Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

Cutter scanned the shoreline – shape, color, movement – anything out of place among the thicket of devil’s club and forest. They were less than fifty yards from the shore now, easy pickings if someone was hiding with a rifle – certainly closer than the killing shots at the shrine. Consoling himself with the flimsy knowledge that no one had shot them yet, Cutter pulled the tiller toward him and turned the Smoker Craft in a smooth arc toward the other skiff.

A bright yellow rope ran from the bow to a scrubby clump of willows, far above the line of driftwood and other flotsam that signified the high-tide line. They were at low tide now. White shells, likely the leftovers from a sea otter’s dinner, littered the gravel bottom. Cutter guessed it to be around three feet, deep enough to keep the boats from going dry. The natural jetty offered protection from ocean swells. An anchor, also off the bow, allowed the boat to swing while keeping her from drifting onto the rocks.

“Valkyrie boat?” Lori mused as they came alongside.

“Good guess,” Cutter said. “But only a guess. There’s nothing to identify it one way or another. It’s hidden off the main dock, but that could just be someone who doesn’t want to get their boat stolen.” Pulling the other skiff closer, he leaned across to feel the motor with the back of his hand.

Some residual warmth still lingered on the block, but it had been here long enough to cool substantially.

Cutter scanned the shore again and located the likely trail. The foliage on the dense scrub was slightly blanched where the lighter underside of several leaves had been turn upward, almost woven together when someone had pushed through. He reached over the side and unhooked the rubber hose that ran between the outboard motor and the fuel jug, taking it with him.

The boats gave a hollow clunk as they bumped together. He pushed away and then flipped the Honda’s transmission into giving himself enough room to turn around in the deep water before heading around the point to the dock. He held up the black fuel hose.

“I’ve chased more than my share of fleeing boats in my day,” he explained. “Worst case, that skiff has nothing to do with us and they have to wait a little to get their line back.”

“Not sure that’s the worst case,” Maycomb said. She pulled her jacket tighter around her neck, chilled by the breeze – and the situation. “I get that this is faster than rigging a shore line and anchor, but aren’t you worried about tying us up in the open?”

“I’m not tying up for long,” Cutter said, hopping out and wrapping the bow line quickly around a rusted cleat. He lifted his pack onto the dock beside him. The rock helmet, rope, and other gear had wreaked havoc on his system and he had to dig through his pack to find the satellite phone. “You take the skiff and get out of here. I’ll catch a ride back with—”

Maycomb frowned. “What about letting me come along because Donita trusts me?”

“It was stupid of me to put you in this kind of danger,” Cutter said. “I’d hoped we’d get her to safety before anyone was the wiser, but that is obviously not the case.”

Maycomb grabbed her pack and stood. “You didn’t put me in danger.”

“Look,” Cutter said. “These people have already committed at least two murders. If you’d seen the bodies in that chapel, you might be a little less inclined to come along and risk getting your skull blown open.”

“I don’t scare,” she said.

“And I don’t have time to argue.”

Maycomb stepped out of the skiff, defiant.

“Then you don’t have time to arrest me. Don’t fret. I’m not after a story. But I am worried about Donita. Let me help. You know good and well you need another set of eyes.”

Cutter grit his teeth.

“There won’t be time for you to smoke.”

“Okay.” She wagged her head. “I just quit.”

Cutter punched Lola’s number into the sat phone.

“What’s your ETA?” he asked as soon as she picked up.

“We have the gear,” she said. “The Hernandez brothers are spilling their guts, naming their cartel jefes and just about everyone they can think of.”

“Anyone local?” Cutter asked, eyes on the tree line.

“No,” Lola said. “But they’re giving damning information on enough kingpins that the DEA and FBI have climbed into bed with the little bastards. I’m thinking they’ll be in WITSEC with new names and respectable jobs before you know it.” The disdain was clear in her voice.

“Okay.” Cutter asked again. “Your ETA?”

“That’s the thing, boss. Beason has everybody and their dog running down the heaps of leads the Hernandez brothers are puking up. He thinks that’s the best way to find Donita Willets.”

“He could be right,” Cutter said.

“No,” Lola said. “I’m going with your gut. It’s just taken us a bit to get a boat. Everything’s organized now and we’re driving out to Echo Cove to launch.”

“So how long?”

Silence while she conferred with Van Dyke.

“We’ll hurry,” Lola said when she came back on the line. “Forty minutes, tops.”

Cutter briefed her on the second skiff.

“Now I’m really going with your gut,” Lola said.

“We can’t be sure it belongs to our shooters,” Cutter said. “Beason will argue that it’s hikers or something, but see if you can get a couple of the other teams heading this way. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you could get a Coastie Jayhawk to fly over the mountain.”

“Copy that,” Lola said. “Sit tight and we’ll be right there.”

“I’m not waiting,” Cutter said. “You just follow my tracks.”

“Hang on a sec,” Lola said. “What if I get lost?”

“You’ll do fine,” Cutter said. He shouldered his pack and started toward the dark patch in the foliage. “You’ve been tracking for over a year now.”

“Always with you!” Lola said. “Boss, don’t do this. Wait for me to get there.”

“Did Tom Horning give you a topo map with the mines located on it?”

She was breathing heavier