back in his pocket, he flicked open and lit his Zippo, puffing the cigarette to quick life. As usual, the SPD logo on the front of it gave him a momentary temptation to let his mind wander back to dark places, but he’d gotten good at using the sharp “click” of closing it as a symbol to shut those thoughts down (his therapist called such a thing an “anchor”). The force had taken just about everything else from him, but he’d be damned if he’d let them take his lighter—and the use of it—away from him, too. A phrase involving his “cold dead fingers” would be appropriate.

With the lighter back in his jacket, he pushed the door lock down and slammed the door (for no dramatic reason—you just had to with that door. He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the hit-and-run dent yet, and after ten years, he probably wasn’t going to), crossed the parking lot and started down the sidewalk, smoking and readjusting his grocery bag. He wore a plain black tee shirt beneath his jacket, some old jeans and some comfortable, formerly-white sneakers. His hair was too long, now reaching down past his shoulders, and he wore a full and not-cared-for beard. His pace wasn’t quick. It wasn’t like he had anything to rush home to, after all.

He walked toward the Shilshole Bay Marina, with the Bay now on his right. Had he been able to afford both the berth and the parking spot, he’d have been able to park closer to the boat that was now, suddenly, his home, but men without jobs with disappearing savings accounts (ones that hadn’t been particularly visible in the first place) learned to live with walking a few blocks.

He soon noticed the limo parked along the sidewalk, up near the Marina’s main entrance, and kept an eye on it as he approached. Some well-to-do out-of-towner not able to get a mooring at one of the classier docks in town, perhaps? Some of the regulars whose boats floated around his were pretty affluent (enough to use their boats for pleasure, not as an apartment like he was doing), but none that he knew of were limo-class. And it was a little early for prom, unless prom rules had changed since he was in high school…

He noted the muscular driver in the suit and tie standing next to the limo’s hood, and also immediately noted, once he got close enough, the telltale bulge under his jacket’s armpit. This driver was packing. More than just a driver. That meant whoever belonged to the limo was more than just your average rich guy looking to announce his wealth to the world with the snazzy ride. The bald and bulky driver also noted Jared long before he got within polite range, and rolled a look his way. Though it was cloudy out, the driver wore stylish sunglasses and seemed to size up Jared from behind them. Jared instinctively avoided eye contact (the old cop moves were still functioning) and looked out over the Bay instead, keeping the driver in his peripheral vision. He suddenly felt tense. He was sure he was just being paranoid, but limos and guns near his boat made him wonder if the Ribisi family felt that they’d waited long enough since the big night to finally come looking for a little payback.

Payback?, he asked himself. Payback for what? What had he actually done? It wasn’t like any of them had gone to jail. Not even the son of a bitch who’d shot him (whichever one of the sons of bitches had, as he hadn’t actually seen it coming). All the end of his police career had meant to the Ribisis was the loss of one deal and them moving operations to another part of town. They probably never even gave him a second thought. That’s how much his big sacrifice had amounted to.

Still, he kept alert as he, with purposeful casualness, walked past the driver, who watched him the whole way but didn’t seem ready to make any kind of move (there were telltale warning signs of that, ones that very few men who weren’t in intelligence or on Interpol’s most wanted list knew how to hide). He listened closely for any fabric moving as he turned his back to the man and entered the Marina, but nothing happened. Still not quite relaxed, he headed toward the Giovanni, planning to get inside (and get his steak and beer put away) and then do a little binocular-watching on the limo. Just to satisfy his curiosity, if nothing else, even though the limo, of course, had nothing to do with him.

The man standing in front of his slip, however, suddenly made it apparent that it WAS about him.

The man, not too tall, was elderly but animated. His well-sculpted hair was grey enough to appear white. He wore glasses with thick black rims, and his fine trench coat, worn over a suit that looked like it either came from New York or the other side of the Atlantic (one that probably cost enough to have kept Jared parking near his boat for some time), told Jared that the limo was definitely for him. The old man paced patiently on the dock, but his stride never took him away from the front of Jared’s boat.

Jared tensed again, but the man looked anything but dangerous. He actually looked very familiar, but Jared couldn’t quite place why. His thoughts went from Ribisis to his divorce, and he thought for a moment some other summons was waiting for him, but from the look of the guy, if he WAS a lawyer, he was way out of Stephanie’s price range. One of the police union lawyers with more legal matters for Jared? Not in that suit—not likely.

He kept walking, and soon, the man heard his sneakered footsteps and turned. His movements were quick and sharp, belying his age. And he immediately smiled.

“Mr. Banks,” he said, pleasantly. Jared noted immediately that it was a statement, not a question. And also that there was a trace of an accent. Polish?

“Yeah,” Jared said, simply and carefully, after taking a couple more steps, and regarded the man as he started bridging the distance between them. Jared couldn’t stop looking at his face, trying to figure out where he seemed to know it from. He could almost make the connection, but it was just out of reach, probably because the context was all wrong.

“I’m very sorry to bother you at home,” the man said, still smiling. “And to catch you with an armload of groceries! Please forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” Jared said, slowly, tossing his cigarette into the water (this was something he generally didn’t do, instead carrying his butts to the ashtray inside, but he felt that was less rude than meeting a stranger with a smoldering cigarette hanging out of his mouth).

The man stopped in front of him and extended his hand (his left hand, as Jared’s bag of goodies was in his right arm). “You’re very gracious. My name is—”

“Warren Tether,” Jared finished for him, looking at him oddly. He’d finally recognized him, but that didn’t make the moment make any more sense. Of course he looked familiar. He was a billionaire. One of the richest men on Earth.

“Yes,” Mr. Tether smiled, appreciatively, as Jared shook hands with him. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Banks.”

“And yours,” Jared said, feeling the tension draining away and being replaced with a not necessarily unpleasant feeling of what-the-hell.

“I sincerely hope I’m not intruding,” Tether said, his eyes lighting to both the grocery bag and the lazily-bobbing Giovanni. And damned if he didn’t sound sincere, too.

“No, no,” Jared said. “Just…uh…getting home.”

“I just wish to speak with you about a matter, and I do so hate doing such things over the phone. Our world has become so disconnected, don’t you think? Cellular phones and emails and all that nonsense? Men should meet face to face whenever possible. It’s the way it was meant to be.”

“Sure,” Jared nodded, not quite sure which part he was agreeing to but feeling it all sounded reasonable.

Tether smiled and nodded back, and there was a momentary pause. Jared quickly realized he was the one who was not filling it.

“Oh,” he said, pointing to his boat. “Uh…would you care to…”

“If it would no imposition,” Tether said, and again, sounded quite sincere about it.

“No,” Jared shrugged. “Please, come inside.”

“Again, you’re very gracious,” Tether nodded, and smiled.

Jared, just starting to catch up with exactly how confused he was, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his keys. He climbed on the boat and started unlocking the starboard entry door.

“Oh, careful with…” he started to say.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Banks,” Tether laughed, climbing onto the boat behind him. “I’m no stranger to watercraft. I’ve spent plenty of time on my own. The sea is where a man feels most free. A man with his own boat is a man with the world as his back yard.”

And you would know, Jared thought, opening the door and stepping through. You probably have about fifty of them. And you probably own about a third of the world anyway.

Jared crossed the salon to his galley, quickly, wanting the get his groceries shoved into the fridge and out of the way. Along the way he took notice of how unsuitable his boat was for visitors, particularly the wealthy kind.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said over his shoulder as he loaded the fridge, and as he heard the other man closing the door. “I’m still kind of living out of boxes here.”

“No, please,” Tether insisted with a laugh. “I completely understand. I’ve only recently moved my corporate headquarters here to my Seattle office. My home is much the same.” Jared, of course, knew about the move, as did everyone in Seattle who’d picked up a newspaper the past several months.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Jared asked, immediately realizing how lame his offerings were. “Uh…water? Beer?” Yeah, can I pop you open a cold one, Mr. Cover Of Forbes? Some nachos with that, maybe?

“No, I’m fine, but thank you, sir.”

With his steak and brews away, Jared stepped back into the salon, where Tether waited, hands clasped behind his back. Looking at his couch, Jared quickly went to it and yanked a blanket and a magazine off of it, racking up some more embarrassment (at least it wasn’t an embarrassing magazine…). “Have a seat,” he offered.

“Thank you,” Tether said, and did so. Jared, in turn, sat down in his swivel recliner.

“A fine boat,” Tether said, looking around.

“Yeah, it’s…you know, home.” It was never meant to be, but so be it.

Tether nodded with something of a bit of sadness. Or was Jared just imagining that?

“So…” Jared said, kind of a one-word summary for the full why is there a billionaire sitting on my couch question.

“Yes,” Tether said, sitting forward and getting himself on topic. “Again, my apologies for the unexpected visit.” He paused and seemed to consider his next words for a moment, then proceeded. “I’m here to discuss an…opportunity with you.”

And the afternoon continued to get MORE surreal. “All right,” Jared said, diplomatically patient.

“Let me begin by saying that I followed your story in the press, Mr. Banks. Quite closely, in fact.”

“Really?” Jared said. Part of him immediately churned up the usual cocktail of emotions that went with his “story”, the ones he was still trying to get control of. The anger. The pain. The essential loss of faith in so many of the foundations of his life. The across-the-board sense of abandonment. Mostly the anger. Another part of him, though, was willing to set all that aside for the curiosity of why such a man as Tether would be interested in his “story”, or would even have time in his life to follow local Seattle police news.

“Yes. And for what it’s worth, though you don’t need my opinion on the matter to tell you this, I feel a great injustice was done to you. It’s shameful what the police department—and the federal government, for their part—put you through.”

“Thank you,” Jared said, politely but solemnly, studying the other man.

“And I respect the choice you made. Leaving the force. It must have been very difficult.”

“It was,” Jared nodded, starting to get uncomfortable talking about the great anvil that had dropped on and squashed his life, and not sure why he was here discussing it with a stranger. Or where this was all going.

“Particularly with your family history in law enforcement. Your father, your grandfather. It was more than a career to you, I imagine. It was, forgive the phrase, the family business.”

Jared tried not to show the shift in his mental gears. He was not just pretty sure, but completely sure, that that bit of information was not in any of the news stories. He knew because he’d read them all, obsessively, no matter how many times he’d tried to stop. His little voice, the one he’d long ago learned to trust, was whispering small but notable warnings to him, and some of the tension started coming back.

“Yes,” Jared said, keeping his poker face on. “Dad didn’t take it well. Any of it. He’s still got a lot of friends on the force. It put him in an awkward position. Dad doesn’t care much for awkward positions.”

“Surely he understood your reasons,” Tether said, with sort of a hopeful sympathy in his voice.

Jared shrugged—a tired and bitter shrug. “Guess he figured it wasn’t the right time in our relationship to try new things.”

Tether nodded, seeming to understand. “And your grandfather?” he asked, kindly.

“Grandpa’s…from a different era.”

Tether smiled, knowingly. “Yes. MY era. A time when right and wrong meant more than politics. When the law embraced justice instead of standing in its way.”

“Yeah, that about sums up Grandpa’s worldview. He’s always told me a psychology degree would never get your as far in the interrogation room as an old phone book and your partner to watch the door.”

Tether made a single, light laugh. Jared grinned back at him. While not really being sure what he was testing for, he had just used that story as a test. Would the old man be shocked at such a thought? Apparently not. Whatever that meant.

“Your grandfather sounds like quite a character,” Tether smiled. “And a man with many interesting stories, I have no doubt.”

And you just keep on sitting there pretending like you don’t already know his name, Jared thought. What game was going on here?

Tether grew serious, suddenly, and thought about his words, again, before speaking. “The choice you made that night, Mr. Banks. The one to save the girl and expose your true identity as a police officer. To ‘blow your cover’, as they say. Do you regret it?”

Hello, blunt.

“Do I regret it,” Jared repeated, thoughtfully. He sighed, looked into the man’s eyes, then shook his head, but not in answer to the question. “That’s not the question you’re trying to ask. That choice got me shot. It erased months of deep cover work on my part that was putting a strain on my already strained marriage. It blew an investigation that ended up being not only local but federal, and got everyone from the Mayor’s office to Quantico hanging a scapegoat sign on me. It cost me my job, and probably my career. It severed pretty much the only link I had left with my father besides blood. It cost me my marriage. No, I’m not dim enough to think that’s the only reason she finally left me, but it was the final coffin nail. It made me a weekend father, something I never thought in a million years I’d end up as. It made sure my name was smeared enough that when my kid’s old enough he’s going to have to live with hearing that. I live on my boat and feel sorry for myself between therapy sessions that I can’t afford but that might give me a better shot at seeing my kid more often. I look over my back walking to my car, wondering if the Ribisi family wants to send me a nine-millimeter Hallmark. And I made that choice for a girl who’s probably already back on the streets putting herself back in harm’s way and likely doesn’t even remember my name.

“So do I regret it? “ he asked Tether, who sat there, listening with empathy but not with discomfort at the honesty. “You bet your ass I do.” Jared felt the familiar physiological signs of his buried rage—the rise in temperature, the urge to clench his fists—that he’d learned to recognize as his therapist made him speak of such things, and slipped right into the mental techniques she’d taught him to keep it buried, an act that was becoming more and more natural with continued practice.

“But that’s not your question,” he said, calmly. “Your question is whether, all things being equal, if I could somehow go back to that night, would I make the same choice all over again.”

Considering that for a moment, Tether nodded. “Would you?” he asked.

Okay, Jared had defined the question, realizing it was one that had been rattling around in his own head for months, but it occurred to him that he’d never actually admitted—to himself—to an answer one way or the other. He was a little surprised to realize that there really was no other answer, as far as he was concerned.

“You bet your ass I would.”

Tether smiled and nodded, sagely. Jared, for his part, felt oddly lighter for having said that out loud.

“So,” Jared said, leaning back in his chair. “You come all the way our here on a Wednesday afternoon with your well-armed chauffer just to ask me that?” Maybe it was having had his own vulnerabilities drawn out into the open that made him feel the need to show off a little. That’s probably what his therapist would say.

“No,” Tether said, seeming somehow pleased. “No, I was fairly certain what your answer would be. But a man does need to have his instincts validated from time to time to make sure they’re still as sharp. I’m here because of my recent relocation that I mentioned. I’m sure you’d already read about it.”

“Sure.”

“It’s no small thing, moving the global headquarters. It’s not a choice I made lightly, and I had a number of reasons for doing so. Aside from the infrastructure concerns, all that new construction that you’ve been seeing at our former branch office, there’s a daunting matter of personnel. Mine is a world-wide corporation, and the home office is the hub of it all. Many of my people are making the move, but such a move allows for reorganization and a multitude of new concerns. Foremost of those, to me, is security. As you’re probably aware, much of what we do a Tether Corp is highly sensitive. Government contracts, yes, but many of our bigger private projects are very proprietary. There’s danger of outright criminal activity, but corporate and political espionage as well. Above all things, my headquarters needs to be a virtual fortress. I accept nothing less.

“And for this new headquarters, I’m rebuilding security from the ground up. It’s never safe to rely on an established system too long. Repetition breeds vulnerability. Smart men look for patterns, and exploit them. Changing the pattern periodically is the best way I know to counteract this.

“To the point, Mr. Banks. I want you working for me.”

Jared raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

Tether looked amused. “You seem surprised.”

“Well,” Jared said, sitting back up and suddenly selecting his words very carefully (and wishing he’d shaved in the past couple of months), “it’s just that my…resume hasn’t exactly been a showstopper with most employers these days.” At one point he’d actually considered taking his fax machine into the shop to make sure it was operating properly.

“I think you’ll find that I have little in common with ‘most employers’. A fact either embraced or lamented by my staff, depending.”

Jared starting envisioning the ever-growing stack of bills shoved in one of the drawers beneath the bed in his cabin. And the ever-shrinking stores in his savings. And the pending child support. And the abundant but surely limited patience of his therapist and her bookkeeper.

And was reminded of his natural distrust of all things that seemed too good to be true.

“And you decided this,” Jared asked, carefully, “based on my…story.”

“Yes,” Tether said, simply.

“No resume, no background check?”

Tether’s smile was a slightly embarrassed one. “I think…we both understand that any background check has already been completed, Mr. Banks. My apologies. As little as I’m sure my rabbi would appreciate my using this phrase, I’ve gotten to where I am in life by both trusting in Allah AND tying my camel. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I’m sure you understand it was necessary.”

Yes, a man’s instincts DO appreciate the validation. Jared’s did. No surprise, no foul, he figured.

“Your background check tell you I stink at job interviews?” Jared asked with a grin.

“Nonsense,” Tether answered. “You’ve just had yours, and I think it went exceptionally well.”

Jared blinked. “That was the interview?”

“Yes.”

“A one-question interview?”

“That’s all that’s necessary,” Tether smiled, “if you’re asking the RIGHT question.”

Tether then took a breath and folded his hands together, almost prayer-like, and bobbed them up and down, which seemed to be an affectation he used when collecting his thoughts.

“Mr. Banks,” he finally said after the collecting was done. “Man was given the power of speech, which separated him from all other creatures. And he used that power, thereafter, that talk about himself, endlessly. Men go on and on about their beliefs and their worth and their accomplishments and virtues. But in the end, what a man says about who he is amounts to nothing. It’s what a man does that defines him. This is true in his everyday life, in the smallest of kindnesses and the most seemingly insignificant choices he makes from hour to hour. But it is most telling in the moments that matter, the ones whose outcomes can cost him everything. What a man does then, the action he takes, speaks everything that need be known about him.

“You chose the girl, Mr. Banks. At the cost of all you hold dear and the risk of your own death. This tells me all that I need to know of your character. And character is what I value most, and what I choose to surround myself with. And I also seek out those who see the world the same way that I do. I feel we understand each other. That we have a…similar view of how life should work. All my instincts, and they rarely steer me wrong, are telling me that I’d be a fool not to turn this city’s mistake into my advantage.

“Dependant on your thoughts on the matter, of course,” he added.

And thoughts, Jared was having a lot of. After months of feeling like the black sheep of the planet, with everyone implying or outright declaring that he made the biggest mistake of his life, finally someone was telling him he’d done the right thing. Someone besides his therapist, of course, but that was what she got paid to do. Tether was an impartial witness. Jared wasn’t prone to expressions of emotion (at least not ones that didn’t involved yelling and throwing things at the wall), but he felt a small yearning to shed a tear. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear someone say what Tether had just said.

And someone was offering him a job. He needed a job, and badly. But he’d grown up in a family of cops, and had been a cop for over a decade. It was all he’d ever been expected to be, and all he’d ever wanted to be. Now that seemed to be gone, though he’d been holding out hope and putting out feelers in other departments around the country. And what was a cop who couldn’t get cop work left with? Just what he was being offered now. Security guard. This is where cops who washed out ended up, whether mall security or corporate security. The ones who still needed a badge to make them feel whole. He should have been grateful for the opportunity, but part of him knew that this would be the end. It would be admitting, finally, that Detective Jared Banks wasn’t a cop anymore. And he never would be again. He would now be one of those washouts.

But he was a washout who needed a job. And badly.

He exhaled after Tether patiently let him mull things over. He looked back over to the billionaire on his couch, grinned, and coughed a small, quiet laugh through his nose.

“Would I have to wear a uniform?” he asked with a wry smile.

Tether looked puzzled at his words, and then seemed to understand. “No, no, Mr. Banks,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. I’m not asking you to join my security team.”

“Oh,” Jared said. He felt like he was the one who needed to be embarrassed, but he was too busy being confused and replaying the past few minutes in his head to figure out what he’d missed.

“No, certainly not. No, I’m asking you to LEAD it.”

Jared’s eyebrows went up again. “Lead?”

“Yes,” Tether laughed. “Oh, that’s funny, isn’t it? My apologies, again. No, I’m here to ask you to be my new head of security. As I said, I’m rebuilding from the ground up, and I need someone to head the department. To BUILD the department, actually. Part of your responsibilities from the start would be selecting from the pool of candidates for the new team. It’s quite an impressive pool, I should add. Filled with former federal agents, police, even intelligence operatives. You’ll be faced with some hard choices. But you’ll have a staff to assist you, help you to whittle things down.”

I’ll have a staff?

“I have some trusted people from my other offices I’ll be bringing in to fill those management spots, if, of course, they meet with your approval. While you’re putting the team together you’ll be learning all the ins and outs of my organization, and of our Seattle facility. Security systems are already in place, but I trust you’ll let me know if you think they lack in any areas. And you’ll have the resources available to make any changes you see fit.”

Resources?

“You’ll answer directly to me, and to no other. In many ways, you’ll be my right-hand man, Mr. Banks. I’ll be counting on you not only to keep my facility and my holdings safe, but myself as well. Sadly, I do find myself a target out various kinds of nastiness due to my high profile. As my chauffer illustrates. My concerns are global, and I do a good deal of international travel, and I’ll need you to not only arrange my protection on these trips, particularly ones into unstable regions, but to on occasion accompany me personally. So if you haven’t a passport, we’ll need to see to that straight away.”

Jared’s head wasn’t just swimming. It was swimming laps.

“The position carries a six-figure salary, of course—”

Of…course…

“—and a very generous compensation package. And many perks. The first of which, I think, would be to get your boat to a much better mooring closer to the facility. I’ve already looked into that, so I hope you don’t mind the presumption. Just thinking ahead. I tend to do that, habitually.”

“Mr. Tether,” Jared finally said, holding up his hand weakly, not really wanting to slow this down as much as needing to so he could catch up to it. “I’m…very grateful and…naturally, flattered at the offer. But…you know I’m just a…well, I WAS just a cop. I’ve never been management. Of any kind. Certainly not on the scale you’re talking about here.”

“I’m aware of a necessary learning curve. I see no problem there.”

“I mean, surely there are…more qualified applicants…”

“Well, to get technical, since there ARE no other applicants, that makes you the most qualified applicant by default, if that makes you feel any better.”

Jared leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, processing all this completely illogical input. Finally, looking up at Tether, he asked, “And you’re sure you want ME?”

“You chose the girl, Mr. Banks,” Tether said, in a tone of great importance. “Yes, I want you. Being the boss has its advantages, one of them being that I can do whatever I please within my company and do so for reasons all my own. I appreciate your modesty. But, if I may be blunt, my needs and yours are in concert here. I need someone I can trust with my life. You need a fresh start, both emotionally and financially. You have a son to think of, and I’m offering you an opportunity to make sure that he’s well provided for. You’ve taken your blows. Consider this your reward for making it through to the other side.

“You’re the man I’m looking for. I don’t make such decisions lightly. You would be doing me a great service by accepting my offer. You need only say ‘yes’.”

Jared looked at the carpeted deck while Tether waited. He exhaled, sat up, and, with a grin, extended his hand. Tether’s smile spread across his face, and he took Jared’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.

“Excellent,” he beamed. “You’ve made—”

A muffled ringing came from inside Tether’s coat. He sighed and shook his head, taking his hand back and using it to reach into his coat.

“Cellular phones,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

He answered it, putting the phone to his ear. “Yes, Vincent. Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.”

He clicked the phone shut, stuck it back in his pocket, and pulled his sleeve back to look at his ridiculously fine platinum watch.

“Forgive me,” he said, standing up, and Jared quickly stood with him. “I’m on my way to the airport. I have a meeting in Paris. I’ll be gone for four days. I’ll have my assistant call you and get things in order while I’m away. Her name is Amanda. You’ll get to know her well. She’ll make all the arrangements. Your employment with Tether Corp starts today. She’ll also schedule a dinner for us when I return, and we’ll sit down and properly discuss what comes next. We have much to do.”

“Okay,” Jared said, putting his hand out again. “Um…I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Tether. Thank you.”

“Thank YOU,” Tether smiled, shaking Jared’s hand once more. “I was going to sulk all the way to Europe if you turned me down. You’ve made my day.” He clapped Jared on the shoulder and walked past him. “I’ll see myself out. And I’ll see you in four days.”

“I look forward to it,” Jared said, and that, mister, was no lie.

Tether stopped at the door and looked back at him. “You…will, of course, find the time to shave between now and then?” The old man winked at him and grinned.

Jared grinned back, and had never looked forward to shaving more in his life. “Yes, sir.”

With a laugh, Tether opened the cabin door and prepared to step out. But he paused halfway out and looked back again. Jared looked at him curiously.

“For the record…she’s all right,” Tether said, quietly. “The girl.”

Jared stared at him.

“I saw to that. After I heard your story. You got her on that bus back to Grosse Pointe. I took care of things from there. She’s in a home I run in St. Joseph. A place for young women in need. She’s back in school. And she works part time at a clothing store owned by one of my subsidiaries. When she graduates, her college will be taken care of. She’s taken hold of her second chance.

“You made a difference, Mr. Banks.”

Jared was speechless, and could only swallow.

Tether smiled kindly, but there was something serious behind it. “We do more than build things at Tether Corp. A great deal more. You’re going to find that out. In due time.”

With those cryptic words, Warren Tether gave one more smile, one that carried an unreadable emotion with it, stepped out of the boat, and closed the door behind him.

Jared stood motionless in the middle of his salon. A single tear slid down his face and disappeared into a beard that would be gone before sunrise.

 

---

September 28, 1999
9:44 P.M.
Seattle, Washington

Seahawk broke the thrashing waves and shot into the storm-blown night air. He had gauged his speed just right, though, and had cut it sharply before ascending. So instead of soaring into the lightning-scarred sky, he had just enough inertia to let him vault gracefully over the rail of the boat he’d been tracking. The lettering on its side, that had barely registered as a blur to him as he’d passed, read Mystic II.

The storm was in full tantrum now, with battering rain coming down at continually shifting angles and bullying waves rocking the deck beneath his boots. The violent weather up here just underscored, for him, the difference between the worlds above and below that he split his time between. He found himself missing “below” already.

Fighting the winds and the seesawing deck beneath him (which actually wasn’t that much of a problem with his armor on), he made his way around to the wheelhouse. The Mystic was a one-of-a-kind vessel, a sleek, high-tech hydrofoil that was quite well-known to Seattle’s seafaring citizens for many years now. It was not up on its foils now, but at rest, instead, in the raging waters, waiting there for his arrival. The vessel’s captain knew it would be a little harder for Seahawk to find if it was jetting around the Sound.

While sure that the captain knew he was aboard already, Seahawk knocked anyway before opening the wheelhouse door. Some of the storm did its best to fight its way in with him as he entered the heated enclosure, but he slammed the door against it and kept the lion’s share of it outside.

“Ahoy, Seahawk”, the man at the helm said, turning around.

Seahawk did a finger twitch and cued his clear mouth plate to recess back into his helmet. “Ahoy, Captain,” he answered, and with a straight face and zero irony, too.

There before him was the man they sometimes called “the sentinel of the seas”. Jared called him “Mr. North” when they were on the radio. But if you were from Seattle, you probably knew him as Captain Compass.

The man was something of a walking anachronism, looking like something right out of an RKO serial or a pulp novel. He stood there, stoic, with the jaw of a comic book hero above his blue turtleneck, and wore an honest-to-God captain’s hat. Seeing his pictures in the paper was one thing, but the first time you met him and he gave you that “ahoy”, like it was the most natural thing in the world, a part of you felt the urge to snicker. But if the joke was on Captain Compass, he didn’t seem to get it, or at least didn’t let it get to him. And that urge didn’t last for long with anyone who spent time with him. He was the real deal—your old-fashioned hero, one with nothing to back him up out there but his gadgets, his two fists, his boat and his promise to keep the waters of Washington safe. He patrolled the Sound, rescued boaters in need, took on perpetrators of piracy (the modern kind, sans the cutlasses and more partial to Uzis) and drug trafficking, and aided Seattle P.D., the Coast Guard, UNCLE and even Forte (countless times) back in their day. He was a friend to sailors, cops and super-heroes alike. And no one who’d had him on their side would even join in with you if you decided to have a laugh at his expense. Jared was no exception. Since he’d first started his Seahawk career and crossed paths with the Captain, he’d counted him as a vital contact and ally, and a friend, and a man whose courage and honor he’d vouch for any day.

“Angry night out,” the Captain said, taking a sip from one of those spill-proof coffee mugs like they sold at car washes. Jared suddenly wondered—did the man even OWN a car? “Coffee?” he offered Seahawk.

“Thanks, but no,” Seahawk answered. “Got enough jitters tonight.” The Captain had no idea how true that was. Seahawk had gone into monkey-on-a-stick mode since that radio call. Which is why he skipped past the usual pleasantries and got right down to business. “So you have something?”

Compass smiled knowingly. All right, maybe he DID understand what Jared was feeling. He put his coffee in its safe holder near the boat’s wheel, adjusted his hat, and crossed him arms as he began to speak (looking, to Jared, like he might start whistling the Old Spice jingle at any moment).

“A Harbor Patrol boat was chasing down a speeder. A Cigarette 38 Top Gun. The two jokers inside weren’t just joy-riders. They REALLY didn’t want to get boarded. No P.D. boat was going to be able to catch one of those performance models, so I helped out, managed to stop the fools before they killed themselves in this weather. As it turns out, their reasons for being so anti-social were drug-related.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Seahawk said, sardonically, leaning against a counter and listening closely. And trying to ignore his urge for a cigarette. Sadly, he did have a pack concealed in his suit (which just seemed very un-super-heroic), but he’d never think about lighting up in front of the Captain. Something about that just didn’t feel right.

“We’re not talking recreational use quantities. These boys were in business. Or trying to be, at least. We found enough below deck to change their mailing addresses for a very, very long time. They were right to try to run for it. That might have been the smartest thing either of them had ever done.” Captain Compass shook his head with genuine sadness. “They never learn, do they? The drugs change, the fashions change, but each new generation refuses to learn from the last.”

“Well, if they did, what would WE have to do with our evenings, right?”

The Captain half-grinned at him, but it was a tired and somehow heavy one. “I’d take up bowling,” he said, and didn’t seem to be making it a joke. “And be grateful for it.”

Seahawk.understood, and nodded.

Breaking the out-of-nowhere silent moment, the Captain got back on track. “One of them, it seems, had either been in the correctional system before or had a very vivid imagination, because he suddenly was willing to do anything to get out of this mess. He quickly wanted to cut some kind of deal, and said he had some information to trade with. Something he felt the police wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

Zuzu’s goddamn petals, Jared thought. Merry Christmas, Mr. Banks.

“Tell me,” he said, deeply and with hunger.

The Captain held up his hand in warning, probably sensing that Jared’s eyes were spinning like a slot machine behind the mask. “Now, it’s not much, Hawk.” No one but the Captain, as far as he knew, ever referred to him as ‘Hawk’. “His partner was made of sterner stuff, and got him to shut up fast. But lowlife number one briefly tried to bargain with a ‘what if’ scenario about a very important someone arriving in Seattle tonight by boat, someone the police have been looking for for a long time. He clammed up soon after, apparently remembering there are worse things than jail.”

He reached over for some sheets of print by his fax machine, and handed them to Seahawk. Jared paged through them, anxiously, scanning as fast as his eyes would let him. He quickly found what Captain Compass had apparently requested this background info, through his SPD connections (Jared used to be SPD, and doubted that HE had as many connections with them as the Captain), to find.

Seahawk made a triumphant, guttural sound in his throat. The Captain smiled.

Both of the low-level would-be-dealers that Harbor had snatched up had suspected ties to one Juan de Dios Castro Lazano. Lazano, Jared didn’t need the intel to tell him, was an international businessman suspected of laundering monies for a certain Armando Durazo, who, in turn, was suspected (suspected by police, known by Seahawk) of carrying out illegal trafficking of all types…narcotics being, of course, his bread and butter.

And both local P.D. and the feds had been trying to prove the suspected connection between him and one Alejandro Mercado—head of the Mercado cartel.

Mercado had been barely more than a lieutenant in the Carazon organization when Jared had first started on the streets. By the time Jared had made detective and moved to the joint vice/narcotics task force, the slick player had worked his way well up the ranks. And with a series of moves that spilled a lot of blood on the Seattle streets, he’d broken out on his own and started his own cartel, a war that had claimed almost as many innocents as mobsters. A peace had been brokered, but by that time, he was firmly entrenched, and the rest of the west coast Mexican families had to accept his place at the big table. He was old-school ambitious, eye on the prize, indifferent to collateral damage. And there was a lot of it. Jared had been in the middle of some of it. Undercover in the Ribisi organization, he’d found himself in the middle of the Italian/Mexican war, having to watch his back from both sides.

By the time he’d became Seahawk, and had taken down the Ribisi organization almost single-handedly (something he’d never been able to accomplish as a cop, with the law handcuffing his efforts), Mercado was in position to fill the power vacuum. This had made him and his people Seahawk’s next target. He’d barely gotten started, when, one night, a Coast Guard boat boarded a Mercado vessel where a big deal was going down. Never one to throw in the towel, he had, with his men, murdered every man and woman on that boat and made his escape. This wasn’t pieced together until the boat was found, by Captain Compass, after its failure to answer hails. Brave people, people with wives and husbands and children, were mercilessly cut down at the hand and command of one evil man. A man who, thereafter, disappeared, presumably to Mexico (where even Seahawk, using all Tether’s resources, hadn’t been able to find him). A man whose brash actions brought the full weight of Seattle law enforcement and military down on the Mexican mob. The cost to them was enormous. Mercado had cost them that. And Mercado had fallen from grace, and was in exile, unable to return to the city he’d tried so hard to take over for threat of his own assassination.

“Like I said,” the Captain said, looking the papers Seahawk held, “it’s not much—”

“Enough for you to call me,” Seahawk noted, handing the sheets back. “You know it’s him, don’t you? You can feel it.”

The Captain hesitated for a moment, looked at Seahawk, then nodded.

“And that’s all we got?” Seahawk asked, excited but clearly frustrated. “He said nothing else?”

Captain Compass shook his head. “He was a born-again mute by the time I got there, except to ask for a lawyer. He was scared, I can tell you that much. His partner was glaring holes through him.”

Seahawk didn’t bother pulling up the clock in his helmet viewer, but turned his head to Compass’s old-style nautical clock on the wall. He shook his head. “He’ll still be processing. Maybe they have him in interrogation by now, but that’ll take too much time and might amount to nothing. Damnit!”

He looked back to the Captain. “Arriving by boat. Back in Seattle. Why? Why now?”

“To make the peace,” the Captain offered, rubbing his beard. “Probably to meet with the other family heads. Or their people. You know how their code works. He’s not allowed to set a foot on Washington soil. On the water is probably the only kind of meeting he could put together. He’s likely making an offering to get back in the good graces. He’ll have to give up a lot in restitution before they’ll even consider getting back in business with him. But even with all that’s happened, they’ll want to. They don’t have his connections. They depended on him for that. And they’re surely hurting without them.”

“And it’s happening tonight,” Seahawk said. “If he’s making this move, he won’t be here long. Maybe a day or two, maybe just tonight and then back to Mexico. He’s not back to stay. Not yet. This is the prelim. He has to do it in person, something this big.” The Captain nodded his agreement, and Seahawk looked at him and said, “We’ve got one shot at this. One shot only. Then he’s gone.”

“Agreed,” the Captain said, rubbing his beard again, staring at the wall in thought. “If we’re right, and that’s still an if, mind you, he’s out there somewhere. Certainly in the Sound by now.”

Seahawk walked across the cramped cabin and looked out the forward window, where rain was waterfalling down the length of it. They were both silent for a few moments.

“Assume it’s a meeting of the bosses,” Seahawk said, thinking out loud. “Mercado’s still on their bad side. He needs to restore some faith, show that he’s still the man. You know how they do these meets. It’ll be done up in style. Mercado will make sure it’s one for the books. That means high-class. Fine food, good liquor, plenty of drugs and top-notch girls for ‘entertainment’.”

“If they stay long enough to be…entertained,” the Captain said, uncomfortably.

“They will,” Seahawk told him. “It’s part of the ritual. He’s probably hauled the best tail on all of Mexico up the Pacific with him.”

“So we’re thinking pleasure craft,” the Captain mused.

“Definitely. But not his own. He wouldn’t make it that easy for the cops. Probably a loner from one of his partners down south. That might be a lead.”

“If we knew the particular boat and could run a check on it, yes, but right now all we know that it IS a boat. And out there somewhere. Unless it’s docked. Might be at a marina.”

Seahawk shook his head. “The others would be too worried about surveillance. They’d want it out on the water. I’m sure of that.”

Lightning ripped across the sky, lighting up the wheelhouse briefly. The thunder shook the Captain’s coffee cup.

“We need to find boats,” Seahawk said, turning around. “And we need to start narrowing choices. Think your Coast Guard pals are up for a long shot in the middle of all this weather?”

“They’re busy out,” Compass said, looking at the storm and not looking very hopeful. “Now that the storm’s in full swing. You know they’ll all want a piece of this. I frown on vengeance, but those people we lost were THEIR people. They have more reason to want him brought in than us.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe the storm works in our favor here.”

“Yes,” Seahawk nodded, catching on and getting the same thought. “Nasty storm, Coast Guard just checking in on your fancy yacht to make sure you’re all right. Hell, that gives them a viable excuse to sit there next to boats and run the reg while they’re on the radio doing their good Samaritan thing. Doesn’t even raise suspicion. Brilliant.”

“I’ll talk to my people,” the Captain said, heading for his radio. “We’re already behind on this. This could be just what we need to play some catch up.”

“And I need to be out there,” Seahawk said, already heading for the door. “In the air. And I’ve got some plays to make, too. I’ll make some calls. And I’ll be checking in every quarter hour. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” the Captain said, grabbing his radio mic. “Keep a bead on the Mystic so you’ll know where I’m at. I’ll be searching the same salty haystack as you. That’s a lot of water out there, my friend. The odds are against us.”

“For this needle,” Seahawk said, “I’ll take those odds.”

Captain Compass nodded, grimly. “Good hunting, Hawk.”

“And to you, Captain,” Jared nodded back. He opened the door, and Compass’s fax sheets flew as the storm burst in. He shut the door quickly as he was able and sprinted to the rail, sure on his feet no matter how hard the rolling craft tried to buck him.

He reached the deck’s edge and dropped his hands to his sides. With a finger twitch, he keyed the magnetics in his gauntlets and put his wrists behind his back. As he threw his arms up, the magnets caught the alloy-mesh wings housed in the flat pack on his back, and they fed out and stiffened with the metallic shing! of a drawn samurai sword. With another finger command, he switched the suit’s systems from aquatic propulsion to aerial, and another twitch fired the crimson jets from beneath his boots. He blasted up into the storm, leaving the Mystic quickly behind, and soared into the night, and over the miles of dark water that, if the stars had lined up right for him, held his prey.

The hunt was on.

 

---

Seahawk deployed his helmet’s facemask once more, sealing himself in, and held his arms straight and behind him at an angle, letting his wings carry him across the night, feeling his body rocked as he fought against the winds. Below him was the great blackness of the Sound.

Okay. No problem. Only a ninety-mile stretch of water with a few hours to find one particular boat. How hard could it be? How many boats could really be on that water at any given time?

Yes, that was a rhetorical question.

His ultraviolets were on, and the display hanging before his eyes told him he was at 47 degrees 42’56.49” North, 122 degrees 29’16.30” West, or about a kilometer from Port Madison. Bainbridge Island was ahead of him, Port Jefferson somewhere behind. And below him, square miles of waterways and shipping lanes. He pulled up a eerily glowing map in his screen.

He shifted his body and took a dive in altitude, getting closer to the waves below, scanning all around him. An oil tanker was slowly cutting its way north. He spotted a box ship hauling countless stacks of cargo containers. A RoRo ship was either bringing in a huge cargo of cars or had already unloaded and was heading home. At least he could safely cross those of his list. Unless Mercado was REALLY getting creative.

As he started mentally laying out his strategy and search plan, he keyed his communication system. It could tap just about any broadcast tech you could imagine, but right now, he simply needed it to do its thing where it acted like a cell phone. Tiny green lettering scrolled by, letting him roll through his address book, and he clicked on one name, and number, and started the call. It rang in his earpiece three times.

“Banks,” the voice on the other end said, brightly. The voice was overly cordial, almost comically so. Which translated, Jared knew—as the voice belonged to his former partner and he knew him probably better than anyone—to why the hell are you calling me?

“I need you, Rohmy.” Jared said. “And right now is when.”

“Wow,” Agent Cliff Rohm, currently of the FBI, formerly of the SPD’s vice squad, said, with that same cordial and artificially pleasant tone, and forcing, it sounded like, a smile. “That’s so strange. I was just looking at your name on my phone when it rang and was thinking ‘gosh, I wonder what words I’d least like to hear from Banks right at this moment?’”

“Got to be done,” Seahawk said, guilty about it but growing impatient.

“I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“Home or out?”

“Out,” Rohm said, sounding impatient himself.

“Tell her to excuse you for a minute go to the john.”

There was a pause on the other end. Jared could then hear him telling someone, “Would you excuse me? Just for a minute. I’m sorry. This is…official business. Work.”

Jared could hear her voice in the background. It sounded young. Younger than him and Rohm, at least. “Oh, sure! It’s fine. Honest! Go right ahead.” She sounded impressed. Jared grinned. Rohmy had landed himself a badge-jumper.

“Thank you. Really, I’ll just be a minute.”

“Okay,” she said. Jared could imagine the smile that went with that word. He imagined it was a nice one.

After another pause, he could hear Rohm walking. “Why am I going to the john?” Rohm asked, quietly, clearly not in a good mood.

“Because it’s raining outside. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, NOW you’re thinking about my needs, huh?”

“Sorry. I owe you.”

“Not if you hang up right now and let me get back to my very, very—did I say ‘very’?—attractive dinner date.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Can we go back to that period in our relationship when you were ignoring me and wallowing in self-pity?”

“You in the john?” Jared asked, undaunted.

“Hang on,” Rohm sighed. Jared could hear him swinging the door open.

“Anyone in there?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Flash your badge and tell him to get out.”

Rohm made the noise that Jared knew meant ‘I hate you’.

“I’m sorry, sir?” A pause. For the badge, of course. “FBI. I’m going to need you to vacate this room.”

A syllable of confusion in the background.

“Official business, sir. I’ll need you to step out.”

Another pause, more muffled syllables.

“Yes, of course. You can…finish.”

Jared snickered through his nose. Rohm made the noise again and waited. The flush followed.

“Thank you, sir,” Rohm said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“Sure,” Jared heard the confused man say. The sound of the door swinging and closing followed. Followed quickly after by—

“ASShole!!”

Jared winced at the shouted word in his ear. “Feel better now?” he asked.

“Little bit,” Rohm said, sounding calmer.

“It’s Mercado, Rohmy. He’s here. In Seattle. Tonight.”

There was silence on the line for just a moment. “Son of a bitch,” Rohm said, sounding pretty floored.

“Probably one night only.”

“Where?” Rohm asked, intensely. “Oh, shit,” he said right after asking that. “I’m the ‘where’, aren’t I?”

“If you’re as good as you keep thinking you are, yeah.”

Rohm sighed heavily, a sound of surrender (surrender of his evening, and whatever devious plans he had for the enthusiastic young woman sitting back at that table with what Jared imagined to be a half-empty bottle of wine by now). “Details,” he said, simply, falling into their well-worn verbal shorthand.

Jared gave them. All of them. He had no secrets from Cliff. Partners meant partners, and when you’d been through as much as those two had together, that bond didn’t disappear with a change in jobs. He was one of the handful of people that knew Jared was Seahawk. And knowing this had its perks for an FBI agent often shackled by regs and procedures and laws. Having your own super-hero to go where the warrants wouldn’t could make a lot of big cases. And it had, already, on a couple of occasions. At least they tended to trade their I.O.U.’s.

“I need the up-to-date cartel federal data,” Seahawk said when he’d finished. “Current associations, movements, anything that might tell us whose boat he’d be on and which boat that might be.”

“I’m sorry,” Rohm said, “but I seem to have forgotten to bring both the computer AND the crystal ball I normally keep shoved up my ass.”

“I know it’s a long shot, but you’re talking to somebody who’s flying over the Sound and knocking on yacht doors. I need something. Anything. You have people you can call.”

“Yeah,” Rohm sighed. “I do. Damnit, Banks, if you’d SEEN those legs. Now I’m going to be sending those legs home without me.”

“Relax,” Jared said, hearing in Rohm’s voice that despite the whining and sarcasm, he was just as hungry for this. “Ask her if you can call her later tonight after you bust the international drug king. Watch her eyes when you do. I’m doing you a favor, son.”

“Speaking of which,” Rohm said. “The collar’s mine.”

“No can do.”

“What?!” Rohm yelled.

“It’s the Coast Guard’s, Rohmy. He killed their people. It’s their right.”

Rohm sighed. “Shit.”

“You can take the transfer, do the perp walk. Don’t worry. If this happens, you’ll still be the Bureau golden boy of the month.”

“Right,” he said without much enthusiasm. “All right, I need to call my night guy at the office. He’ll get started while I’m putting Kaitlin in a cab.”

“Kaitlin?” Jared asked, amused.

“Don’t even,” Rohm warned. “Not now.” The sound of the restroom during swinging open could be heard, and the din of the restaurant joined it. “I’ll be at the office in twenty. I’ll call you when I’m up.”

“Don’t let me down, partner.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, partner. This is wafer thin. You know that.”

“Here’s to karma, then.”

“Great,” Rohm said. “Then we ARE screwed.” The phone went silent on his end, and the ‘END CALL’ letters popped onto Seahawk’s screen.

He immediately went back to his address book and punched in another number. He called this one second, because, frankly, this one had a better chance of working faster, and Rohmy needed the head-start. This was an east coast number, which made the time factor even more of an intrusion. But the good news was, the man on the other end of the pending call probably never slept. At least not in Jared’s experience.

One ring.

“Go,” the voice that answered said. It was a deep, quiet and confident syllable.

“Clear?” Jared asked.

“Would I have answered otherwise?” the other man asked. “What do we need?”

“Our people in Mexico,” Jared said. “I’ve got a high level player from this coast named Mercado in Seattle tonight.”

“I know the name.”

“Are we on anyone else who knows the name? Anyone down there who’d know his travel plan? And can we get that without compromising ongoing ops?”

The other man silently mused. “Possible. Is it worth the risk?”

Jared ground his teeth together. As much as he didn’t want to speak the truth, he knew the cost to other interests—and maybe to lives—if he didn’t. “It’s not solid. I can’t guarantee he’s here. It’s all extrapolation so far. I just need to find out for sure.”

Silence again.

“If so, what’s the ceiling on payouts?”

“If it’s good,” Jared said, “blank check. If you can make it happen, make it irresistible.”

“The old man in the loop?”

“Not yet,” Jared said. “Not until I have something better than what I’ve got. Unlike you, he needs his sleep.”

“Let me field it. Time frame?”

“Hours at best.”

“Like sands through the hourglass,” the other man’s voice said, a barely perceptible hint of frustration in his otherwise even voice. “I’ll see what the score is. I call you?”

“Yeah,” Jared said. “If you hear lots of gunfire, you can assume a ‘never mind’.”

“Thirty minutes, go or no.”

“Thanks,” Jared said.

The other man disconnected without answering the sentiment. Sentimental was definitely not one of his quirks. Nor much else in the way of emotion. When you’d seen as much as he had in his life, in so many dark places in the world most men never even knew existed, Jared assumed emotion was one of the first casualties. It would have to be. Jared could only guess at the number of men he’d killed in his former life, either up close or through the long, sure gaze of a targeting scope. He was the kind of man Jared could have never imagined knowing, much less working with, just a year or so ago.

But that was before Tether. And that was in JARED’s former life.

He poured on the speed and rocketed through the night, turning his head left and right as he went, occasionally rising higher, then descending again. Soon he found his first contender. He spotted a pleasure craft up ahead. It wasn’t a huge one, but it was possible it might fit the bill. He banked high, wanting to circle and get a better look. It was a Martimo, a 55-footer, with a variable dead rise “V” hull and a skybridge. No one would be hosting any big parties on it, but it didn’t have to be big if just the family heads were having a discreet chat. He knew right away it was a slim chance, but he had to start somewhere.

He’d been joking about flying around and knocking on yacht doors, but it was starting to look like, with no other plays to make yet, that might be his only option.

On this one, though, he got lucky. He went low again, barely above the waves, and came up from behind it. Its interior lights were on and no shades drawn. With a switch in his visor to telescoping, he was able to zoom in and see a small family inside—muscular but graying daddy, facially augmented mommy and a couple of teenage kids. And all way too Anglo to meet his needs. No, just another well-to-do family cruising the northwest and making their way through the storm. Daddy Warbucks seemed to be handling the wheel all right, so Seahawk kicked his jets in and blasted back into the sky and moved on.

He checked in with Compass every fifteen minutes, as promised, and got what updates there were to be had. The Captain had rallied the Coast Guard, who were, one boat after another, receiving new orders to check on pleasure boats. He’d done the same with Harbor Patrol, who were all over it—no surprise, as Compass was a living legend to them, and the best friend the department had had for over a decade. They were also hitting the marinas, checking for any recent arrivals, just in case Mercado and his pals were feeling sloppy. And the Cap himself was tooling all up and down the Sound, speedy as you please, doing his own boat-to-boat while coordinating his posse on the radio. The man did good work. And his good work was making an impossible job seem almost doable. If they just managed to catch a break…

Rohmy checked in and was pouring over data back at the Bureau. The feds were, as ever, limited to what wiretaps they could get authorized, so current intel was spotty at best. Seahawk’s east coast contact, the one paid very well by Warren Tether, though no financial records would ever show that, called as he’d promised and updated, advising things were still fluid. Which left Seahawk, still, stuck with flybys.

He worked his way down past Blake Island, and further, past Vashon Island. Eventually he found himself closing in on Commencement Bay, and the Port of Tacoma, which had, over the years, become one of the most active commercial ports in the world. Maybe too populated for a low-low meeting. Or maybe the perfect place to hide in plain sight. It was anyone’s guess.

Before he reached the Port, he spied a very large non-commercial craft far below him. A quick zoom showed him it was at least a hundred-footer, maybe one-fifteen. He quickly pegged it for a Trinity, first because he knew a thing or two about boats, second because he’d been on one of Tether’s.

He started a descending circular flight pattern. It was opulent, that was for sure. He guessed four state rooms and six heads. Had a nice set of top-of-the-line communications gear up top. It was cruising with some caution, only doing about 10 knots. Boat like that could do about twice that at max if it needed to. It was on its way somewhere, but just looked like its captain was playing it smart and getting them there in one piece and with all the furniture still bolted down by the time they got there.

Suddenly Seahawk’s favorite feature of this yacht, however? It was all the closed blinds.

This could mean nothing in itself, of course. If it was a charter, it could just be the captain’s way of making the passengers feel warm and safe, not letting them see the nastiness going on outside. Or they could be Hollywood types and there was some mass orgy going on in there and they wanted their privacy.

Or…

Just anxious to feel like he had some kind of lead, he let himself get excited about this one, and let the possibility tighten his muscles. He thought about dropping his wings and straight-diving and going aquatic, coming up below it and climbing over the side, but decided the higher approach was probably better. He flew in from the rear, keeping a close eye for anyone wandering the deck in the rain, and had, as expected, solitude for his incursion. He pulled his telescopic optics back the closer he got, and soon the shadowed white mass was just below him. When the moment was right he cut his jets and let his wings and the wind take him the last of the way. His wings drew back into his housing on his command at just the right moment, and he dropped lightly onto the flybridge deck, going into a crouch right away with his fingertips splayed below him.

This deck was, of course, empty. A tender and a couple of waveriders were securely tied down, as was the top on the Jacuzzi. He stealthed his way forward, rain pouring off his alloy armor, and stepped to the door to the covered portion of the deck. There was light. He placed his ear to the door and turned up the audio receptors to hear over the wind. Sounded like no one was up top. Or if they were, they were relaxing on one of the couches with a good book. No sounds of television could be heard.

He climbed deftly to the roof and crept his way across it, careful against the buffeting winds. He reached the edge and went to his belly, and slid his way over to get a look at this deck’s fore windows. Blinds in place, but he could see through a crack. Empty.

He moved back toward the crane that handled the tether and water toys in more favorable climates and put his hands on the rail of the circular staircase that descended to the next deck. It was dark, but not for him, with his optics, and he saw it was clear. He stepped gingerly down the steps, hand on the rail, neck turning to take everything in. This deck was wood, and its open area housed a covered bar and several stools, and some weather-wise outdoor couches. Here there was another door leading inside, with light coming from it as well. He approached it and once more pressed the side of his helmet to it.

Voices. Several.

There was some laughter and light conversation. They were speaking English. He tried to pick out something ominous, but the conversation seemed to center around fishing in Cancun. That was only ominous if you were a fish.

He left the door and lightly stepped out onto the starboard deck, where the blind-shrouded windows were. He could see the lights of Browns point off in the distance as he put his back to the ship and slid toward glass. He carefully turned and craned his neck, working to get a view between the blinds and at the group inside.

He could make out part of them. He could see a couple of men, and from their direction of chat assumed they were talking to at least two more, maybe three. They were casually, but expensively, dressed, with cocktails and their hands and smiles on their faces.

Their Japanese faces.

He sighed in the wind, and felt antsy with frustration, and angry at the time lost. One thing for sure about the Mexican mafia was that they did not do business with the Japanese. He couldn’t make his imagination convince him that maybe things weren’t as they appeared. They were exactly as they appeared. A group of rich businessmen braving the storm to get to their next port of call by morning. Probably to a big meeting somewhere. One that didn’t involve drugs or murder.

He slid back from the window and stepped to the rail, putting his gloves on it and looking out over the water in frustration. So many boats out there. So few leads, even with all the assets he and the Captain were pulling in. It was going to be a long and probably frustrating night. He allowed himself a moment to feel the boat rising and falling beneath him as he collected his thoughts and tried to plan his next move.

As he did, his eye caught something below him. Something that didn’t quite match up had popped up. His violets were off, so when he looked again, he saw nothing. More out of curiosity, he turned his visor back to its night vision.

He saw blonde.

It took his brain a minute to catch up with the senseless sight. He saw blonde hair. Wet, but blonde. It was long and blew around in the wind.

And it was attached to a girl.

He blinked at the image and zoomed in closer, waiting for the idea of a blonde girl hanging onto the hull of a pleasure boat in the middle of the night in open, stormy water to start making sense. It didn’t. Her arm raised, and the sleeve looked like it was part of a bluish wetsuit (or something). Panic quickly gripped him and shook him out of his bafflement. Had someone fallen overboard? Clinging on for dear life as the yacht cluelessly trudged on, dragging her until her strength gave out and she was lost to the sea?

His muscles drew tight and his body got ready to move. Her arm moved—not like it was desperately searching for a handhold, but like it was doing something with ease. She was attaching something to the hull, something metallic. She put it there and it stayed, either by adhesive or magnetism, he didn’t know.

Suddenly, she looked up, and their eyes met. Her eyes were blue, he could even see, and wide at the sight of him. She looked like she couldn’t be much more than sixteen years old.

Neither of them moved, him standing at the rail and looking down, her somehow hanging on to the side of the boat and staring up. They just stayed that way for several seconds. He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to react.

Then her eyes narrowed into an angry glare, and she suddenly pushed off the side. She pushed off so hard that she left the water, did a twist in the salty air, and dove, arms first, into the waves and vanished.

What in the township of Hell…?

She was gone, leaving him to wonder if she’d even really been there, and he stood motionless, looking down. His eyes caught on the metal object she’d attached. As it seemed to be his only clue in this ridiculous moment, he twitched his index finger and zoomed his visor in on it.

In his days, he had never seen a girl appear from the ocean and dive back into it like a dolphin. He still didn’t know what to make of that.

But he did know what a bomb looked like.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

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