Port Townsend, Washington
him from a dead sleep. Hank rubbed his neck and wiped the spit from the corner of his mouth. He looked over to see a boat coming in way too fast. With its low profile and sturdy aluminum hull, he recognized the rapidly approaching vessel at once. A Defender-class boat, like the ones he was used to in the Navy. But this one was very different. It ran with larger twin 350-horsepower engines and was missing the 50-caliber machine gun that would traditionally grace its bow. And rather than the lights and lettering of law enforcement or the departmental seals or trademarked color scheme of a governmental agency, it was painted in the ubiquitous colors of the pleasure craft found in the Puget Sound: white with blue pinstripes. Yet, despite all that, the crew clearly broadcasted a military image. They weren't out for a pleasant, little cruise. This was serious business for them. So when the floating dock shook under Hank's feet as the bow made contact and the two crew members off-loaded, he stood to the side, not bothering to offer a hand with the line. He understood these men, and they didn't need or want his help.
The short, muscular man closest to Hank approached with a device in his left hand. He glanced at the screen, rolled his eyes, and laughed. When he spoke, the deep south came out. He may have strayed far from home, but his rich accent had gone nowhere. “Looks like y’all could use a decent meal, corpsman.” He nodded his head, “I’m Willy.”
“The name’s Hank.”
Willy faked a glance at the screen again and said, “Looks like you’re one of us. On the green side. Ya know what I say…”
Hank did know. It was another verbal cascade that rose from his past life. Hank reluctantly mouthed the words along with Willy.
“Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Willy was just being nice—no swell of pride. Every Marine Hank had known harbored a respect for any Navy corpsmen that earned the right to wear the green uniform of the Marines. It was corpsmen that put them back together when they were leaking blood into the sand. But Hank didn’t feel like a Marine. Not anymore.
Willy made a fist with his thumb pumping over his shoulder. “They don’t have names.” His smile disappeared, and his command voice told Hank that the pleasantries were over. “Were you informed this job requires a high level of security?”
“They told me I should expect scrutiny and to show discretion,” Hank replied as he suppressed a conditioned, “sir.”
Hank tried to keep his body relaxed. The last time he stood at attention, they discharged him from the Navy. Now he hated himself, or at least hated the conditioned reflex that caused him to stand like an exclamation point in front of this man.
Willy lifted the pad and took a picture. “I’ll need a profile shot. Turn to the side.” Willy ran down a memorized checklist. “What is your full name?”
“Henry James Gunn.”
“What is your age?”
“Twenty-eight,”
“What month were you born?”
“May.”
“What day?”
“The twelfth.”
“What city were you born?”
“Kennebunkport, Maine.”
“Do you have any idea who you’ll be working for?”
“No.”
A long silence followed, then Willy pried, “No? You don’t know who hired you to be their private sailing instructor?”
“No, sir,” Hank hated himself. Not for lying, but for saying, “sir.” He took a deep breath and relaxed. His posture eased, and he chuckled, realizing that civilians don’t have to answer stupid questions if they don’t want. “Are we done?” Hank asked.
Willy replied, “Only if you want to walk off this dock and leave behind a nice payout at the end of an easy job.” Willy smiled and continued. “It’s up to you, sir.”
Hank had to laugh at the “sir” coming back to him. Willy has been here before, but this was unfamiliar territory for him. The mood relaxed and Hank asked, “How many more questions?”
“Just two.”
“Okay,” Hank agreed.
“Has anybody approached you asking questions about the job you are about to do?”
“No,” Hank answered.
“Is there anything on your person or in your gear you’ve had for less than twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Has anybody given you anything in the last day?”
“You said only two more questions.”
“It’s a subcategory question. You can walk if you’re too proud to answer a subcategory question,” Willy said.
“Okay, I get your point.”
“Has anybody given you any gifts?”
“No.”
“Any food?”
“No.”
“Any mobile device?”
“No. Listen, I get the idea. Do you have to ask about every possibility?”
“Yep,” Willy said, “Have you made or noticed any changes to your computer, phone, or mobile device or loaded new apps in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No. I give up! Still subcategory questions?”
“Yep. Has anybody given you a package, either large or small, in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No!”
“We’re done. You lied when I asked if you knew who you’d be working for.” Willy turned the pad to face Hank, revealing a spike on a graph. A squiggly line traveled through green except for where it spiked past the yellow and went well into the red section of the screen. “Want me to replay it?”
“No. It’s true. I guess they thought I should know I’d be hanging out with a billionaire. You know, so I’d take a shower and bring a fresh change of clothes,” Hank admitted. Then added, “Does this mean I don’t get the job?”
Willy turned away and said, “Hey, No-Name. Are you done?”
He shifted his attention to the other man, who stood over Hank’s seabag with a handheld device. After Willy gave him a nod, he opened it, plunged his hand in and retrieved the large Ka-Bar knife suspended between his thumb and forefinger and said, “It’s clear.”
Willy turned his pad toward Hank again and said, “You’ve got the job — if you still want it.”
A white van backed into the loading area at the top of the dock’s ramp. Only a chain-link fence and fifty yards separated them, and Hank’s stomach turned as he readied himself to respond to the threat.
Willy took in the van’s presence and dismissed it as he turned to Hank and said, “You can keep the pocketknife, but you gotta give me the key fob. That is if you still want the job?” He waited and rephrased his request. “No-Name will keep the manly knife. You’ll get it back when we’re done. The little girly knife in your right front pocket can stay, but you must hand me the keys with the thumb drive in the fob. Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back after the job.” Willy held out an opened bag.
Hank dug into his pocket and held its contents in his open palm but kept his eyes on the van.
Willy selected the key chain, dropped it into the bag, and wrapped the opening over on itself. He peeled off a numbered receipt, handed it to Hank, and said, “See ya around.” He made a crisp turn and hurried up the ramp and jumped into the passenger seat of the white van.