Port Townsend, Washington

Olin double-knocked on the forward berth doors. “Food’s here! Come and get it or forever hold your peas!” 

Nadia rolled her eyes at her dad's quirky pun and handed Hank a sewn cloth grocery bag. He found his seat at the nav station and wondered if Ava was watching him. Two cold, wet bottles hid inside the bag, and he smiled as he pulled out a bottle of Blue Moon beer. Next came a clamshell of fries and two paper-wrapped Big Doc Burgers with Tillamook pepper jack cheese and double-smoked hickory bacon. Hank’s mouth watered, but he waited, not wanting to be the first one to dig in.

A young man sprinted out of the forward berth on the starboard side, grabbed two wrapped burgers, sat at the table, crossed himself, and began inhaling food. 

Scowling, Olin said, “Marshall, you seem to have forgotten your manners.” Olin was far from ominous, but standing over his crouching son, he directed the young man's attention away from food. “Hank, allow me to introduce you to Marshall. He is fresh off the plane from MIT and swears he will never go back.” Olin chuckled, rested a hand on his son's rounded shoulders, and continued, “I told him he was in good company and offered our garage and ridiculous amounts of bandwidth.” Olin laughed at his own joke. “But no, he says he wants to go to the community college and learn how to be a chef.” He patted his son's shoulder warmly. “Marshall, this is our new sailing instructor, Hank Gunn.” 

Marshall stopped his chewing and swallowed. He held up his left hand, dripping with catsup and grease. His extended index finger and thumb formed the shape of a gun, pointing right at Hank. “Cool name. Gun.” A sardonic smile creased his lips as he shot off an imaginary round with recoil. 

“Hi, Marshall,” Hank said and let him off the hook. “I’m sure we can talk after we eat.”

His new boss stared at the closed forward port door as if willing it to open, then paused for a few seconds with his head bowed and crossed himself. When his eyes opened, he looked back at the closed door. Hank followed Olin’s stare toward the unmoving door, but decided eating was the best use of his time. The twins, sitting at the salon’s dining table, picked at their food and Marshall continued to plow through his assembled banquet. Olin ate his small burger and a meager selection of fries from a white plate. Willy was present but not included. He stood propped against the companionway, drinking coffee.

Hank’s meal was half-consumed when the door to the port berth opened. It didn’t squeak or make a sound, but everybody turned and looked like something meaningful was about to happen. Hank stopped chewing when a young woman stepped out into the soft light of the salon. He swallowed hard and took a swig of beer. The stunning girl smiled and walked over to her father, gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “Thanks, Daddy. I’m famished!” She moved to the galley counter and scrutinized the scribbled descriptors penned in heavy black ink by an artistic red-headed server. 

Olin interpreted, “That’s a bleu cheese portobello on focaccia. Sweet potato fries are in the carton.” She pulled a white plate out of the galley cupboard, opened the paper wrap, and slid the large portobello mushroom onto her plate, forsaking the bread. Then opened the container of fries, plucked one between her fingers, and bit the end off. She removed three more and put them on the plate, then turned and faced Hank. “You must be our new sailing instructor.” 

The rest of the family had returned to their meals as she stepped close to him. 

“Yeah, I’m Hank.” 

She put out her hand palm down and said, “Hi, Hank. I’m Irina. I guess I’ll be seeing you bright and early then.” 

He shook her hand comfortably and said, “Great. I’m looking forward to helping all of you to become better sailors.” Her body turned around a half second before her eyes left his. She was humming as she left the room, but he couldn’t make out the tune. She closed the door to her berth behind her. Breaking the spell that lingered too long, he asked, “Olin, what time do you want to get underway tomorrow?” 

“Let's have breakfast on shore and take off after that. But first, I want to check the weather and top off the tanks. The commotion should get the kids stirring. Let's say you and I plan to have coffee on the cockpit deck at seven.” 

“Sounds good,” Hank said. He would make an excuse not to take breakfast on shore, comfortable that nobody would bother him aboard a yacht tied up to the marina’s guest dock with round-the-clock security. Bumping into police or shore patrol would ruin everything. He was probably being too cautious, but he was close to freedom, and he would not jeopardize it by hanging around in plain sight on US soil.

In order to clear his head before bed, he decided to go outside. Willy was sitting right outside the companionway steps and his presence startled Hank. He stumbled with surprise, but quickly regained his composure.

“She’s sixteen,” Willy said.

“What?” Hank asked, trying to gain context.

“Irina. She’s sixteen.”

Not wanting to appear shocked at the news, Hank changed the subject. “Beautiful night. There should be a little weather blowing in tomorrow which will make for some incredible sailing.” Willy sat tight while Hank continued out onto the aft deck. The stars were visible but dimmed by the lights of Port Townsend and the marina. There was no moon. The air was fresh, the night cool, and the water stirred solemnly. 

Lights from a car flashed against the rocks that made up the breakwater. The origin of the beam wasn’t clear, but it shot over the deck of the boat and even though the brightness never illuminated him, the thought of being exposed made him uneasy. Everything made him uneasy, and he couldn’t wait to shed the land and gain some sea room. He gave up. The fresh air wasn’t helping him feel any better, so he decided to sleep, if he could. 

He managed to doze off fitfully a few times, but eventually found himself staring at the ripples of light reflecting onto the ceiling. Soon he determined the day had started—at least for him—and he eased out of bed and slipped into his pants. The automatic motion to check his pockets sent his hand onto the small knife clipped into his right pocket. It was always there, and he always checked it out of habit. He grabbed the flashlight wedged between the mattress and the bed frame. After a pit stop to the head, he splashed water on his face and pulled on a long-sleeved t-shirt. Even without coffee, he was thankful to be aboard this exceptional yacht and felt lucky to get this job. Not only would it take him to Canada, but he thought it was likely he would walk away with a handsome tip.

As he made his way to the deck, the air felt calm and crisp. The sky would be dark for a while, but dawn nudged a deep red into the clouds over the Cascade mountains. It never took him long to find his favorite place on a sailboat and he walked out to the aft deck. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Hank,” a woman's voice said from behind him. 

He must have walked right past her. It alarmed him plenty, but he was not prone to losing composure. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jen. Part of Mr. Ou’s security team.” She drifted out of the dark shadow toward him. She wore a long, black, double-breasted coat. The front hung loose but overlapped enough to hide whatever was in her left hand. She didn’t let it go or remove her hand from the Napoleon-like stance. Hank tried to make out her face or what she concealed—anything. All he needed to do to expose her was to whip out the flashlight, but it was bad form to use a light like that and she was close enough to stop him. He would have to wait for the right time to get a good look. “That was you going into the forward hatch last night,” he said. She backed up, turned, and walked away without a sound. 

Hank stood at the rail, staring into the inky water, contemplating his new boss. Olin Ou and his family couldn’t be normal. Billions of dollars eliminate normal as a possibility. But from what he had seen so far, they passed for the typical American family. He gazed into the water. There were differences. Where would Willy fit into the typical American family? Maybe the overprotective uncle? And the security boat and crew? A typical family with their own police force. Then there was the all-knowing AI… a personal NSA? Most typical American families settled for a doorbell and a golden retriever for deciding friend or foe. Was that where Jen-the-ninja fit in? He knew it was silly but decided she must be hiding her samurai sword under the folds of her coat.

The surface of the water absorbed the ruddy sky without sharing any reflection of the early dawn. All the usual noise of a marina seemed to be missing, too. No slapping of rigging, creaking in the bones of the dock, and no hum of generators, not even a noise from the town. He wondered if time might have stopped, but that was a silly notion. With a deep inhale, he focused on the internal noise of his breath. Air rushing into his lungs made a sound that grounded him, and the uneasy sensation left. But by the time he had fully exhaled, there was another sensation to replace it. He felt someone was watching him and turned around but saw nobody. He returned his stare back over the aft rail and shivered. His mind ran with the implausible vision of Jen flying across the deck with a sword winding up to lop his head off. He didn’t want to look back a second time, so he pushed the thought out by replacing it with a question.

What’s it like to be so wealthy? The mental exercise got easier the more he entertained the idea. But where did he fit—if he fit at all? The Ou family would need high levels of protection. Perimeter security was not a new concept to Hank, but here the people doing the guarding and the people being guarded were civilians. It made sense. Rich people always got unwanted attention. Most of it was probably harmless curiosity, but they would have to rule out sinister motives. How did they decide which is which? It was time for him to use his skills to fit in somehow. Sailing instructor made sense, but the image of Jen with her samurai sword wouldn't leave his mind. He patted the folding knife in his pocket and decided they must trust him but wondered what it would take to get his own sword.